From The Bad Boy Bias

PROLOGUE

FINN

Rock music attempts to drown out the buzzing of Kyle’s tattoo machine as he works on his friend Michael. A man I cannot stand, but business is business. And since I own Valhalla Ink, one of the best local tattoo parlors around, making money is kind of a big fucking deal.

Adding more shading to the sketch I’m working on, I try to tune out the conversation the two are holding and focus on the woman coming to life in my notebook. Most of my drawings depict an aspect of Norse mythology due to my heritage, and this one’s no different except the woman isn’t some figment of my imagination. Instead, she bears a striking resemblance to a shy blonde who happens to be dating Michael. My grip tightens on the pencil, threatening to crack it at the reminder.

How a jackass like him managed to land such a sweet woman is beyond me ﹘ not to mention infuriating. The man doesn’t deserve her; that’s for damn sure.

And you do?

Probably not, but at least I’d treat her better than Michael. When he brought Abigail for the initial consultation for his current tattoo, Michael had spent the better part of the hour ignoring her while she sat ramrod straight — discomfort radiating from her curvy body. I tried bringing her into the conversation from my place on the sidelines but didn’t have much luck. My efforts only elicited adorable blushes and stuttering responses.

Erasing a mistake on the curve of her cheek, I wonder where she is today as I fix the sketch. Curiosity getting the best of me, I casually ask, “How’s Abigail? I’m surprised she’s not here with you.”

Michael scoffs. “I broke that off last week. The bitch is ice cold — wouldn’t even let me touch her.

His offhand insult of Abigail rankles, but I can’t deny a certain pleasure in hearing she refused the bastard’s advances. “Seems like a you problem rather than hers. It’s been my experience that if a man treats a woman right, then she’s more than welcoming to his touch. And if he doesn’t…” I let the sentence trail off and shrug — my meaning clear.

Kyle glances over at me, an eyebrow raised in question at the intentional baiting of his friend. Their friendship defies logic, with Kyle being a cool guy and Michael being an insufferable prick. But that’s what childhood bonds will get you ﹘ stuck with someone out of sheer loyalty.

“You think you’d have better luck?” Michael’s narrowed eyes take in my combat boots, the tattooed sleeves on my arms, and shaggy, shoulder-length hair with disbelief bordering on disgust. “You remember Abigail, right?”

Hell yeah. Plump ass, luscious tits, and a beautiful smile. How could I forget?

“Glasses, cardigan, card-carrying librarian? She sat quiet as a mouse when she was here, and you think you have a chance in hell that she’d let you touch her?” He snickers at the implausible scenario.

My molars grind together in annoyance because I know he’s got a point. Women like Abigail don’t frequent Valhalla Ink very often, and our brief encounter didn’t bode well in my favor. An aura of quality emanates from her, a gentle reminder she’s out of my league. “I didn’t say that. She deserves better than either of us; just don’t blame her for your own shortcomings.”

“But you would rank yourself higher than me when it comes to getting in her pants.” Like a dog with a bone, Michael persists in pushing me and throws out the final gauntlet. “I’d like to see you try. How about a wager? I bet you can’t get one kiss from her, and if I’m right, you’ll foot the bill for my next tat.”

Kyle shakes his head while changing to a different needle. “Mike, come on…”

“What? It’s just a friendly wager between men, so are you in?”

Closing my notebook, too distracted to continue working, I stand to my full six foot three height and sneer. “Wagers, bets? Games for boys. So, no, I’m not in.”

“I knew you were all talk. Too scared to try because you know you’ll lose.”

I don’t bother responding. Let him believe whatever the fuck he wants; it’s no skin off my nose. Heading back to my office towards the rear of the shop, Michael’s crowing follows me until the closing of the door shuts him out.

Jesus. A headache grows at my temples, and it’s clear why. The man irks me; his only redeeming quality is that he introduced me to Abigail at his last appointment. Now even that possibility of seeing her again has disappeared.

Flipping open my sketchbook, various drawings of her fill the last twenty or so pages. I don’t know why she has such a hold on me; an hour in a woman’s presence shouldn’t evoke such a visceral reaction of need. Yet, here I am ﹘ fucking obsessed.

A frustrated groan erupts as I toss the notebook aside, plopping into my desk chair before closing my eyes in a bid for peace. Deep inhale, slow exhale. Counting the breaths helps calm me, as does a picture of Abigail visiting the shop. Once my blood has cooled to a normal level, it’s time to prepare for my next client and put the past twenty minutes out of mind.

Fuck Michael and his goading and his stupid bets.

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