Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,79
I showed you the other night. His form is still quite...exquisite. Maybe I’ll make it a series.”
Stay calm. Having Ian here was a true test after the weekend. I wanted to prove to Reagan that I could be mature, that I was worth the work, and that I could handle being in his life the way he needed me to be. Not that Ian was interested in making it easy. To make it even worse, some of the tattoo guns had slowed. The guys were watching this exchange. Welp, time to prove I really am a man, and not just a clueless boy.
“Do you have an appointment? We don’t accept walk-ins this close to closing. If you’d like to schedule a meeting here with Reagan, I’d be happy to look at his schedule.”
Ian’s eyes darkened. “I don’t think you understand, boy. You’re in the way. You think you can keep a man like Reagan happy? You think you can give him what he wants or deserves? He left me once, and I let him go. But now that I’ve seen him again, seen what he’s capable of, I want him back. And I’ll have him.”
I bristled. You cannot deck a rich old prick. It will end in jail time, and Christian will end up footing the bill for an attorney. Well, I couldn’t punch the elderly, but maturity or not, I didn’t have to stand there, trapped behind the desk, and willingly bend over for his attacks, either.
“There are some vital things you seem to be forgetting, asshole: You don’t own Reagan, and he doesn’t owe you anything. You’re a washed up, fucked-up old prick who gets his rocks off trying to control people with more talent than you’ll ever have in a pathetic bid to keep yourself important. It won’t work. And needing to pop a little blue pill will never be enough to satisfy a man like Reagan. Finally,” I added, enjoying the purple color blooming in Ian’s angry cheeks, “Reagan is a pitcher, not a catcher. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
It felt so good to say it with such bold efficiency, watching Ian suck in air like a landed fish. That was, until Reagan’s voice boomed through the parlor.
“Channing.” He said my name like he was scolding a puppy, and I practically felt the clomp of his boots vibrate through my legs as he stormed over. But his anger wasn’t directed at the professor, who’d just slammed me openly seconds before. No, it was pinned on me. “Is that kind of language or attitude appropriate for the work floor?”
I reacted, fast as a snake, too stunned to keep myself reined in. Why the hell wasn’t he kicking Ian out of the shop? “Which part? Because all of the guys here say way worse. All the time. In front of clients and on TV. Besides, Ian started it!”
My mind was crackling with hurt and anger but my stomach was cramped with rejection. We’d only just established that he was going to respect me more, accept my boundaries, meet me halfway as my partner, and to remember that I was an adult. He was going to be on my side. Yet here he was, yelling at me again in front of the crew—and now, in front of his awful, spiteful professor, too. Taking Ian’s side over mine.
He’d told me he’d choose me and only a few hours later he was doing the exact opposite. How important could I really be to him, despite what he said, if when it really mattered he didn’t have my back?
Reagan looked like he was about to dig further in when Dane appeared, and fuck, he was pissed. “Channing’s right. We say shit ten times worse all the time. Why the fuck are you singling him out now?”
Dane’s support was what kept me from falling apart on the floor, because I couldn’t look at Reagan anymore, and I’d be damned if I was going to cry in front of Ian. Instead, I opened the scheduling book and marked myself off for the rest of the week in angry, bold slashes of permanent marker.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Reagan asked, his tone terse and sounding like a sitcom dad instead of my boyfriend.
“I’m taking the week off.” I grabbed my keys and cellphone and vaulted over the counter so I wouldn’t have to walk past Reagan. This put me next to Ian, and yes, I shoulder checked him on my way