The elevator ride down was a whole vibe.
Every step she took had her thighs whispering we were not built for this level of intensity, but she wore it with pride.
High pony. Black bandeau top. Ripped jeans. Sunglasses big enough to hide the sins of the last twelve hours.
New woman. No regrets. Mild limp. Worth it.
The elevator doors slid open into the garage, and there they were–Dom and Marco, leaning against the SUV like two overqualified bodyguards waiting to ruin her morning.
Exactly as Enzo warned.
Lola stepped out with the energy of a woman who had been wrecked, marked, made filthy promises to, and was now lightly glowing with post–orgasm
smugness.
High ponytail. Oversized sunglasses. Lipstick reapplied like armor. A little sore. Zero shame.
“Morning, stalkers,” she chirped, swinging her bag onto her shoulder.
Dom raised a brow. “You’re late.”
“For what?” she grinned. “Scheduled surveillance of the girl who accidentally tied up your boss?”
Marco sipped his espresso, unbothered. “Accidentally kept him for twenty–four hours?”
She slid into the back seat like she owned the damn car. “Please. If he didn’t want to stay, he would’ve left before round three.”
Dom made a choked sound that could’ve been a cough or a prayer.
Marco just shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”
“Wrong deity,” she said sweetly, buckling in. “Try again.”
Marco turned around in the front. “Taco run before the shop?”
“Obviously,” she said. “If I don’t eat a greasy tortilla–wrapped miracle in the next ten minutes, someone’s losing an eyebrow.”
Dom didn’t ask for details. He just drove.
The taco truck was already doing God’s work when they pulled up–sizzling grills, the smell of bacon in the air, and a line full of other half–dead Las Vegas survivors trying to cure their sins with tortillas and hot sauce.
Lola popped the door open before the SUV even stopped rolling.
She returned five minutes later carrying a brown paper bag like it held the secrets of the universe and a horchata the size of her head.
She slid back into the seat, handed Marco his taco (no salsa, he was weak), and passed Dom his black coffee with a sticker that said “Have a nice day, or
don’t.”
Then she unwrapped her first taco, took a massive bite, and moaned like she was auditioning for a very specific kind of film.
1/4
Chapter 38
“Oh my god,” she groaned, mouth full. “This taco is curing my attitude problem in real time.”
Dom raised a brow. “You had an attitude problem?”
She pointed at him with a piece of bacon. “Still do.”
Marco crunched into his taco, still half–asleep. “Did Enzo make it out alive this morning, or did you break him permanently?”
She grinned around her straw. “Define break.”
Dom sighed. “Please don’t.”
“No promises.” She licked some salsa off her thumb, then added, completely deadpan, “Also, I drew a mustache on his face before I left.”
Marco choked on egg.
“You what?!”
Lola shrugged. “It was from the Never Have I Ever dare. I owed him. He passed out. I saw an opportunity. And now the Don of Las Vegas has a cartoon villain ‘stache and triangle eyebrows.”
Dom put his taco down like he suddenly didn’t have the stomach for food anymore.
“Do you… want to die?”
“Not particularly. But if I go out, I want it to be dramatic.”
Marco snorted. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”
O
“I know,” she said, completely unbothered. “And I’m devastated that I won’t be there to see it. After last night I hope he decides to punish me if I’m being perfectly honest with you.”
Dom muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for divine protection. Probably for her.
Lola just reached into the bag and pulled out her second taco.
“Anyway,” she said cheerfully. “What’s the over–under on how many texts I’ll get before he realizes it’s permanent marker?”
The shop came into view around the next corner–graffiti walls, a cracked–open garage door, the front windows plastered with new appointment ads, and the “Tattoos While You Cry” neon sign flickering like a dying star.
Home.
Lola wiped her hands on a napkin and reached for the door.
Dom spoke before she could step out. “We’ll stay close.”
She looked back at him. “I know.”
Then she grinned, popped a piece of bacon into her mouth, and said, “But if anyone pulls anything, let me throw the first punch. That’s the deal.”
Marco gave her a lazy salute. “Make it flashy.”
“I always do.”
And just like that, Lola Marlowe strutted into her shop with a mouth full of spice, a marker in her bag, and Enzo’s teeth marks still on her inner thigh.
2/4
Chapter 38
I like how those look there. All the little markings he left on my body.
By 9:58 a.m., she had the shop open, the floors mopped, and her station stocked with gloves, ink caps, and a playlist of ambient alt–rock that made her feel like a cool, emotionally distant vampire.
At exactly 10:00 a.m., her first client arrived—a nervous 22–year–old girl named Bianca who wanted a delicate linework serpent coiled around her upper arm.
Lola had sketched it the night before. A quick flip through her sketchbook, a sanitized wipe–down, and they were in the chair.
Gloves snapped on.
Stencil placed.
Machine humming.
Everything was smooth. Peaceful. Controlled.
And she had about ten minutes of peace left.
She was lining the first curve of the serpent’s body when her phone buzzed on the rolling tray.
Bianca winced. “Sorry, am I flinching too much?”
“Nope,” Lola said, calm as ever. “You’re doing great.”
Buzz buzz.
ENZO
New Message
You should’ve woken me up. I wasn’t done with you.
She smirked.
Buzz.
Also–good luck walking today.
Cocky little shit.
Where are you?
Did you even give me a kiss before you left?
3/4
5:48 pm
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