Page 41 of Savage King
I’ve just changed into a Metallica tee and ripped jeans when my phone pings with a text.
(702) 883-0998: Answer your door, Savage.
My eyes move back up to my own in the mirror. How in the hell does he have my number?
“Don’t be stupid. He booked a freaking tattoo with you.”
(702) 883-0998: Make sure that spectacular body is covered. I don’t want to have to take my man’s eyes out.
I can’t help the burst of laughter that comes out as I march through my tiny apartment and swing the door open.
The man on the other side is probably in his mid-twenties, and he’s holding a huge white take-out bag in each hand.
“Ma’am,” he says with a nod. “These are for you.”
“You can put them?—”
“No ma’am.” He shakes his head. “I’m not to step inside.”
That shouldn’t surprise me. I take the bags, close the door, and walk over to the kitchen with them.
Before I open anything, I assign Mateo’s name to his number and then call him.
But he sends me to voicemail.
Why does that irritate me so much?
Mateo: Sorry, can’t talk. Did you open the bags?
I frown at the phone. Why can’t he talk? And why am I suddenly suspicious and jealous?
“Don’t be dumb,” I mutter as I open the first bag and find three stacked boxes, all hot. The second bag is the same.
And when I open everything, I find the entire breakfast menu from the café that Mateo owns.
Me: Am I hosting a party? I can’t eat all of this.
The bubbles bounce on the screen as I break off a bite of a crispy waffle—how is it still crispy and not soggy?—and dip it in some syrup.
“Holy shit, this is good. Where’s the bacon?”
I find at least a pound of perfectly cooked bacon in one of the boxes and take a bite.
Mateo: I was going to bring you breakfast myself, but I got tied up with work, and I didn’t know what you like best, so I ordered everything.
“Okay, that’s kind of sweet.”
Me: You do know this is an unhinged amount of food, right?
Mateo: That’s exactly what I am when it comes to you. Unhinged. Have a good breakfast. I’ll talk to you later.
I keep stuffing my face but also try to decide what I can salvage for later, either to take to work with me for lunch or to freeze. This is too much to go to waste.
In the end, I’m able to keep most from the garbage can, and it gives me the boost I need to finish getting ready for work.
With back-to-back clients all day, I can’t afford to be late, so I quickly pull on my pink Chucks, pack some food for lunch later, and manage to make it to the studio with enough time to prep for the first customer.
Fuck, I’m hungry, and the eggs with hash browns and ham that I have in the fridge are calling my name. I have an hour between clients, so I heat up my food, grab my laptop, and sit in the corner of the quiet room at a small table. Our tattoo studio is small, with only four artists, and that means that, for the most part, it’s quiet around here, even when all of us are working at the same time.
