‘I didn’t mean to judge—I mean, I just haven’t seen tattoos up close and—’
‘And you still haven’t,’ I muttered, hating that she’d touched a sore spot without knowing it and I’d reacted accordingly.
My tats were more than art.
They defined me.
At a time in my life when I hadn’t been comfortable in my own skin, I took on a new one.
And having a woman like Abby judge me as just another deadhead rebel because of my tats really pissed me off.
‘This would be looking at them up close,’ I growled, trying to tamp down my anger and failing as I unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off. ‘Here. Take a good look. See if you can figure me out.’
I stood in front of her, hands on hips, defiant and oddly vulnerable. I shouldn’t care what she thought of me. After Remy was back on his feet, I’d be outta here and back on the road, heading to Bangkok or Ibiza or Munich, creating successful clubs that would define me more than my tats.
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