The doorbell tinkled as the patron left, and Raynie locked the door behind him. “Ooh, hurry. Come here. There’s Rico.”
Quinn spun around. “Who’s Rico?”
“The tattoo parlor guy.”
Quinn moved to stand beside her friend and froze in place, staring out the front window. Tattoo Man swung his leg over the Harley, as if dismounting a pommel horse worthy of a perfect ten. He removed his helmet, strapped it to the cycle, and threaded fingers through long, dark hair. Tribal tats began at his biceps, ran up his shoulders, and disappeared beneath a sleeveless black leather vest. He wore tight jeans, faded in all the right places. He adjusted his junk and went inside his shop. Quinn drew a ragged breath. “Lord Jesus. He’s…he’s….”
“Yeah,” Raynie whispered. “The word you’re searching for is hot. I can introduce you.”
Quinn clutched her throat, and wondered how just the sight of a guy could make her nerve endings crackle, because she had some serious electricity running through her. “I wouldn’t know what to do with him.”
“That’s the beauty of it. He’d take care of the doing. Oh, I almost forgot. How’d the date go?”
“It didn’t. He stood me up. Can you believe that?”
“That’s awful. Rico could make you forget this horrible evening.” Raynie let out a long, dramatic sigh, then flashed a grin.
“Why haven’t you been with him?”
Her smile widened. “Who says I haven’t?”
Quinn scrunched up her face. “Ewww. Then I’m not interested for sure. I have a strict moral code. I don’t share penises with friends.”
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