“Most of them can’t really be seen without me taking off… Well, they just can’t be seen right now. I got one I can show.” I rolled up my sleeve. On the inside of my wrist was a hot pink star with the word ROCK written inside it in a very badass font.

“That is fuckin’ rock!” Kase said, complete with sticking his index and pinky fingers out to make the horns. “What else ya got?”

“Uhh, a swallow on each shoulder blade, musical notes down my ribs, shooting stars on the sides of my pelvis, and a heart on my lower back. And, uh, yup, that’s it for now.”

“For now?” Eli asked.

I lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, well, I like ink, so who knows?”

“Speaking of work,” Jake growled, though no one mentioned it. Slamming his pen down, he turned to Eli, Xavier, and Kase. “You mind steppin’ back into the fuckin’ garage and getting’ some shit done?”

This was met with a “Yeah”, “Fine”, and “Whatever”. But it worked and the guys said their goodbyes before heading back through the door.

I turned my attention to Jake, who was watching me intently. “I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t mean to get in the way.”

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, shaking his head as he sat on a metal stool.

“Pardon?”

“Don’t sweat it.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and was saved from more tense awkwardness when Z came out.

If Eli didn’t look like he belonged in a garage, Z definitely did not. He looked like he’d be more at home in a board room. Or a GQ spread. Or on a yacht with a supermodel. The fact he wasn’t wearing a custom tailored suit somehow surprised me. Sure, working on cars was dirty work, but still, it just seemed like that would be his casual wear.

Z was what I called ‘Rockabilly Dapper’. Around six feet tall, he was lean with compact muscles. I’d guess he was in his mid-thirties, but he didn’t look it. He had some ink, was wearing the heck out of a white tee and ass hugging black jeans, and was rockin’ a fantastic pompadour.

I seriously didn’t know how he could be working in a garage and still have perfectly coiffed hair. I could spend an hour on my hair, and five minutes in the humidity would leave it in total disarray.

I was pretty sure Z owned Hyde, but I’d never had the chance to ask. Our conversations at the few events we’d both attended had always been friendly but short. After a few minutes of small talk, Mommy Dearest would move me along to some boring Ivy League creeper.

I liked Z. And not because he reminded me of a GQ model and called me Doll Face.

Okay, not just that.