This Is For Me: Rose City Romances

By Breanna Riley

Molly

Emotional damage? Check. Starting over after catching my husband nailing the yoga instructor next door? Check. Sexy as sin tattoo artist helping my heart and new ink heal? Check and check. What could go wrong?

 

Hawk

Look, I'm happy with my grandma lifestyle. I've got the appearance of a hardass but my cat George and I much prefer Netflix and takeout to partying and chasing tail. Somehow though, my best friend and business partner can't trust me with the demure Molly who comes in looking for some good ole ink therapy.

 

First in a series of interconnected standalones. No cheating, HEA guaranteed.

Note to readers:

This Is For Me is a steamy rom-com, but my author brand isemotional damage, so make sure and check my website for content warnings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Breanna Riley
• Release date: Sep 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215463468

Breanna Riley

Breanna Riley is a millennial mom of four boys, and personal assistant to six overbearing cats. She and her husband raise their kids in the Portland, Oregon area, where Breanna has spent her whole life. A breakout author, Breanna has been a romance enthusiast since before it was appropriate. She picked up writing during the Covid pandemic and hasn’t been able to stop since.

Book preview

image-placeholder

Copyright © 2022 Breanna Riley

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form on by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Author cannot be held responsible for any demands made by readers for their spouse to get tattoos. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Dedication

Content Alert

Prologue

1. Surrounded but alone

2. Cheeseburgers and asscheeks

3. Butts are daily

4. Doe-eyed sorority girls

5. Eat garbage

6. Leave George out of this!

7. The primal, ball-slapping sex your parents are having right now

8. Wandering unclothed phalluses

9. I’m too cheap for OnlyFans

10. Just another Wednesday

11. Freeballing in my apartment

12. I need to go walk my goldfish

13. Throw the whole fucking pot

14. Ol’ Sparky

15. Good girl

16. That doesn’t sound pleasant

17. Breast milk in his coffee

18. All sorts of interesting places

19. Happy family

20. Floating in the wind with that asshole

21. Steam roll a litter of kittens

22. Feed them to the koi

23. She’s a big girl

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Get a sneak peek at The Truce, coming November 15th, 2022

Chapter 1: Knit sweaters for chickens

Chapter 2: Since I stopped giving a fuck

Chapter 3: Four-foot eleven of your worst fucking nightmare

To anyone who wanted a white picket fence, 2.5 children, and to get bent over a desk by a tattooed bad boy...this is for you.

Content Alert

Here is a complete list of topics that this book touches on in one way or another. Some are more explicit, others, only discussed briefly. For clarification on anything, please email me at [e-mail]

image-placeholder

Prologue

I clutch the printout from the school library with sweaty palms. Oh my god. I am so going to regret this in the morning.

The street in downtown Portland is bustling with activity, the bars, arcades, and shops all packed in the five p.m. glow.

"Come on, Mol, you can’t hang out in front of the hookah shop forever. I know you have no interest in going in. It’s your birthday! And it’s on me. We can do this!"

Josie loops her arm in mine and practically drags me down the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding hipsters looking harried at the very existence of a pair of excited eighteen-year-olds. How she manages to move so quickly with her short stature, I’ll never know.

I just…I’m not sure…

"Molly Elizabeth, shut your pie hole and get in here!" She spins in a circle, yanking open the door. The tattoo shop can’t be more than twelve feet wide—Portland has some odd locales, but this, this is…interesting.

Exposed brick makes up one entire wall; the other is painted blood red—or, it would be, if you could see more than a sliver of plaster peeking out from between the printouts of tattoo stencils. A flock of paper cranes on fishing line in black, white, and grays consume the front entryway, with a neon sign hanging in the front window that reads, Sorry, No Drunks.

Wow, classy, I mumble, as Josie shoves me into a chair in the tiny waiting area.

We’re in a tattoo shop, not in Miss Manner’s Finishing School. Josie rolls her eyes at me. Tina? Tina, you here?

Yeah babes, I’ll be out in a minute!

A woman appears from behind a door. She’s tall, thin, and so cool it almost hurts. Leather pants, Converse, and a plaid shirt all accentuate her spiky blonde hair.

Did Gerry tell you I was coming?

Yup, said you were bringing a friend. Hi, friend, I’m Tina. She sticks her hand out, and I grasp it shyly.

I’m not sure I’m going to—

Oh hush, you’re going first so you don’t chicken out, huffs Josie. Tina, this is Molly.

Let me see what you’ve got, Tina asks, holding out her hand. I pass over the printout of the luna moth I want tattooed on my hip.

Where do you want it to go? She looks over the printout carefully, then at me.

Hip. I pull down the waist of my leggings, exposing the flat real estate.

Looks good. Stencil will take me like ten minutes. You two could go grab coffee next door or something.

Oh, okay, I choke out. This is really happening.

Josie and I both get decaf lattes, because apparently caffeine can make the process worse. When we get back, Tina is setting up a table off to one side of the shop.

You’ll be way more comfortable on this than in any of our chairs. It’s padded, with a head shaped hole at one end, odd cut outs and levers here and there. Tina sees my astonished face and grins. It’s a massage table. Don’t worry, it’s not going to eat you. Hop up.

Ten minutes later, I pull the waistband of my leggings and underwear down a touch. Tina preps my skin with antiseptic, shaving the bare area to be on the safe side. Moment of truth; she touches the needle to my skin and the buzzing starts.

That’s not nearly as bad as I—ow! I groan. "Why’s that spot—ow—worse?"

There’s bone. Anywhere the needle goes over bone, it’ll hurt more. It’s small, so we should finish today.

Thanks, I respond, biting my lip as I breathe through the pain.

Josie has abandoned me to do lord knows what out on the street with a boy she met in the coffee shop. The door opens with a jingle of the bell, and the cool brush of spring evening air filters in, making my skin pebble. I jerk my head to tell Josie off, but the form entering the shop is not a four-foot-eleven hazel-eyed redhead.

In fact, I think this man may be pushing six two. All the blood leaves my face as I realize my entire pelvis is on display. As I take him in, the blood comes back full force. His short brown hair is long on top, and his jaw could cut glass. His Blink 182 tour tee stretches over his thick biceps, leading down to arms completely covered in tattoos.

Hey Hawk, Tina murmurs without looking up. Molly, this is the shop owner, and a badass artist in his own right, Hawk.

He nods his head at us, and I’m silent while I watch his lips purse as his eyes rake over my hip. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. You’re not old enough to get such a beautiful piece. No butterfly?

Oh, no I just— My blush deepens.

Hawk, leave the poor girl alone. She’s legal, I checked her ID.

I’m teasing, he grumbles, a smirk forming.

Christ, ignore him, he’s an asshole. She reloads her needle with ink.

"A fucking hot asshole," Josie whispers far too loudly as she slinks back to my side.

Don’t let him hear you. I don’t need his ego getting any bigger than it already is.

Don’t you think he’s hot?

Could you think a brother is hot? Tina retorts.

He’s your brother? Josie raises her eyebrows. Tina is her sister’s best friend, so I expect if Tina had a brother, Josie would have known about it.

No, but I feel the same way about him. She wipes at my fresh ink, the cool liquid soothing my raw skin, and applies a balm. All done. Go take a look before I dress it. Don’t touch.

I hop up to admire her work in the mirror, bringing me back to the exotic animal shows my mom used to love so much. We’d circle around to look at snakes, monkeys, tarantulas, chinchillas, birds…and when we got to the vendor art section, real bugs framed behind glass caught her eye. Aren’t the luna moths so pretty, Molly? It looks like it could just fly away.

I wish I could fly away. I can’t, so this will have to do for a while.

Chapter one

Surrounded but alone

image-placeholder

Molly

Is that the last of it? Josie calls from the top of the stairs.

Yeah, got it all. Everything else went to storage. Thanks again for the couch. I get to the top of the steep staircase serving as the entry of my new studio apartment and throw the armful of blankets and pillows I’ve fished out of the back of my Honda Civic onto the bed. During my last trip to my former home, my best friend of over a decade has assembled my bed and installed the coffeemaker onto a sliver of my precious counter space.

Ugh, that smells amazing, I groan, sinking down onto the bed into the disarray of bedding. I don’t know where my mugs are.

No need, I brought over coffee, creamer, and mugs from my place. Josie lives one wall away, or a simple walk down my stairs, and then up hers. Our living spaces are mirrored, two sides of a whole top floor of a 1910 historic home divided into four units. Josie’s has the addition of two bedrooms from an add-on in the 1960s.

You’re amazing, have I reminded you of that?

Only about eight hundred times! she sing-songs. But feel free to keep going, you know how much I enjoy ass-pats. She pours me a mug and snatches our favorite coffee creamer out of my compact refrigerator. Sorry there’s not a bigger fridge in here. I think the idea is no one except a single or maybe a couple would live here.

Pft, forget it. It’s the two most important things to me—affordable and right next to you. I would’ve moved into a crackerjack box for that. Besides, you’re not the owner. I give a shrug and take the mug, sinking into the Ikea chair at my Ikea table. Beggars can’t be choosers. Or more like broke bitches starting over can’t be picky.

Maggie is a gem. If you want a different fridge, I’m sure she’d buy one.

I’m fine, Jose.

I pull my feet up onto the edge of the chair, thoroughly enjoying the view through the window of the second floor. The steep gables allow for an interesting space. My queen-sized bed is in one, a couch in another, and my tiny table occupies the third. My dresser is pressed against a half wall leading to the stairwell. Maggie, the owner, told me the apartment is a scant three hundred feet in floor space. I don’t care about the small space, small fridge; it’s freedom.

It’s like we’re in college again, I chuckle.

Yeah, except there’s actually food in this fridge. Plus, you have a car and a mountain of student loan debt, Josie says happily. Fourteen years of friendship hasn’t changed her an ounce. We’re twenty-eight, but I sometimes feel like we’re going on forty.

Thanks, Jose. Appreciate that.

Anytime. I think Billie is making dinner tonight, something she got at New Seasons with tofu.

I think I’m all tofued out, but I’ll think about it. You shouldn’t let the kid off her leash at the grocery store.

Billie is Josie’s roommate and the byproduct of a pair of flower children. If you crossed a typical Portland Hipster with Luna Lovegood, you’d come up with Billie. Her ethereal fashion and head-in-the-clouds demeanor can shock and confuse the most hardass of men or bring maternal hippy types to their knees.

Did you get the schedule from the gal downstairs?

Denise? Yep, it’s taped to the fridge.

Okay, cool. She’s nice, so we all try to pitch in when we can. A single mom, Denise, lives below me with her two-year-old, Opal. The schedule will ensure I’m not being noisy during nap or bedtimes. I think that’s part of why Maggie agreed to let me move in. Josie promised I was quiet.

Great. Look, I’m alright. I think I need to unpack and chill for a bit. I have to work tomorrow, so…

I didn’t used to crave solitude. I used to need to be around another person twenty-four seven. Now, after years of isolation, I need my quiet often.

Okay, but I’ll be over later. You have to eat, Mols.

Yeah, I know, I breathe, taking another sip out of my mug.

She trots off down the stairs, and I hear her door open, her feet pounding up her own set on the other side of the wall.

I need a cat or something, I say into the void. I take the bedding I’ve bought at Target and make my bed. My new bed. Like hell was I taking anything he—or she—had touched when I left.

When I found my ex-husband screwing the yoga instructor next door in our bed, I’d left on a dime. Six months on my aunt’s couch had ended last week with a phone call.

Josie told me the studio apartment next to hers had been vacated in a rush. The landlady did her a favor and kept the rent the same for me, waiving a deposit if we painted for her.

The tiny flat still smells like fresh paint, and I honestly couldn’t have asked for a better spot. The Craftsman house has beautiful finishes, and though my apartment is practically microscopic, there are three eaves with tons of natural light flooding in.

The bathroom at the rear has original tile—a black and white hexagonal pattern, the black creating a flower border around the room. The claw foot tub put the nail in the coffin for me. I had to have this apartment.

I’m on my own for the first time since I can remember, and I’m fine with that. I’ve wanted it for longer than I can pinpoint, and probably needed it forever. I’ve never had to fly on my own before, always had a landing pad somewhere, whether that be my grandparents, my aunt, a friend. Not that I want all of my safety nets to go, but I’m desperate to know how far I can fly.

Chapter two

Cheeseburgers and asscheeks

image-placeholder

Hawk

Did you get more waterproof bandages? I call into the back office of my tattoo shop.

Yeah, in the boxes behind the front desk, Tina, the other tattoo artist, calls back. We also have a piercer two days a week, Lulu. The other half of the week, she works at another shop on the other side of town.

I crack open the box Tina had bought at the tattoo supply store, pushing aside colorful rolls of self-stick bandages, ink, and boxes of needles. Finding what I’m looking for, I snag it and head to my station.

I opened HawKink over a decade ago out of a tiny, four-hundred-square-foot shop with a friend I’d made during my apprenticeship. We’d clawed, scratched, and climbed our way here to this far more spacious spot with a reception desk, comfortable yet trendy waiting area, piercing room, and office.

Your dad called earlier, Hawk.

I stiffen as I settle in, trying my hardest not to get defensive. It’s not her fault he keeps bothering me.

I told you, he’s not my dad, I grumble, setting my supplies on my counter space and working to get organized. "He’s just my father."

She tut-tuts at me, but I ignore her. I’ve got a client in about twenty minutes and prefer to be prepared.

Ignoring him won’t make him go away, Tina mumbles, heading for the phone ringing in the office.

I don’t want to talk to him today. I don’t want to talk to him ever if I have any control over it.

Trish, my client for the afternoon, walks in ten minutes early. Internally, I groan. I’m not up for this today, but the money is good, so I steel myself for the unrelenting onslaught of tits and perfume.

Today, she’s wearing a crop top with microscopic jean shorts. Her hair has been straightened within an inch of its life, and I don’t know what she puts her makeup on with, but I suspect it’s a spatula. I’d quit booking her if her tips weren’t so good.

Trish, I grit. What’s it today?

This sweet thing. She hands me a printout of a pinup girl clad in a French maid outfit.

My lip twitches involuntarily. This isn’t my favorite thing to do, but with how much disposable income her husband gives her, I’d tattoo a cheeseburger on her left asscheek if she asked me to.

It’ll take me a couple minutes to get a stencil worked up..

Trish cocks a hip before sinking into one of the lounge chairs in the waiting room, crossing her slender legs over one another. I have no problem waiting.

She pops her gum and pulls out her phone, being obvious about adjusting her boobs while I retreat into my office to escape her desperation.

Despite the move into the new location, the setup and decor in my office stays the same. The huge tanker desk I thrifted from a Habitat for Humanity ReStore forever ago sits against the wall, a glass table for stenciling next to it. Racks of drawing supplies line the desk, and a mid century lounge chair rescued from a back alley takes up a whole corner, with a weathered leather jacket spread on the back. A framed six-by-six painting of an eagle I painted takes up a whole wall. I’m at peace around these comforting things.

The voicemail light for our phone is blinking, and I groan as I hit the button to play back the message.

Elliot, hey, it’s me, my father’s gravelly voice cracks over the speaker. He really does sound like shit.

I don’t care.

I don’t care.

I wish you’d talk to me; I know you’re there. Tina told me so. Call me, son.

I won’t. Drinking the coolant from my Dodge Challenger sounds more enjoyable than calling him back. I’m tempted to block his number; he doesn’t have my