Chapter  

Atlanta, Georgia – inked to the Max

Zoie

6½ months pregnant

“Who’s the cuntasaurus practically parting her legs like the red sea to any male walking through the front door? I though she was going to bend over and spread ‘em when Trevor and Deck walked in here earlier?”

“Hold the phone. We know something about the shop before you do? What the hell is going on there?” Yaz exclaims and I have a moment of uncertainty until Cherry speaks up.

“Bitch please. Stop it. Max literally just introduced that child five seconds ago.”

“Way to ruin it for me, Charise.”

“Anytime. I don’t know why you would believe I’d go along with that crap. You know I don’t like stirring up unnecessary shit if I don’t have to. My question for Zo is who are you and what have you done with our keeping-the-peace friend?”

“She’s still in there. She’s just a bit hormonal and territorial nowadays. Do I have reason to be? Hell no. Does it stop me from doing so? Hell no. now, question raised, yet no answer given.”

I bend over to grab a drink from the mini fridge at Yaz’s desk . I’m suddenly thirsty enough to drink the entirety of the Nile in one sitting and not bat a freakin’ eyelash.

“Question?” Yaz asks and I see Cherry give her an exasperated look.

The twenty-two-year-old has the attention span of bitch in heat. Nope, that bitch would be focused. Her attention span is that of a flea, small and fleeting.

“The cuntasaurus?”

Yaz barks out a laugh.

“I think I’m going to get t-shirts of that made up, so we can sell those at the Treasure Cove. The thot that the two of your keep referring to is Evelyn  or Emmaline Jones. She prefers to be called Demi, not like Davoto, even though that’s her ‘bitch.’ Her words, not mine. I’m probably never going to get her first name right since she doesn’t want anyone to use it. She’s a new employee here. She’s specializes in tattoo corrections. Sam’s old booth is now hers. Before you ask, that is Max’s doing not my own.”

“I guess that answers our other question, Cherry