Free Last Call (Bad Habits Book 3) by Staci Hart

on to my sarcasm. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
    “Yeah, you did. Didn’t even wait to see if I was kidding.”
    “Were you?”
    I folded my arms. “Does it matter?”  
    He shrugged. “I just think it’s sad, is all. I can’t imagine living my life without something I was passionate about.”
    I just looked at him for a second with flushed cheeks, imagining myself kicking him in the face. But instead, I smiled tightly. “Well, it was nice to meet you, but—”
    “Hang on, wait. We’re not going to hook up?” His face fell.  
    My hackles rose as I stood with a sardonic smile on my lips. “Listen, Steve , I’d love to take this back to your murder room so you can show me your knife collection, but I think I need to go wash my hair since I smell like a morgue. I really hope you and your passion are super happy together.”
    He rolled his eyes. “Well, at least I didn’t waste money on your coffee first.”
    “Unbelievable,” I muttered, and then I walked the fuck out of Roasted like my boots were on fire.

WHAT GOES AROUND

    Patrick
    I SMOOTHED THE LAST PIECE of tape over the girl’s shoulder blade, covering her fresh tattoo as she looked over her shoulder at me.
    “Leave the covering on for the next four hours, then toss it. Don’t cover it up again, okay?” I handed her a care sheet. “You’ll want to wash three times a day with a non-scented mild soap. I really like baby soaps. It’s going to start itching in a few days, but don’t scratch it, all right? Just slap it.”
    She raised an eyebrow as she sat up and righted her shirt.
    I smirked. “Trust me. It works.” I rolled my chair over to my cabinet and grabbed a small apothecary jar. “Use this balm after you wash it to keep it moisturized.”
    She batted her lashes as she took it. “All right.”
    “Any questions?”
    “Can I, ah, call you?” She bit her lip. “You know, if I need anything? I mean, about my tattoo?”
    I smiled, choosing my words carefully. “Sure, you can call the shop if you have any questions.”
    “Thanks, Tricky,” she cooed.
    I was already breaking down my station. “You got it, Cherice.”
    She walked to the counter as “Siamese Dream” blared over the shop speakers, Billie Corgan wailing his lament as she paid. I was peeling the plastic wrap off my tray when she made her way back and leaned over the low wall, giving me an eye level view of her cleavage.  
    “Thanks again,” she said with a smile and handed me a couple of twenties.
    “Any time.”
    She looked me over once more before turning and strutting out. I glanced at Joel, who watched her from behind the counter. He shook his head and shot me a smile.
    The bell over the door rang, and I looked back, expecting Cherice again. My hands froze, needle gun in my hand.  
    I hadn’t seen Seth in nearly a year, when he’d called me for help. He needed money, which was the immediate reason he’d called. But more than that, I knew he needed to get clean. I’d been trying for years to save him. But he didn’t want my help, not then. He just needed someone to bail him out, get him a fix. Three days, he’d been high. And we fought. And I’d left him where I found him in his apartment, trying not to think about the knobby joints of his arms, his grey skin marred with bruises and track marks.  
    We hadn’t spoken since. I didn’t even know if he was still alive, didn’t realize how much it had weighed on me, not until that moment when I saw him walking into the shop whole and felt the rush of relief.
    He looked more like the kid I met so long ago than I’d seen him in years — clean and smiling, blond hair combed, green eyes bright. I think his shirt was even ironed.
    I glanced at Joel, whose eyes were narrowed as he watched Seth approach me. I set down my machine and stood, stepping around to greet him.  
    He laughed, pulling me into a hug. “Goddamn, Tricky. It’s good to see you.”
    I hugged him back, feeling the warm weight of him in