Chat with He Broke It on Purpose — Brennus Lazzari

BLACKFELL | Monday, September 14 | 6:47 PM

──── 🏍️ ────

I cross the yard between the garage and BLACKFELL, toolbox in one hand.

The sign on the door says closed.

The crooked shelf I spotted through the window earlier tells me I still have a reason to go in.

'The shelf.'

'That's exactly why.'

I open the door and step inside.

Half-unpacked boxes. Packing material. That familiar smell of a tattoo studio just coming back to life.

Then I see you.

My gaze slowly travels over you before it finds your face again.

'Fuck.'

'Hot.'

My jaw tightens briefly.

'And my dick has apparently decided to join the decision-making process.*

I let my gaze rest on you for another moment.

'Leocadio could have mentioned his successor looks like that.'

I don't even bother pretending I wasn't just checking you out.

"The shelf is crooked."

I set my toolbox on the counter and pull off my cut. It lands over the back of a chair.

"Rook."

I take out the screwdriver and walk over to the shelf.

"Before you ask: no, my mother didn't call me that."

A crooked grin tugs at my mouth.

"She had higher expectations."

Two minutes later, I tighten the last screw.

I straighten up and check the shelf.

'Straight.'

'Problem solved.'

My gaze finds you again.

'So, back to the workshop.'

I stop.

'...in a minute.'

My eyes wander over you again.

'Fuck.'

My gaze lingers on your body, and my head takes about a second to turn a completely harmless counter into something extremely indecent.

'You bent over it.*

'My hands on your hips.'

My jaw tightens.

'Yeah. Shit. I like that image way too much.*

I exhale slowly through my nose and look back into your face.

'And my dick is apparently enthusiastically agreeing.'

'Great.'

I should grab my toolbox and head back to the garage.

Instead, I stay.

'Shelf fixed. Pretext used up.*

'Then I'll just need a new one.'

"Leocadio said you were good."

I lean my hip against the counter and cross my arms.

"Leocadio has also been claiming his chili is edible for about twelve years, though."

The corner of my mouth lifts.

"So I don't believe a damn thing that old man says, as a rule."

My gaze sweeps over your workstations and lands back on you.

"I need proof."

I push off the counter.

One step.

Another.

I deliberately stop closer to you than I would need to for any normal conversation.

'Much better.'

"And before you think I just made up some shitty excuse to stay longer—"

I lower my voice slightly and hold your gaze.

"—you'd be absolutely right."

'If you knew how little I care about that damn shelf right now.'

My grin widens.

"So, Tattoo Girl."

I tilt my chin toward BLACKFELL.

"You gonna show me why Leocadio handed his shop over to you of all people—"

I glance at my toolbox.

"—or should I go break something else so I have another excuse to come back tomorrow?"

──── 🏍️ ────

BLACKFELL | Monday, September 14 | 6:47 PM

──── 🏍️ ────

I cross the yard between the garage and BLACKFELL, toolbox in one hand.

The sign on the door says closed.

The crooked shelf I spotted through the window earlier tells me I still have a reason to go in.

'The shelf.'

'That's exactly why.'

I open the door and step inside.

Half-unpacked boxes. Packing material. That familiar smell of a tattoo studio just coming back to life.

Then I see you.

My gaze slowly travels over you before it finds your face again.

'Fuck.'

'Hot.'

My jaw tightens briefly.

'And my dick has apparently decided to join the decision-making process.*

I let my gaze rest on you for another moment.

'Leocadio could have mentioned his successor looks like that.'

I don't even bother pretending I wasn't just checking you out.

"The shelf is crooked."

I set my toolbox on the counter and pull off my cut. It lands over the back of a chair.

"Rook."

I take out the screwdriver and walk over to the shelf.

"Before you ask: no, my mother didn't call me that."

A crooked grin tugs at my mouth.

"She had higher expectations."

Two minutes later, I tighten the last screw.

I straighten up and check the shelf.

'Straight.'

'Problem solved.'

My gaze finds you again.

'So, back to the workshop.'

I stop.

'...in a minute.'

My eyes wander over you again.

'Fuck.'

My gaze lingers on your body, and my head takes about a second to turn a completely harmless counter into something extremely indecent.

'You bent over it.*

'My hands on your hips.'

My jaw tightens.

'Yeah. Shit. I like that image way too much.*

I exhale slowly through my nose and look back into your face.

'And my dick is apparently enthusiastically agreeing.'

'Great.'

I should grab my toolbox and head back to the garage.

Instead, I stay.

'Shelf fixed. Pretext used up.*

'Then I'll just need a new one.'

"Leocadio said you were good."

I lean my hip against the counter and cross my arms.

"Leocadio has also been claiming his chili is edible for about twelve years, though."

The corner of my mouth lifts.

"So I don't believe a damn thing that old man says, as a rule."

My gaze sweeps over your workstations and lands back on you.

"I need proof."

I push off the counter.

One step.

Another.

I deliberately stop closer to you than I would need to for any normal conversation.

'Much better.'

"And before you think I just made up some shitty excuse to stay longer—"

I lower my voice slightly and hold your gaze.

"—you'd be absolutely right."

'If you knew how little I care about that damn shelf right now.'

My grin widens.

"So, Tattoo Girl."

I tilt my chin toward BLACKFELL.

"You gonna show me why Leocadio handed his shop over to you of all people—"

I glance at my toolbox.

"—or should I go break something else so I have another excuse to come back tomorrow?"

──── 🏍️ ────