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The second I step out of the car, my phone pings with two text messages.

ROCKY

Here, brother. About to call up.

And the other from my brother.

DUKE

Meet me at the office tomorrow.

Rolling my eyes at my brother’s message, I press the Up button on the garage elevator, hoping no one is inside.

I don’t have it in me to fake politeness right now.

It’s not that I don’t want to work; being a pilot is enjoyable. Plus, flying private takes me all over the world. It’s just, my regimen outside of the air doesn’t fit me anymore. I haven’t just made a name for myself in Nashville; I’ve made one everywhere, all with women I plan on never seeing again.

I need something different—a lifestyle change if I’m going to get back in the air.

Reaching the forty-first floor, the elevator doors show the long, luxe hallway leading to my apartment.

Rocky and all his luggage are waiting for me at the door.

“Perfect timing, huh?” I smile, fishing for the key in my pocket.

“Always. Where have you been?” His question is paired with a tilted smile and a quirked eyebrow. A tell-tale sign that he expects me to say something raunchy.

“Had Sunday dinner with the fam in Greenway.”

I push through the door, not offering to help him with his shit. Rocky is no better than one of my brothers; he practically is one, so I know his remark had undertones of assumption.

“You got anything in mind for today’s session? Or should I just do my worst?”

After ten or so tattoos, the feeling becomes addictive. When you’re playing the role of two completely different people, sometimes pain is all that works to wash the confusion away—or mask it, whichever comes first.

“No, I have a picture. Just one today.”

Sitting down at my large oak dining room table, I find the picture on my phone and slide it across the table to him.

He looks at me curiously. “You flew me here just for one tattoo?”

“Are you really complaining about a free trip on a jet and a couple thousand bucks?”

“Nope, whatever you say, boss.”

Showing him where and how big I want it, he begins shaving, sanitizing, and organizing his station.

“You want the shading like the rest of your stuff?” he asks, peeling the sketched template from my skin, nodding for me to check and make sure it’s exactly how I want it.

Staring for longer than is necessary, I find a hidden strength in the message. Giving him the green light on the sketch, I plop my arm on the table.

“I want this just like the photo. Make it as realistic as you can.”

My body wakes before my alarm can even beep twice. I’m up every day at five a.m. for the gym. It’s why I prefer to stay at my penthouse as opposed to my home in Greenway. The amenities are far more superior.

After a light six miles on the treadmill, I head to the stationary bike to flush my legs out.

I train rigorously. I enjoy it. Crave it, even.