Inked Magic, Page 2

  “Save the drama queen routine for after hours. You want to act? Dress up like a man and come back pretending you’re hetero, at least long enough to finish the work on Orlando.”

  A violent slam of the door was Derrick’s response. Bryce laughed.

  “Not very PC,” Etaín said.

  “I don’t give a shit about political correctness.” He hit a button on the player, silencing John Mayer and filling the air with Nickelback.

  Bryce paused long enough to check the appointment screen on the computer, then cleaned the waiting area and organized the reference materials. By the time he was done, she was putting antibiotic ointment on the areas of the tattoo she’d worked.

  He strolled over and stopped next to her. “Nice. What have you got, two, three more sessions to finish it?”

  “Four,” Salina said. “Maybe five. I don’t like being on the receiving end of pain.”

  “Make sure Etaín takes a picture of this one when she gets finished with it. I definitely want it on the website. Good advertising.”

  “Putting a picture of Etaín up would be better.”

  “She’s threatened to quit if I do.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Etaín said. “And I am standing right here, you two.”

  Bryce opened one of the packages of nonstick pads on her worktable, exposing the adhesive tabs and handing it to her. She applied it to Salina’s back.

  “So you think you could fix Derrick up with someone?” Bryce asked.

  Jamaal snorted. “Fat fucking chance of that. She can’t find someone for her own self. You ever see her out with the same guy twice?”

  The quiet businesswoman he was tattooing spoke up, “You ever try to find a good-looking man in San Francisco? One who’s not gay, already taken, or a total jerk?”

  “Present company excluded?” Bryce asked.

  The woman’s expression took on the look of a deer in the headlights. “Sure,” she said, dropping her head so it rested in the face cradle attached to the massage table.

  Etaín hid a smile. Only a serious tattoo aficionado would look at Bryce and think he was gorgeous. His body was a heroin-chic canvas with very few places in need of ink, and plenty that had been pierced.

  The ink and metal put a lot of women off. Their loss as far as she was concerned. Both told a story of struggle, survival, and ultimate victory over the demons plaguing him.

  He’d been heavy into drugs, dangerous sex, and the fringe lifestyle that went with both, but he’d found his way out of it through his art. The same way she’d avoided going crazy and ending up dead from an overdose or from hooking up with the wrong kind of guy.

  Bryce opened a second package and passed it to Etaín. “You know people. What Derrick needs is a take-no-bullshit type, somebody who’s going to keep him in line.”

  “Like maybe someone into whips and chains,” Jamaal said.

  “A collar and leash work better,” Salina volunteered.

  Jamaal snorted. “Not touching that one.”

  Bryce handed a third nonstick pad to Etaín. “What about a cop? You know any gay cops on the prowl for a significant other?”

  Etaín met his gaze and raised her eyebrows. “You want me to start hitting up the cops who come around the homeless shelter when I’m there?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  She shook her head and went back to concentrating on covering the areas of Salina’s back that needed it. “Derrick may not be ready to call it quits with the current boyfriend. You know how he is.”

  Bryce sighed. “Yeah, I know. Too damn sensitive and accommodating for his own good. But think about finding a nice stable guy we can set him up with, okay? His reliability goes to shit when his relationships tank.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He handed her one last pad. “Appreciate it. You heading out? Or hanging to do some art work?”

  “I’m gone for a while. I promised Justine I’d swing by the shelter sometime today to go over the final schedule for the fund-raiser. We’re in countdown mode now.”

  “Yeah, thing is coming fast. How many artists you get signed up?”

  “Twelve, with another five saying they’ll come in if things get crazy. I’ve already done a bunch of stencils to speed things up. Almost everyone else is bringing some of their own flash, too. Stuff that won’t take more than thirty minutes to tattoo.”

  “I’ve got a couple of design ideas I’m going to work up and bring with me. I don’t want this to get into a pissing contest, so anyone, regardless of whose shop they’re from, is free to use them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Plenty of regulars have told me they plan on showing up on Saturday. I’m guessing it’s going to be busy. Should be a nice chunk of change for the shelter. “

  “It’s all good.”

  Bryce reached out and grabbed the thick wheat-gold braid snaking down her back. “Yeah. It’s all good. You and me, we’ve both done our time on the streets and in shelters.”

  Etaín shivered, thinking about the wild stretch of her teen years, and her father’s way of scaring her straight. It made dying in an alleyway seem good in comparison, though she had to give it to the captain, his method had worked, just not for the reason he thought it had.

  “Briefly in my case,” she said, shaking off the memory, though the shadow-pain of it lingered from the continued estrangement with the policeman she’d once called Dad.

  “That’s the best way. Enough to know what it’s like and never forget it.”

  Bryce gave a little tug to her braid. “You’ve got one more appointment today, a late one. Promise you’ll call the shop so one of us can step outside and make sure you get in okay.”

  “Will do.” She didn’t need to ask why. A serial rapist had been terrorizing San Francisco and the cities near it for months.

  Bryce wandered off as she covered the last part of the mermaid’s tail and gave Salina her aftercare instruction, both verbally and in writing. It didn’t matter Salina had been through it before, many times. She’d rather err on the side of caution, not just for Salina’s benefit, but for her own.

  She took pride in the tattoos she created. Each piece reflected on her as an artist.

  Fresh tattoos were wounds. They were thousands of punctures to the skin, damage that the body healed, trapping the embedded pigment beneath a see-through layer of thin scar tissue.

  Etaín pressed her fingers gently along the edges of the bandages, assuring herself for a final time that they were secure before easing Salina’s shirt down.

  “Tease,” Salina said. “So are you going to come hear Lady Steel play? I’ll even promise not to hit on you. Well, not too hard anyway. I can’t promise—” Her breath caught. “Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t believe it. That’s Cathal Dunne outside the shop. If he comes in, connect with him, Etaín, and I’ll owe you for like forever. You don’t know how bad we want to land a gig in his club. All he has to do is pick up the phone and the door to fame opens.”

  Etaín turned to look and felt her own breath catch, but for a totally different reason. Black Irish. Even without hearing his name she would have guessed at his roots. He had the look. Fallen angel and hardened warrior. Piercing blue eyes and a jaw shadowed with stubble.

  He wore expensive clothes and carried the kind of confidence that radiated danger. A bad boy dressed in fine threads but unable to hide the truth about himself beneath them.

  Heat surged through her just looking at him, settling in her breasts and belly and cunt. It’d been far too long since she’d felt a man’s hands and lips on her, a cock deep inside, sliding in and out and delivering pleasure.

  She’d applied too much ink, been buffeted by too many emotions not originating with her. Her gift. Her curse. She didn’t understand all of it. Only knew how to manage it in a half-assed way that kept her sane and feeling good about herself.

  Sex did the trick. Like a pressure valve opening, preventing an explosion and meltdown by giving her body a way to deal with what came with touching people.

  Her gaze met his through the shop window and she felt desire whip between them, a visceral command demanding they remove any barrier so they could get up close and very, very personal. She caught herself unconsciously licking her lips, the act so unlike her she nearly turned away from him to resume cleaning the workstation.

  A deep, almost foreign hunger gathered inside her even as instinct warned her away from him. He was trouble and she could manage to find enough of that on her own.

  Her eyes continued to linger on him, a part of her willing him to come inside. Another part already alarmed at her reaction to him, at the snare of an attraction hard and fast enough to keep her held in place.

  Two

  Cathal’s gut told him he was looking at Etaín and his dick told him he wanted her like he hadn’t wanted a woman in a long, long time, maybe ever. He should have swung by Sean McAlister’s boat and set the cop-turned-private investigator on to finding the leverage necessary to gain Etaín’s cooperation. Because despite his father saying this could be simple, he didn’t think it was going to be, though taking her to bed as a way of persuading her had moved to the top of his list. Having her beneath him, his cock buried to the hilt in wet heat, would drown out the voice of conscience. He’d worry about the consequences later.

  He opened the door and walked into the shop. There was no point in bullshitting about getting a tattoo. He didn’t want one. Never had, never would.

  He wondered if she was heavily tattooed beneath the long-sleeved shirt and the jeans that hugged her ass and legs, and whether it would matter when he stripped her out of them, if seeing ink-decorated skin would make him lose interest. By the time he got to the counter he knew the answer was no.

  Up close, the full impact sent a lightning bolt straight through his chest and down to his dick. Dark, dark eyes reminded him of a wild, untamed forest and made his heart race in a primal beat having everything to do with conquest and nothing to do with fear.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Cathal Dunne.”

  He offered his hand, wanting the touch as much as he needed to get her someplace where he could begin his campaign.

  There was a slight hesitation before she reached across the counter, confirming something for him with the first sight of ink. The stylized eye on her palm didn’t turn him off. It sent a wave of heat along the surface of his skin as he imagined her hand touching his chest, sliding downward over his belly as if she could see what he needed, what he wanted, and intended to give it to him.

  “Etaín,” she said and he noted the lack of a last name.

  He captured her hand instead of shaking and releasing it. She didn’t pull away, didn’t try to hide her reaction to the chemistry between them. It was there in her expression, in eyes that seemed even darker than they had moments earlier. In wetted lips parted just enough to invite a kiss and fuel more carnal fantasies.

  He fought against inhaling deeply. She smelled good. Like some kind of exotic flower that could only be found by hunting for it.

  The feel of her hand in his had him aching to shove it beneath his waistband and press it to his cock. His skin was coated in a light sheen of sweat, as if there’d already been an hour of foreplay.

  The desire to skip the preliminaries and get right to the business of fucking nearly overwhelmed him. His body hummed and he could feel a tremor passing from her palm to his, a current of lust looping through both of them.

  Etaín suppressed a hard shiver of need. She’d been thinking about sex and here was the offer of it, standing inches away, exuding it.

  Lust poured into her, golden fire and the promise of pleasure beyond any she could find elsewhere. His desire pierced the barrier of her skin and scorched through her in a way Salina’s hadn’t and never would. It merged with her need, like a volatile Molotov cocktail capable of turning resistance and control into rubble, making it a casualty of passion.

  She doubted even leather gloves could protect her from his emotions, not this close. Not when the very air seemed to vibrate with possibilities.

  Strangers and clients of both sexes hit on her. She was used to it. As if somehow the dreams and the call to ink came with a release of pheromones. But he wasn’t like the men she usually slept with, pretty boys who played in bands, long-haired rockers who were wild and free, fun to be with but who didn’t make any claims on her after a night of rowdy sex.

  It had to be that way. Too much time, too much intensity, too much touch, and her gift changed them, harmed them irrevocably. Stole pieces away from them that couldn’t always be replaced.

  Her instincts told her to say no to Cathal’s invitation. Her body vetoed it with a hard clenching of her channel and the escape of arousal.

  His nostrils flared, like a male animal scenting a female in heat, as if on some level he sensed her need for sex. “Do you have a particular piece of art in mind?”

  He laughed, a sound guaranteed to turn heads, male and female alike. “No, I’m not interested in getting a tattoo. I came in to meet you and ask you out to dinner.”

  Behind her Jamaal whistled and said, “A fast mover. I like this man’s style, Etaín.”

  She liked more than that. Even hidden beneath clothing, she could see the perfection of Cathal’s unmarked skin in her mind’s eye, a canvas wide open for exploration.

  Designs formed without her consciously searching for them, the same way those on her own skin had come to her. The same way those she tattooed outside of work did. They had power. That she believed completely.

  “Have dinner with me,” he said again. “We can go somewhere close, in walking distance. How about Aesirs?”

  Jamaal chose that moment to deliver payback. “Go! You need to get laid.”

  Emboldened, Salina said, “Yeah, go. I’ll leave the money for today’s session with Bryce.”

  Cathal smiled, fallen angel looks delivering sinful temptation. “The vote seems to be in my favor.”

  Bryce added his then, coming around the privacy screen to say, “Go. I’ll take care of your machine and finish cleaning up your station. And while you’re at Aesirs, scope out the waiters for Derrick. That place is supposed to be loaded with guys hot enough to persuade a straight man to switch teams.”

  Etaín pulled her hand from Cathal’s. The swirling images overlaid along the inside length of his forearms by her imagination disappeared but the loss of contact didn’t diminish the heat inside her. If anything, it intensified the craving for the touch of skin to skin.

  “I can go now,” she said, curious about Aesirs. It was an exclusive restaurant with bouncers to make sure only those expected entered.

  Had Cathal suggested it to impress her? Or because going there seemed natural to him and getting seated wasn’t a problem, whether he had reservations or not?

  She snagged her Harley jacket and came around the counter. His gaze traveled the length of her body, a glance that said he liked what he saw and wanted to see more, a look that stroked her feminine pride without making her feel like a piece of meat.

  Derrick, dressed in jeans and tank top, opened the door as they reached it. His eyes went wide and his hand fluttered to his chest.

  “Oh delicious, Etaín,” he said, still in touch with his inner woman despite the change of clothes and arms fully sleeved in tattoos. “You go, girl.”

  She cut a glance at Cathal. He seemed totally unfazed, amused if anything. It won him points with her. Huge points. Derrick was one of her closest friends.

  They passed through the doorway and out into muted sunshine. She breathed deeply, wanting to draw it inside her the same way she did moonlight at night.

  When she was working, as long as there were windows, she could tune out the craving to stand beneath open skies. But the minute she stepped outside it came back with a vengeance, filling her with the need to bury her toes in ocean-wet sand as the surf licked her ankles, to scoop up rich loam in her hands and run barefoot through a dark primordial forest, stopping only to dance around a fire deep in the woods.

  She shook her head slightly, clearing her mind of sensations that were familiar yet completely at odds with her reality, like forgotten childhood memories, or, more likely, pretend ones. She was a child of the city. The majority of her brushes with nature had occurred in Golden Gate Park, in museums and aquariums, with forays to the beach, especially in her teen years. Or boating in the bay and delta before her relationship with the captain disintegrated.

  She glanced at Cathal. It was easier to think about him than about her family. “Salina recognized you. She said you own a club.”

  “Saoirse.”

  She smiled at the utter confidence in his voice. The tone saying, “I’m sure you’ve heard of it,” even if he didn’t say the words.

  Saoirse. She knew it. A place to see and be seen.

  “That explains why you’re not worried about walking into Aesirs without dinner reservations.”

  The scent of his cologne wrapped her in heady lust. The heat between them combined with the sun’s rays made her want to shed her clothes and stretch out naked alongside him.

  Her fingers flexed, wanting to touch, to explore. A small smile played over her lips as she contemplated which she’d regret more—acting on the desire she felt for Cathal, or fighting it.

  He turned his head slightly, enough so their eyes met. “Do I dare ask what you’re thinking?”

  She laughed. “I imagine there’s not much you don’t dare.”

  His smile served as an answer. They drew close enough to Aesirs for the bouncers to move, not to intercept but in preparation for opening the heavy wooden doors.

  “I take it you come here often.”

  “Often enough. I meet my father and uncle here when they want a meal away from home.”

  She started to ask a follow-up question about them, but the chime of a hundred tiny bells assaulted her, ringing in her ears. “Do you hear that?”

  He cocked his head, eyebrows lifting in question. “Hear what?”

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