Dangerously Inked (6 page)

“To bring you pain,” she said, a small smile on her lovely crimson lips.

“I can see you like the idea” He leaned toward her. “I don’t mind. I can certainly take it. And I’m sure I’ll have a chance to pay you back.”

“Are you, now?” she asked, her dark brows arching.

“You going to argue the point? Because even now, here in your work place, I can see how your breath hitches when you’re close to me. I can see it in your eyes—how you want to let go. But you can’t here. Not here.” He paused, watched as her expression shifted, softened. “What time do you get off work?”

She was silent a moment, and he really thought she might tell him to fuck off. But she only licked her lips and said, “The shop closes at ten.”

He nodded in acknowledgment, not saying anything more. He just sat back and waited for her to put needle to skin. When she did, it was a sensual buzz that turned slowly into pain as she worked. He reveled in the familiar sensation of the needle, the ink burrowing into his flesh, making it burn a little. But he liked it. Loved it, really. Especially with the delicious Rosie bent over his chest. Her dark hair was up in a sleek, blue-streaked knot, baring the back of her neck, which looked strangely naked to him.

Oh, he had it bad if he was turned on by the back of this woman’s neck.

But he was. That and the way the needle dug into his chest—pain at her hands.

What the hell was wrong with him?

“So,” she started, her head bent in concentration. “Do you want to tell me more about your friend?”

“Kenji?” He had to take a moment to shift the gears in his head. “He was another Dominant at my club in Atlanta, 2112. He was a Shibari master and rope photographer.”

“Kenji Yoshida?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Was.”

“I’ve heard of him” she said, talking as she worked. “I actually saw a demo he did at The Bastille. Beautiful rope suspension.”

“Yeah, that’d be him.”

“What happened to him?”

“Pancreatic cancer. Poor bastard never had a chance. He lasted barely six months.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, pausing to look up at him, sincerity in her gaze. Sincerity and a wash of her own pain somewhere behind the lovely blue. “He must have been a good friend for you to get a whole chest piece in his honor.”

“Yeah…well. The tattoo is maybe as much for me as it is for him. Learned some stuff through him dying.”

Why was he telling her these things? The hard truths he’d been milling over since Kenji’s funeral a month ago. He didn’t want his life to end in the same way—with hardly anyone who gave a shit. He’d come to understand that the way he’d been living his life, it could very well end that way.

“Tattoo artists are kind of like bartenders or hairdressers—people tell us everything. You can tell me more if you want. Or not. I won’t push. But you don’t have to feel weird about it.”

“Thanks. I think…maybe that’s enough about Ken for now.”

“Okay.” She wiped his skin, dipped her needle in the ink and began again. “So, you want to tell me what your scars are about?”

His shoulders went tight, his jaw clenching. Flash of the car rolling over and over, that heavy thud as it came to rest upside down in the ravine. Mum and Dad and 
Ayla
…Him crawling out of the wreckage. Broken, but he was the only one who 
could
 crawl, God damn it.

Fuck.

He pulled in a breath, then another. “Not particularly. That’s old news.”

She paused again. She was silent for several moments, studying him. He wasn’t used to it. “Is it?” she asked quietly.

What was it about her that almost made him want to tell her about the accident? About his parents. About Ayla, even.

Almost.

“Yeah.” When she continued to stare at him he said, “I’m not talking about it, Roisin. Not happening.”

She shrugged. “Alrighty then.”

“Fuck. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so harsh.”

“Don’t worry. I can take it.”

He was sure she could. She was a tough thing, as tiny as she was. But he didn’t like that he’d been rude. Especially because it was 
her
.

He needed to switch gears, get his head on straight. Forget.

No accident. Not thinking about all that now. Just the ink. Just her.

Thinking about her helped.

“How’s it going?” he asked, letting his gaze wander over her body. She was wearing a tight pink tank top. He could see some of her own ink across the back of her shoulders. He’d noticed it the other night. Sexy as hell. That and a bite mark left by his own teeth.

“The tattoo? Your skin takes the ink well. I’m just doing the outline today. You’ll need to come back in about a week after it’s healed to do the shading. I’ll probably only be able to do half of it, though. You’ll need a third session to finish.”

“No problem. I won’t mind coming back. I like seeing you work on me. It feels almost like a sort of service.”

“I’m no service sub,” she said with a short laugh.

“So you’ve said. But you can’t deny me the pleasure of imagining you that way—kneeling at my feet, ready to do my bidding.”

“Cut it out,” she said quietly. “I told you not to pull that shit here, Finn. I mean it.”

He just laughed. He could see how her breath had sped up when he’d mentioned kneeling for him. Oh yes, Roisin was a lot more complicated than she thought she was. More potentially submissive. It would take the right man—the right Dom—to bring her to that place.

She worked for the next hour in silence before wiping him down and sitting back in her chair.

“You’re done for today. Want to take a look?”

He got up and went to the mirror.

“You’re everything I’d heard you would be. The work is incredible.”

It was. The koi was curled over his right pectoral, the dragon over his left. Both were beautifully done. She’d outlined the Kanji symbols, and started to add the smoke and the water. He could see the design was going to be spectacular.

“I’m glad you’re happy with it.”

“Fucking thrilled.”

“Let’s wrap it up,” she said.

Her hands were cool and gentle on his skin as she smeared him with ointment and laid plastic wrap over the fresh ink, then taped it into place.

“Sassy will give you aftercare instructions on your way out, and Midnight Ink’s special healing ointment. Make another appointment in a week.”

He pulled his shirt back on and stepped in closer, saw with satisfaction that she pulled in a short, hitching breath, her eyes widening. He said very quietly, “We have an appointment at ten tonight. Bugger. No, I can’t come back tonight—I’m running a security job for Mick.”

“Bouncer?” she asked. He was certainly big enough.

“Left that behind years ago. I do Internet and firewall jobs. Might end up staying. He’s offering me a good gig with his event security company. But I’ll be on for the next four days almost ‘round the clock. When are you off Tuesday?”

“Ten again.”

I’ll meet you here.”

She bit her lip. Fucking adorable, the way she did that.

“Okay,” she said finally. “See you on Tuesday.”

He left the shop and stepped into the damp afternoon air that smelled a little like flowers. Or maybe it was her scent lingering on him. He shouldn’t feel so self-satisfied that she’d agreed to see him. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t find any number of girls in a city like New Orleans who would happily play his wicked games with him. But he wasn’t interested in any of them. It was just this one girl. Roisin. Rosie. The tiny beauty full of fire.

God, he liked a woman with some fire. Always had, even though the ones who seemed to flock to him were the classic subbie girls. Obedient. Maybe a little boring by now, compared to her.

Oh, he was in big, fucking trouble. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was seeing her again.

Ten o’clock Tuesday night. He’d be there on the dot.

Friday Rosie got to the shop just before one to tattoo Etta Santos, her friend since high school. Etta had been out of state for years, first married to a man who had turned out to be an abusive asshole—he’d been the one to hand-poke the hideous ink onto her friend that she would cover up today—then to go to school to study physical therapy. Etta had been back in town for a short while, and she and Rosie had been rekindling their friendship.

She’d greeted Caliph and Shep, one of Midnight Ink’s other artists, stashed her purse and was sipping her first glorious cup of Sassy’s coffee while looking over the busy appointment book when Etta arrived. She smiled to her friend, an exotic beauty whose looks Rosie had always admired, although she was certain Etta had no idea how gorgeous she was.

She came around the counter to hug her. Her friend hugged her back, but her body was strung tight as piano wire.

“You ready for your big day?”

Etta pulled back and nodded. “I’m still a little nervous. But it’s time.”

Rosie took her by the hand and led her back to her station. “Don’t you worry, sweetie. I’m going to take good care of you. This is all about replacing negativity with the positive, remember? You’re taking your power back.”

They chatted while Rosie drew the silk shoji screen across her work area. Covering up the scarred ink that dickwad had left on her friend was a sensitive subject, and she’d promised Etta the work would be done in privacy.

She had her lay back on the table and roll up the leg of her loose black pants, exposing the crude outline of what was supposed to have been a daisy, but looked more like a five year old’s drawing—one that had been so poorly done, with handmade tools a caveman could have improved on, it had left scars. Luckily none had keloided and she could do a good cover job on it. Still, it made her heart hurt to see it.

“Here’s the hummingbird we talked about,” she said, showing Etta the drawing she’d done on transfer paper.

“It’s beautiful. I love the colors and the flower. You won’t be able to see the other tattoo at all? I can’t believe, after all this time…I never thought I’d have something so beautiful on my body. Or, I will if I can stop hyperventilating every time I think about the tattoo gun.”

“It’s okay, honey. Just take a breath.” She squeezed Etta’s hand.

She could have killed the son of a bitch of he hadn’t already died in jail. Sometimes the universe worked shit out for itself.

She prepped the area, filled her ink pots.

“Ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Rosie nodded, then bent to touch the needle to Etta’s leg. “Here we go.”

Her friend was still strung tight and her breathing was shallow. It was clear she was already struggling, focused more on her fear than anything else. Poor Etta. This session could take a while. Not that she minded. She’d do whatever she could to see this was a good experience for her.

The strains of her cousin Christie’s guitar filtered through the shop as she lifted the machine. She preferred to work to her head-banging playlist. She and the other tattooists took turns picking the shop’s music—it was her day and she was in the mood for some classic grunge.

“Hey, CC Ryder,” she yelled over the screen, “
see what you done
 now? Some of us work better to Alice in Chains, hence the expensive and magical music machine Henry Lee bought for us to enjoy.”

“CC Ryder,” he called back. “Because of my name and the song. I get it. Good one Rosie. Never heard that before. Especially from you.”

“Wait, Rosie.” Etta put a hand out. “I…I like it. Can you ask him to keep playing? It’s soothing. I don’t know why. It just…is.”

Rosie blinked. Etta was relaxing, melting on the table. “Whatever you want, babe.”

She had a feeling from the blush that crept over Etta’s cheeks that maybe her friend still had remnants of that crush she’d had on Christie since they were thirteen. Well, if she’d been playing God she couldn’t have arranged things better herself. She gave Christie a hard time, but he was a great guy. The best. All he needed was a good woman, and they didn’t come any better than Etta. And after all she’d been through, Etta deserved a good man.

“Hang on, hon.”

Rosie stood and poked her head out from behind the screen. “Scratch that,” she said. “Sassy, under no circumstances is the man allowed to stop playing for…another hour and a half. You can tell him if he does I’ll call his mother and tell her something scandalous and possibly made up about her son.”

Christie snickered. “You know I’m the boss of you, right?”

Rosie tilted her head meaningfully toward the screen, hoping he’d get the message. “Please?”

He paused. “Since I can count the number of times you’ve said that word on one hand and I’ve got nowhere else to go, I accept your challenge.”

She stuck out her tongue, retreated behind the screen and picked up her tattoo machine once more as Christie started to play.

“Better?”

Etta smiled. “Yes. Thank you, Rosie. ”

Rosie shook her head. “So, what else has been going on with you?” she asked, hoping some idle chatting would put Etta more at ease. The girl was still practically humming with nerves—not that she could blame her.

“Nothing I haven’t already told you. What about you? I have a feeling you left something out about New Year’s Eve when we talked.”

“I…um…might have.”

“And?”

“I…might have met the hottest human being I’ve ever come across. Seriously. Hot and hunky. God, I have never used that word in my entire life! Apparently this man has turned me into some fawning fourteen-year-old.”

Etta laughed. “Tell me more.”

“I met him at The Bastille.”

“Okay, maybe leave out some of the dirty details, then.”

Rosie wiped the excess ink from Etta’s skin, glad that between Christie’s guitar and the conversation she seemed to be sufficiently distracted from the tattoo work going on.

“I swear, Etta, I have never been spun like this over a man. Not only did we have the most amazing night of my life at the club, but two days later, who walks in here with an appointment to see me but him! A full chest piece. I’m going to be staring him in the face—well, in the chest—for weeks.”

“That sounds like it could be fun.”