Heart of a Tattooist: Dark Romance MC Club Alpha Bad Boy Obsession (Tattooist Series Book 3) (8 page)

He dragged her closer. The boots slid off her feet and dangled from her heels. She sobbed harder, the ludicrousness of the situation hitting home.

Mitch asked, “What happened? Did that fucker Cay do something to you?”

She got out, “He was getting a blowjob from the video model.”

Mitch looked utterly perplexed. “What?”

“It’s just…it just…where the fuck were you? Do you fuck your groupies and models too?”

“No.” Mitch’s voice was hard. “I won’t lie: a long time ago when I was starting out I thought I must be the luckiest guy in the world, having so many women want me. Then I figured out what they wanted had nothing to do with me as a person. Now can you please tell me just what the hell just happened? I mean, you almost gave me a fucking heart attack!”

“I can’t do this,” her voice was a mere whisper. “I can’t, Mitch. I’m not cut out for it. I’m…just a woman. I tat for a living. I’m not glamorous. I’m going to wear out one day. I mean, whatever it is you feel for me is going to wear out one day.” She sighed. “I can’t compete with all the woman who want to take you away and I don’t want to lose you like that. I don’t want to lose you at all. I can’t get hurt. I can’t. I hate it.”

The words were the baldest admission she had ever made.

Mitch stared at her bewildered. “Are you kidding me? You’re out here running like hell, and I mean that literally too, because you’re worried I might get a blow job from a guy in shorts?’

Her tears dried, “Huh?”

Mitch shook his head but a grin lit his face. “Um, I guess maybe someone should have told Cay that his model is still in the middle of transitioning.”

She wiped her face then recalled that she was wearing what probably amounted pounds of makeup that was probably smeared across her face by then. “Oh, that sucks… literally. The model maybe should have told Cay.” She sighed. What a mess everything seemed to be. “Mitch, I care about you. Too much. I don’t want to. I’m so scared.”

“I get it. This scares the shit out of me too. I mean, hey, I’m not great at relationships either.”

She blinked, “You’re not? Oh, your ex.”

“Not just my ex. The ex before her. She was great but she couldn’t take the lifestyle. She hated it. I was gone all the time and too interested in getting ahead and making it to really pay attention when she said my buying her stuff wasn’t enough. So with April I just felt grateful that was enough. Maybe part of me knew I didn’t have anything to give her, at least not anything real.”

She swallowed hard. “Do you have anything to give me? I just set myself up for some really sick and gross dick joke, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“You going to make it?”

He shook his head. She glared at him. “I look like a clown someone washed, don’t I?”

He shook his head but stayed silent. At least he was smart, she could say that. She sighed softly. “Shit. Cay’s a jerk, you know.”

Mitch shrugged. “He’s young. He’s twenty years old, Cara, and he’s on top of the world. Give him a few years. He’ll straighten out.”

“I guess.” She stubbed a toe into the ground, effectively sliding the boot back onto her foot. “These boots are disgusting. How do you wear them? My feet are sweating like crazy.”

“I wear socks,” he said smugly.

“Ah. That would probably have helped.”

“They look cute on you. Come on, let’s go. I’m pretty tired and I think you could use a shower. Or a car wash.”

He ducked the fist she waved at him. She let him lead her to his truck and as they got in she asked, “So how was your day?”

“Not nearly as exciting as yours it seems. I used to be able to write a hundred songs just like that then pick the best ones. Lately I can’t write a single line. No idea why.”

“I’m sorry.”

He chuckled. “Not your fault. I sometimes think that all the time I spent in L.A. stripped the country right out of me.” He cranked the SUV and turned the air conditioner on. “I bet you’re starving. I am. Do you mind a little ride?”

She looked down at her clothes, then reached over and stuck her kit on the backseat before buckling herself in. She was not unaware, not at all, that when she leaned over the seats the shorts slid up into her ass crack and showed two very nice-sized crescents of her lower ass cheeks. She grinned a little as she looked at him. “I don’t,” she said.

He gunned the engine.

Cara stared at the house. It could not even be called a house. It was a mansion, and a gorgeous one at that. It stood two stories tall and sat back below a long sweep of trees that lined the lovely green lawn. The windows were tall and leaded, and the exterior was a jaw-dropping stone and brick thing.

She let out a low whistle. “Wow. It looks…it looks like someone transplanted L.A. into Tennessee.”

He laughed. “Welcome to Belle Meade.”

“That’s the name of your house?”

He took her hand and they walked toward the door. “No, the neighborhood.”

“It’s nice.” Nice wasn’t the word but she couldn’t think of any other. In L.A. she had often been called on to go to celebrities’ houses to tat and she had always been overwhelmed by them. This house had a welcoming feel to it, though, and as they stepped into the door and into a long foyer she felt her tension melt away.

The whole place was masculine, almost to the extreme. No woman lived here, and hadn’t for a long time. That was clear.

It felt lived in and homey despite its size, and she smiled as she saw a rack of guitars along one wall in the massive living room. A baby grand piano stood in the center of the room and she asked, “Do you play piano?”

“Badly. Well, not great anyway. I play just well enough to write a song. I’m better at guitar.”

He led her to the long and wide kitchen and she smiled in delight as she took in the tall standing island, the white cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. “Now
this
is a kitchen.”

“Do you like to cook?”

She shook her head. “I never had to, not really. When I was a kid I cooked, but I couldn’t tell you if what I made was any good or not. In comparison to some of the stuff other people cooked, it was okay I guess. I make a mean breakfast and I can change Hamburger Helper into something edible, but that is about the extent of my skills.”

He chuckled. “And you were giving me a hard time.”

“I never said I could cook,” she pointed out. “I just asked when the last time you had a real meal was.”

He caught her up in his arms. Her body responded immediately. His tongue probed her mouth and her tongue met his, their bodies pushing closer together.

He lifted her up onto the island. His mouth trailed along the exposed flesh of her breasts and then the tank top was gone, pulled over her head and tossed away.

His hands lifted her hips and the shorts and soaked thong fell to the floor. His mouth found her flesh and her hands gripped the counter as his fingers delved between her legs, finding the wetness between her thighs.

Her hands clutched his hair and she lowered herself onto the counter, her legs moving up and back as his clever tongue found the hard bud below her hood and teased it until she was certain she would go mad with desire and need.

His hands stroked her thighs then two fingers entered her. Desire and sensation collided, making her writhe below his touch. His fingers withdrew, spilling her oils, and she cried out as tactile feeling ran through her body: Heat, friction, and the sensation of being filled, but not enough.

His tongue continued to describe slow circles around her clitoris. Her gasps grew long and low. Her eyes fluttered closed then opened again. His breath met her wet flesh, and created a heightened sense of longing and wanting that had her bottom lifting and her hips arching as she sought to get closer to the source of her pleasurable torment.

Her cries rang out in the still kitchen. Her heels banged against the island. She moved closer and closer still to an orgasm, one that would shatter her.

He waited until she was right on the edge and begging for release, then he stood up, undid his pants quickly, and entered her with one long thrust. Her walls took him in, her oils spilling over his heated flesh. Her hands went to his back and her nails scratched deep through the fabric of his shirt.

They moved quickly, neither of them able to wait. The tide swept over them, sending them falling into ecstasy.

His weight pressed her deeper into the hard and unyielding surface of the island. He braced himself on one arm and breathed heavily, then slowly recovered.

Mitch withdrew from her, leaving a thin dribble of his come across her upper thighs. She sat up slowly and with his help. “I think I just set myself up for a really bad joke about dinner there.”

She howled laughter. “If I wanted to do you like that, yeah.”

He helped her down. “Here, let me get you a shower.” He led her to what had to be his bedroom. “I’m going to get us some food. Real food. Help yourself to something to wear if you like.”

She nodded and then walked into the closet. The closet was as big if not bigger than some of the hotel rooms she had lived in over the years. The whole place smelled like his skin and cologne, and she stood in there for a long time, just smelling the scent and letting happiness wash over her.

There were still so many things to think about, though.

Was she going to stay there in Nashville or move on? If she did stay, how was she going to manage seeing Mitch and not getting consumed by him and whatever this thing between them was?

She put all that aside and headed into the shower.

* *

Mitch looked up to see Cara walking back into the kitchen and his heart almost stopped. His cock, however, sprang into immediate life.

She had put on a shirt, a button-down that skimmed the tops of her thighs and made him wonder if she was naked below it. Her hair was wet and shining and her eyes had a sleepy look that was unintentionally and wholly sexy.

He said, “I hope you like steak.”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

His eyes went wide. “You ate chicken.”

“Yeah, I eat chicken and fish.”

“Oh shit.” He stared down at the steaks, now nicely charred. “Um, okay…”

“I’m kidding, Mitch. I used to be vegetarian for a while.”

He heaved a sigh of relief. “What happened?”

“Bacon. It’s what usually happens. Bacon is the demon of vegetarian back-sliders all around the world.” There was a funny little smile on her face, and he had the feeling he was being let in on some kind of inside joke he didn’t really understand and might never.

He said, “I like bacon.” He slid the steaks onto two plates and added a small mound of whipped potatoes and another of glazed carrots. “Before you get too happy about my skills, I order those make-it-yourself dinner boxes. So this was pretty much done before I even got started.”

“It looks great.” She leaned over to sniff the steam rising off the plates and the shirt gaped open to reveal the shadowy outlines of her breasts.

“More than great.”

They took their plates outside to the balcony. The mountains rolled away and the pool made soft susurrating sounds that mingled with the cicadas and the sound of the night birds.

She asked, “Does it usually take all day to make a music video?”

“Sometimes it takes a couple of days. It depends. Lots of people go all out, make what amounts to little mini-movies. I prefer to let the song do the talking, but everyone’s different.”

“I think I’ll pass on doing another one.” She dug into her food with a real appetite. “That was awful.”

He nodded. “There’re plenty of things about the business I can do without. The promoting and the music videos and the constant interviews, I hate them all.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were steady as she asked, “But you love to sing.”

“Man, do I ever.” He took a long sip of his wine. “It’s what drives me, I guess. I love it in a way I can’t even explain. It’s…it’s not something I do because I wanted to be rich or famous. I wanted to sing. I wanted to write songs. I wanted to play guitar and see people singing my words back.”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it. That is exactly how I feel about tattooing. It’s what fuels me. It’s what I love and what I always wanted to do. I don’t know who I would even be if I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“I get that. It scares me. Especially now.”

“Why now?”

He set his fork down and said, “I have writer’s block for real. It’s like, whatever I used to write is gone.”

“Can’t…I mean, don’t a lot of musicians let other people write for them?”

He nodded. “Yes, but that was never me. I don’t mind writing a song with someone, but what I love is putting my own words, thoughts, and feelings into the world and seeing them strike a chord with people. I write songs for other folks all the time and there have been plenty of times when a song I wrote for my own album didn’t make the last cut and went to someone else.” He smiled at her and shrugged. “I know it isn’t terrible. I just don’t want to do it. I feel like I have more to prove now. Maybe more than ever I did before. Even when I was first starting out I didn’t feel like I had so much to prove.”

She set her plate aside and leaned forward. “Is it because you went to L.A., got into acting?”

He nodded. “Yeah, in a way I feel like I betrayed my own roots. I can’t explain it any better than that. I feel like I somehow cheated the people who counted on me by being someone else, even if it was just because it was a job and I did that job well, and I am not ashamed of the work I put in. I just really regret ever having done it at all.”

“I get it.”

He surveyed her face. “Do you?”

“When I first hit Key West I was too scared to tat, so I took a job doing henna tattoos on the beach.”

He pulled a face. “Ouch.”

She picked her wineglass. “Yeah.”

“So you do get it.”

She took a sip of wine and savored it for a moment. “Yeah, I do on so many different levels. It feels like you just betrayed what makes you you.”

“Exactly.” She had hit the nail right on the head. That was exactly how he had felt. He had had misgivings from the start, but the money had been an almost indecent sum, and he had wanted something, he just hadn’t been sure what it was.

Acting, as it turned out, had not been it.

Nor had smoggy, sprawling L.A. He knew plenty of country musicians who had houses out there and who preferred living there to living in Nashville. He wasn’t mad at them. People lived wherever they felt at home, that was all, and L.A. had never felt right to him or for him either.

A thought occurred to him and he asked, “Do you miss it?”

“Henna?”

He chuckled. “No. L.A.”

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t even when I first left it. I thought I might. That I would be homesick or whatever, but I never was.”

“You went to New York, right?”

She nodded and toyed with the stem of her glass. “Yeah, and when I left I thought I would miss it too. But I didn’t. I liked Memphis; it was pretty cool, but I definitely don’t miss it. Maybe I just haven’t found the right place yet.”

His heart hung in his throat. “You should stick around here a while.”

She pushed her glass away. Her eyes met his. “Mitch, I want to date you. I do. But I don’t…I can’t promise you that Nashville is the place for me. I mean, what happens if I decide to move on from here?”

“Then I guess I’ll be traveling a longer distance to take you to dinner.”

The words hung between them. She was right, and he knew it. She couldn’t stay there if it wasn’t where she wanted to be. Nobody should stay in a place they didn’t feel at home.

He watched her and then pressed his lips together before taking a gulp of his wine. “I have a proposition for you.”

She lifted an eyebrow and waited.

“How about you rent my condo? Get to know me and the place at the same time, but still have your own space. You can get a job, and…the truth is I’m pretty busy right now. I have to get an album out. That might take a year or more, and if I don’t start writing soon it might take even longer.”

“I don’t know.” She picked at her nails. “I mean…that place has to be pretty expensive to maintain.”

“No, the fees are really low. It’s Nashville. It’s still reasonable unlike most cities.”

“What if I decide to go?”

He didn’t want her to go. Then or ever. “Then you do. How about we cross that bridge when we get there?”

She nodded. “Okay. Okay I’ll do it.”

Relief filled him. He reached across the table and took her hand. His eyes wandered over the shirt and he said, “I think you need a whole new wardrobe made up of nothing but that kind of shirt.”

She stood and her fingers went to the buttons. The shirt dropped away from her body, revealing satiny skin and firmly toned muscle. “What about this outfit?”

His cock throbbed painfully. “I like that one even better.”

She gave him a roguish smile. “Let’s see if we can actually make it to a bed this time.”

They did. But just barely.