Inked Magic (10 page)

S
eeing her act like a cat in heat had made him angry. It sickened him, the way she’d let herself be touched like a whore.

The beautiful gold surrounding her had darkened then turned ugly with streaks of red and blue when she and the blond-haired man kissed. It had made him queasy, looking at them together.

He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth to keep from doing what he knew he shouldn’t
do.

The blond-haired man was going back in the same direction he’d come from. In a minute he would cross the street. If the van hit him, then the man would never be able to touch her again.

“She’s not your choice yet,” he whispered in the darkness, rocking harder and not stopping until the man was out of sight.

C
athal leaned against the bar, surveying his domain. Despite it being a Monday night, the club was packed. Wealthy tourists occupied as many tables as the regulars, and beautiful, long-legged waitresses hurried to keep up with drink orders.

Onstage five brothers performed, two of them singing a perfect duet, their sound a great blend of folk and rock delivered with passion. The talent and the turnout should have left him satisfied, instead he felt almost as edgy as when he’d arrived at Saoirse.

He didn’t need to wonder at the reason. Etaín.

His fingers tightened on the glass in his hand, a defensive move to keep from reaching for his phone. Behind him, the bartender asked, “Get you another drink?”

Cathal glanced down, frowning when he saw only ice cubes. “No.”

He refused to anesthetize himself with alcohol, though given the number of times his drink had already been refreshed tonight, he suspected passing out might be what finally stopped his thoughts from repeatedly returning to Etaín. He wanted her and he wasn’t used to having a woman say
not tonight
.

Looking away from the stage he scanned the room, seeking a distraction. There were plenty to choose from, some natural feminine forms, and others sculpted in expensive Swiss clinics by doctors who made a fortune creating perfection and hiding the effects of age.

A blonde caught his attention, and held it long enough for her to meet his eyes. Pouty red lips promised oblivion though they didn’t inspire him enough to push from the bar and go to her.

When it became obvious he wouldn’t, she leaned in, saying something to the women sitting at the table with her before rising and coming to him. “Dance?” she asked, her voice smoky and purposefully alluring.

“Why not.”

He placed a hand at the base of her spine and guided her toward an area rapidly filling with couples attracted by the slow ballad.

“I’m Trina,” she said, slipping easily into his arms, her lush body pressed to his as if they were already lovers.

“Cathal.”

His cock stirred but didn’t harden fully until he closed his eyes to savor the music and the sensation, and the woman in his arms became Etaín. Desire returned with throbbing insistency then, a demand to fuck and find release.

She made a purring sound of pleasure at the obvious interest pressed to the juncture of her thighs and belly. But when the song ended and
he opened his eyes, she became Trina again, and he knew he wouldn’t take this any further despite her sultry smile and sensuous clinging.

His pride and personal code prevented it. He wouldn’t take what she offered while pretending she was someone else.

He wanted Etaín. Tomorrow he’d call her. He’d have her.

E
taín rode, sticking to city streets until she crossed the Bay Bridge. Then she headed for the darkness of canyons, places that seemed a world away, roads close, and yet remote enough that people could live a lifetime in Oakland and never be aware of them.

Occasionally she glimpsed headlights behind her. But a car wasn’t a match for the bike and soon there was no light but what the moon and stars provided.

Keep going
, the phantom voice of her mother whispered.
Leave and re-create yourself somewhere else.

Too late for that
, she silently replied, and why should she listen to the woman who’d abandoned her?

She gunned the Harley. Letting speed and curvy roads force her mind to quiet, to consume her attention until finally fatigue settled around her, threatening to become a shroud unless she slowed down and went home. She made her way to the apartment, parking then climbing the stairs to the studio above the garage.

Enough light streamed in from the streetlamps, passing through open blinds, that she could navigate through the tiny space. She took a shower in the cool anonymity of darkness, soaping her hands and sliding them over skin.

Cathal’s image came first, bringing heat along with his erotic threat. Then Eamon’s, bringing temptation and the fantasy of having them both.

She touched her nipples, grasped them, remembering the feel of Cathal’s hand, the torment of Eamon’s. Fatigue retreated as one hand slid downward, between her thighs, rubbing, stroking her clit, dipping
into her slit as her fingers became a substitute for Eamon’s tongue, for Cathal’s cock.

Cathal and Eamon, neither of them dominated when it came to imagining herself beneath them, above them, between them in a tangle of arms and legs.

The hot water struck her skin and streamed downward, licking over her and heightening sensation as her breathing quickened and she found a small measure of relief.

She needed more. The pressure was building inside her from too much ink, too much touching—and yet, conversely, not enough touching.

Leaving the shower, she dried skin that felt too tight, as if it would split away and spill out who she was at her core.
I chose this
, she reminded herself.
I decided to stay in one place
.

Thoughts of Eamon intruded as she dried her hair, tempting her not only with pleasure, but with the possibility of answers. At a cost. Everything always came at a cost. And his?

Resistance rippled through her. Rebellion, as she remembered passing through the doorway of Aesirs into a place where the rich and powerful felt at home. A place the captain and his wife probably frequented.

She turned away from the mirror, blocking thoughts of the man she still thought of as Dad in unguarded moments, with contemplations of Cathal. It didn’t bother her he was comfortable at Aesirs. Maybe because his public kisses and possessive touches had proven he was a man who dared to do what he wanted, openly and without worry about censure. Maybe because underneath the potent masculine charm and expensive clothing, there was a raw edge of suppressed emotion.

She pulled on a tank top and boxers then left the bathroom, no longer able to avoid or delay. There were tablets and pencils on a worktable, on the counter separating what served as a kitchen from the rest of the room, on the floor next to the mattress she slept on.

She lay down and finally let her mind go back to the one place in
her day she didn’t want to revisit, the hospital room and the woman left barely alive by the Harlequin Rapist. There was no point in willing Tyra’s memories forward, they would come regardless. And though she wanted to sleep, a part of her fought it in an instinctive reaction to the horror waiting for her there.

It seemed like she lay on the mattress for hours before slowly succumbing, scenes passing through her mind, a montage of images, carnal and poignant and somber. Glimpses into other people’s lives that were like looking into a shallow pool, reflections in ink, not stolen existence.

Salina with a girlfriend. Holding a leash attached to a collar.

Kelli saying goodbye to her daughter at an airport. Tears streaming down her face. Fear instead grief. Worry instead of regret.

Cathal in a hospital room with a teenage girl. That same girl lying glassy-eyed in a bedroom with posters on the wall, movie and rock stars. Cathal at a funeral.

Some small part of her sleeping consciousness recognized when the images stopped being random pictures caught in an accidental stream, and became instead memories to be secured behind mental barriers, because they were taken, possessed. They were Tyra Nelson’s thoughts and perceptions, her reality.

The faces of rock stars and teen idols slid easily from bedroom walls onto the covers of magazines, a disorganized mess in a convenience store bringing a surge of irritation at having to straighten them for the tenth time since starting work.

She’d be glad to leave this job behind. It was one aggravation after another, and on top of it, now she had to worry about the walk home and the rapist loose in the Bay Area.

Not that there weren’t plenty of rapists out there. She knew that firsthand. But this guy was worse than a drunk uncle or the men who didn’t think
no
applied to them. This guy was scary psycho and deserved to be put down by a bullet. Death by lethal injection was too good for him.

I need to buy some pepper spray
. It was a good thing she already had the knife. It’d saved her a couple of times.

With a sigh she crouched down in front of the magazine rack, her knees cracking and her back aching from being on her feet all day.
Just be glad for the job.
Times are tough. Bad enough there are teachers in line at the food bank. Job didn’t pay shit but it was better than being on the streets.

Been there, done that, and managed to get off them. Managed to survive a few months of turning tricks before that crazy john scared her straight with his fists and his gun.

Eight months clean and every day she was getting stronger. Praise the Lord.

Magazines straightened, she stood in time to see the bitch fucking the manager walk in, a smirk on her face as she pulled a bag of chips off the rack and opened it, then snagged a soda, like she owned the place and everything was hers for the taking.

“Time for you to punch out. Overtime eats up the profits.”

It’s not the only thing doing it. And trust me, I’d like to do some punching.

She held the words back, biting her tongue to keep them inside. Didn’t pay to make waves. Didn’t pay to let some slut piece of trash get under her skin.

She had her GED now. Come fall she’d start taking classes at the community college. One step at a time and she’d get where she wanted to be.

Her stomach growled but damned if she’d give back a single penny to this place. She punched out, grabbing a jacket and leaving without saying anything.

A taxi went by, not a common sight in this neighborhood. She thought about trying to flag it down or going back in and calling for one, but didn’t. The ride home would chew up the money she needed to buy minutes for her cell phone.

If she had a mind to splurge, better to detour a couple blocks and
hit the McD’s. She decided to go for it, practically inhaling the double cheeseburger in the parking lot and nursing the Coke for as long as she could as she walked, one hand tucked into her pocket, curled around the knife like it was a lucky charm piece.

The streets were deserted. For once she wished the gang bangers were hanging out like usual.

A car backfired and she jumped like it was a gun going off next to her. Fear surged through her. She needed to get home. Better still, the police needed to do their damn job and catch that serial rapist.

She stayed vigilant, aided by enough Coca-Cola in her system to make her bladder feel like a balloon just about ready to pop. If she didn’t hurry up and get home, she was going to have a different problem to worry about.

Turning the corner led to another deserted street, quiet except for a few barking dogs and the caterwauling of some old tom. She heard muted music, mostly a beating vibration.

Along the curb, cars were parked practically on top of each other, bumpers nearly kissing. She noticed a van, black, like a hundred others she saw in a day. It looked empty but she wasn’t taking any chances.

She didn’t need a rapist on the loose to know how easy it was for some pervert to pull you into a van. It didn’t even need to be dark for that to happen. Only a couple of weeks ago a ten-year-old girl was snatched on her way home from school.

She gave the van wide berth, congratulating herself on her street smarts; a second later her survival instinct kicked in.

Too late she realized she had swerved close to where a man was waiting. He was on her before she could scream, a gloved hand over her mouth and something pressed to her neck. Taser.

She lost control of her muscles and hot piss flowed down her legs, shaming her despite the terror pounding through her. The helpless feel of it carrying her back to the first time her uncle came around when she was home alone.

A piece of cloth was stuffed into her mouth. It tasted like dish soap. Another was put on top of it, tied off to make a second gag before a bag went over her head.

Her wrists were bound last, behind her back, just as control of her muscles was coming back and she might have been able to pull the knife and fight for her life.

She heard the slide of the van door opening, whisper-soft, like he was trying to hide it. Hope flickered to life. He wouldn’t care what she heard if he intended to kill her.

I can survive this. I WILL survive this.

She struggled as he lifted and carried her. It didn’t do any good but she wasn’t going to give up. She wouldn’t ever lie down and be a victim again.

Within steps he’d dumped her into the trunk of a car and slammed it closed. Terror surged into her at having been wrong about thinking the quiet van door meant something.

The engine came to life. In the tight confines of the cramped space, the acrid smell of pee and rubber and carpet sliced through the sack over her head.

She fought to get her hands in front of her. Prayed to the God she’d abandoned in childhood but found again in NA meetings.

Her heart tried to claw its way up her throat. She felt like she was suffocating.

Panic lent urgency to her struggles. She managed to dislodge the hood and rub away the gag. It took longer to dislodge the cloth stuffed into her mouth.

She gulped air, only barely stifling the urge to scream because all it would do was alert her captor. They were traveling fast, like they were on a freeway. No one was going to hear her now.