Authors: Lexy Timms
Heart of a Tattooist: Dark Romance MC Club Alpha Bad Boy Obsession (Tattooist Series Book 3)
Heart of a Tattooist
Tattooist Series #3
By Lexy Timms
Copyright 2016 Lexy Timms
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners
.
All rights reserved.
Copyright 2016 by Lexy Timms
Book Trailer:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5w9Vi5yW3Yc
Confession of a Tattooist
Book 1
US:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01BQYYMCK
UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01BQYYMCK
Surrender the Tattooist
Book 2
Us:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01C827TKQ
UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01C827TKQ
Book 3
Heart of a Tattooist
US:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01C7UW3QO
UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01C7UW3QO
Book 4
Hopes & Dreams of a Tattooist
Lexy Timms Newsletter:
Lexy Timms Facebook Page:
https://www.facebook.com/SavingForever
Amazon Page:
http://www.amazon.com/Lexy-Timms/e/B00HZ3O3QW
Lexy Timms Website:
Heart of a Tattooist – Book 3 Tattooist Series
Legendary tattooist Cara Van Tear is a woman used to running from trouble, and love. Sexy country superstar Mitch Rider is a man used to getting what he wants. And he’s decided he wants Cara.
Only the trouble Cara is running from this time is far more dangerous… it’s deadly. She’s about to tumble headlong into the one love she can’t walk away from. Except she might not be alive long enough to tell Mitch how she feels.
Memphis in May meant the music festival and more than the usual number of tourists. Blues City Tattoos was tucked into a strip of crowded stores and high-end hotels all crowded cheek to jowl with bars, barbecue restaurants, and souvenir shops.
On the sidewalks young men performed astonishing flips and rolls to applause and then passed their hats around to the crowds.
Musicians bucked up and down the street. One on side was a black man wearing an impeccable three-piece suit and tie, sharp fedora, and shined shoes, blowing sweet jazz from his saxophone.
Across the street a young woman wearing torn jeans and a red halter slid her fingers along the neck of her Fender Strat to ring a shivering and stirring riff made even more incredible by her deft use of ten-finger tapping. Her hair—a razored pixie cut—was dyed a pure platinum color that looked nearly silver under the bright sunlight.
Young bearded men with acoustic instruments serenaded couples and sang snatches of popular love songs to the pretty girls walking by in their tight shorts and tops, bare skin exposed to the Memphis heat and sun. An older man fiddled his way down the block. The scent of roasted meat, fried potatoes, and beer hung in the thick and humid air.
Cara walked down the street, nimbly dodging drunken tourists and the less savory people, those who were looking for a pocket to pick.
Bobby, the man who walked beside her, said, “Damn, Cara, I still can’t believe you live downtown. It’s dangerous as hell you know.”
She gave him an amused glance. Bobby was in his late-fifties and worked next door to the tattoo shop. He frequently stopped in to invite her to lunch with him. She’d said no at first, figuring he was just hitting on her, but it soon became apparent that he was just lonely. His wife of twenty-one years had passed away a few years back, before Cara came to Memphis to tattoo in the shop right there on Beale. Now he acted as something like a surly father figure to her, and she laughed as she said, “All cities are dangerous, Bobby.”
He nodded, “Oh, I know. But we just got a terrible rating. Most dangerous small city in the country. Most of the crime happens here…”
“Because tourists, beer, and bad decisions make for easy targets,” she pointed out dryly. “I’m not denying that it’s hardly the bulk of the crime, and yes the crime rate here sucks total balls, but I like where I live.”
She did. It had a funky flavor. The bars were always busy, the people always friendly—or so drunk they didn’t know how to be mean, which equaled the same thing as far as she was concerned—and the weather was nearly always stunningly beautiful.
Memphis was far grittier than dignified and self-congratulating L.A. It was also far grittier than New York. The people on Memphis’ streets weren’t concerned with high fashion for the most part. They dressed for the heat, or the cold. They loved vintage band tee shirts and cut-offs. Flip flops were bought at any number of stores and the ones littering the sidewalks were like badges of honor. The saying “I walked my shoes off” had a real meaning in Memphis.
The music scene was phenomenal, and the business she got was brisk.
She was happy.
Or at least she was happier.
Seeing Cliff again, knowing he was okay, had gone a long way toward making her happier.
Or maybe it had just resigned her to the fact that she had fucked up the one good relationship she’d ever managed to have.
Bobby interrupted her train of thought. “You working late? I got an extra ticket to the festival. Joan Jett’s playing again this year.”
“I’m sorry, Bobby. I’ve got to work late. But you know who isn’t?”
His face colored. She grinned evilly. He stuttered out, “Oh, now that would be a real date, but it still feels too soon.”
“Too soon?” she frowned. “Bobby, give the woman a break. She’s so crazy about you she hangs out in the door of the bakery and practically hurls beignets at your thick head every morning. One day maybe she’ll throw an old biscuit, hit you between the eyes, and knock some sense right into you.”
Bobby chuckled. “Wow, that’s pretty harsh.”
They reached the entrance to the tattoo shop and she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Ask Lila out and quit being silly.” She ducked inside the shop to see tourists milling around, most of them sweating out beer or drooping toward the floor. They didn’t tattoo the noticeably drunk; it was a house rule so she sidestepped a few frat boys with a smile and a quick, “Come back when you’re a little soberer, guys. The boss would kill me if I gave you some ink right now.”
She went into her little work station, sighing with relief when a blast from the air conditioner hit her face. She started checking through the schedule; she had nothing custom today and so she had to try to make something out of the small crowd gathered out there.
Sighing impatiently, she headed back out into the front. She scanned the potential customers. One man, a bit older but still in his twenties, saw her and said, “Hey! Cara Van Tear! Are you busy?”
“Not at the moment; what can I do you for?”
He lifted his shirt to reveal a colorful series of tats on his back. She listened intently as he explained what he would like added to the back piece then she went to the desk, took out a small bit of paper and a pencil, and quickly sketched out the design.
“Is that about it?”
He leaned close, his elbow jostling against her breast. She froze. It wasn’t uncommon, and sometimes it was even an accident. He didn’t seem to have noticed that he had done it and he said, “Yeah, about like that. Maybe a little more detailed here and there, like some more lines around the edges.”
She sketched what he requested.
He straightened and smiled. “Exactly!”
“I can make a quick stencil of it and add it; do you have an idea of what colors you want?”
He nodded. His eyes raked over her face and body, a quick assessment that left her gritting her teeth. “I do. Could you do me today?”
“Sure.” The shop had been busy but today it seemed it had just brought mostly wandering tourists more interested in escaping the heat than actually buying anything. “It’d take about two hours. That means standard custom rates.”
He nodded. “I figured as much. What’s the rate for you?”
She didn’t like the slow insinuation she heard in his voice. Or did she hear anything at all? Her gut said yes but she knew she was often far too sensitive. “One-fifty.”
“Cool.”
She waited. He didn’t say anything else. She asked, “You want to get started?”
His eyes crawled over her again.
She’d stopped wearing corsets and leather the minute she hit Memphis. The humidity made her usual attire wildly improbable. It had also meant she had to stop wearing her signature smoky eye and red lip because by the end of the day she often looked like a clown someone had run over. It was time for a fresh start.
The jeans and tank she wore didn’t show much, but she felt naked. Her sixth sense kicked in again, telling her to cut the guy loose, and fast. He was trouble and she knew it. She sensed it, and her gut was hardly ever wrong.
But her feelings didn’t pay the rent or buy groceries. Her gut was not going to supply her with a much-needed car either.
Despite her protests to Bobby, Cara was horrifyingly aware of just how dangerous Memphis was. She walked to work and home every day and, while it was not far, she often felt nervous. She tried to keep her working hours aligned with the busiest tourist hours, and while she loved Memphis for its grit and down-home vibe she didn’t intend to be another of its statistics.
She had to have a car to move further away from the crime-ridden city and to get back and forth to work. However, before she could buy a car she had to have money.
Years of living in high-cost cities had drained her financially, and she knew Memphis was the place where she might, finally, be able to put together a little nest egg.
First she had to make sure she had enough money just to get through the days.
She said, “Okay, then, if you’ll follow me.” She walked with her hips held tightly in check and her back straight, making herself as deliberately non-sexy as she could. She had no doubt that he was going to hit on her.
It was going to be a long two hours.
* *
She was not even fifteen minutes into the drawing when the trouble started. He was lying face down on her table and she was bent over him. She had just applied the stencil when he reached up and casually planted one hand between her legs and squeezed, painfully.
Cara yelped. Then she saw red.
He lifted his head and shot her an apologetic smile. “Oh, sorry, I was reaching up to see the stencil sheet.”
The hell he was! She had just taken it off his back and he had known that.
Resentment boiled along her nerve endings. This was not uncommon. She was a woman in a man’s world and many a man thought he could take advantage of her. She fought back her temper and said, “No problem. Just ask for it next time.” The guy was bloody asking for it in her opinion.
She went and got her gloves and ink gun. She set the ink and then she dropped the needles onto him.
He cried out in pain.
Cara said sweetly, “Sorry, I thought I had that set on a three. Must have gone pretty deep.” She dialed the gun back and then she went to work.
She had been following the outlines for about half an hour when he turned his neck so he could look at her. “You sure are hot as hell.”
“Everyone’s hot, it’s Memphis. It’s 105 out there today if it’s anything.” She hoped the neutral tone and reply would squash it.
It did. Or so she thought.
He didn’t speak again until the tat was done. He let her bandage him and then got off the table.
Her door was partly open but he blocked it with his body. She narrowed her eyes.
He stared evenly at her. “I don’t think you did a good job.”
“Why don’t we let my boss decide?” she replied coolly. “You know the policy. If the customer wants custom and has the artist draw it out and approves it, then says no, the owner inspects the tat to find out what’s wrong or lacking. There’s no refusing to pay here. You know this. I did your tat right.” She was good and confident about it.
He let his hand drop to the buttons of his jeans in a meaningful way. “I also know you could get bounced for a complaint like that. But maybe we could work it out right here between us.”
“No.” Her voice was cold. Inside she was fuming. She should have gone with her gut.
“You do know I’m Big Jerry’s nephew?”
Big Jerry. The dude who ran the meanest motorcycle club in the city. They were into drugs, guns, and prostitution. “I don’t give a fuck if Satan’s your uncle. You got that tat and you’re paying for it.”
“You think?” His eyes were shining with rage. “You’ve got another think coming.”
“Let’s see then.”
She was tired. So damn tired. There were security cameras in her room, like there were in everyone’s, but she let her hands wander over to her phone and hit the recorder button. She stared evenly at him. “So you’re telling me that you’re Big Jerry’s nephew and that if I don’t let you walk out of here with two hours of custom work for free…”
“And a blowjob. You’re blowing me too, just for being an insolent bitch.”
Cara pressed her lips tight. “I have a better idea.”
He sneered at her, “Yeah? What is it?”
She smiled and put a little strut in her hips. Well, at least all those years of karate and self-defense classes would come in handy for something.
She hit him so hard in his balls that he didn’t double over so much as deflate then she snatched one arm and hiked it way up into the middle of his back, bellowing for John, the owner, to get in there while her customer fought and writhed to no avail.
“Stop fighting,” Cara advised him. “You’re going to break your own arm!” She pushed him to the floor as she spoke, figuring that would help quash the situation and cool him out. Unfortunately, it didn’t.
“Wait until I get up from here, bitch!”
John came, along with two other guys who worked there. John saw the man on the floor and said, “Whoa, Cara, we have a long-standing arrangement with Big Jerry…”
“Does it include me having to blow this little bastard?” Her eyes met John’s squarely.
John said, “No, but that doesn’t matter.”
Now she was really pissed. “It doesn’t matter? He tried to force me to not only let him walk with my work but to stick his nasty dick in my mouth, and you’re telling me that doesn’t matter?”
“Let it rest, Cara.” John’s voice was hard. “Let Junior, there, up too.”
“Okay, cool. So you’re just going to let him walk on me?”
“Yes.” John’s eyes were steady. Junior, the little coward, lay there face-down on the floor, cursing and calling her every name in the book.
Cara threw his arm. “Okay, he can go. But he isn’t taking my ink with him.”
Her foot stayed right on his back, right below that fresh ink and pressed deeply into the sensitive bundle of nerves right above his buttocks. She knew how much it hurt, and she also knew that until she moved her foot he was essentially paralyzed. Her hand went to a large bottle of peroxide.