Hot Ink (Paranormal Erotic Romance): Book I (A Walsh Jackson Novel 1) (3 page)

“What’s that?” Bridget asked, placing her hand on his.

“This?” he said, tapping the crescent moon shaped metal. “This is hard to explain.”

She looked at him intently. “Try me.”

“Well, it’s a puzzle piece.”

“And where’s the rest of the puzzle?” she said kissing his neck.

“Ah, that is the question I wish I could answer.”

“Why can’t you answer it?” Bridget kissed his chest and slid her hand between his legs.

Walsh was about to tell her that the vial was the only thing on him when he was found naked and unconscious nearly seven years ago now, but her hand pumping his awakening cock distracted him.

He grabbed her head and pushed her to his mouth as his fingers explored her glistening snatch. Round two had quickly begun, but a vibrating buzz broke their connection.

“Shit!” Bridget sat up, scouring the heap of clothes underneath them. “My phone. It’s probably work.”

Walsh looked at the clock. “It’s 4:00AM. What are you, a baker?”

Bridget didn’t regard him. She was on her feet, gathering her discarded robe and walking down the hall to the changing room.

“Yes?” she answered. “I’m across town. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

The bathroom door closed behind her, and Walsh heard water running and the sound of her muffled voice firing off orders.

“She’s definitely not a baker,” he said to himself.

In the dim light of INK’s changing room, Bridget Ash, FBI Violent Crimes Special Agent in Charge, readied herself for another day’s work. She balanced the phone between her shoulder and cheek and listened to the update from her second in command, ASAC Derrick Furlong.

“More violent crime,” he said. “Must be Tuesday.”

Bridget cared little for Furlong’s brand of work humor. When she held silent on her end of the call, he continued.

“A double homicide across town, at a tattoo shop named Grim’s Reaping Tattoos.”

Bridget’s breath caught. A tattoo shop, probably not unlike the one she was standing in now. Probably not unlike the one where she paid the owner triple rate to ink her in the middle of the night, and probably not unlike the one where she just got fucked senseless in. Apprehension washed over her, and as her mother would say, she began to question her choices. Walsh seemed to be an OK guy, kind, and for the most part professional. But from what she knew about tattoo shops like INK, the crowd was usually hard, and seedy, and generally up to no good. She wondered what Walsh had been up to before he found her last night. His hand had been wrapped and dotted with oozing pink splotches. Where was he coming from? Her mind whirled as she listened to Agent Furlong’s report.

“We’re sending Donaldson’s forensics team,” he said.

Bridget’s mind snapped away from Walsh when she heard Donaldson had been assigned. “No, not him. I want Lamont. He’s the best. And have Local notify the families.”

That’s what being the boss meant. She could change the plan, no questions asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Don’t call me ma'am, Furlong.”

“Sorry, Ash. You know me and protocol.”

Yes, she knew all about Furlong and his love for the rules. That’s why their one and only date ended the way it did, with a handshake, because fraternization was against FBI protocol.

“One more thing,” Furlong added. “Don’t eat breakfast.”

Bridget knew all too well what that meant. After six years in violent crimes, she had seen her fair share of blood and gore, and lost a few lunches along the way. But she was a veteran now, a professional, and walking into a crime scene filled with death was as shocking to her as Miami winter rain.

“I’m on my way,” she said and abruptly ended the call.

Bridget looked in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, floor-fucked, and flew in all directions like it had a mind of its own. In the corner of the dressing room stood a small table with potpourri–strange–and a coffee canister of toiletries. She dug around and found a loose hair band and an unopened bottle of mouthwash. Score. Using the hair band, she fastened her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head and rinsed with mouthwash until she no longer tasted sex.

Her clothes were another matter. The suit was passable, but the blouse looked camped in. Chiffon only ever had one wear in it, she knew that, yet she tried to smooth and straightened it to no avail. She looked around and found a bin of lost and found items and pulled out a white and blue polka-a-dotted scarf. She slipped it over her neck and smoothed it out until she could tuck the edges into the top of her skirt. She then put on her jacket and buttoned it up, something she never did. Satisfied with her reflection in the mirror, she dumped her top in the trash and exited wearing nothing but her bra, a sheer tankini, and a scarf that belonged in her grandmother’s closet.

When she emerged from the changing room, Bridget found Walsh in the leather-couched waiting area holding a coffee pot. He had put on his jeans but poured steaming hot coffee into mugs bare-chested. Sweet and sexy, she thought to herself. She wanted to stay, wanted to linger awhile, sip coffee and see wherever that took them, but Furlong was waiting and that meant he was waiting for a chance to take the reins.

Walsh looked twice when he noticed her. Was the put together version of herself so different than the Bridget he met last night? He padded over to her and delivered what was probably the first of many coffees of that day.

“Thanks,” she said. She took it and breathed in its rich aroma. “Smells good.”

“You cook?” she asked, motioning to the Kiss the Cook painted on his mug.

Walsh chuckled. “No. My wife, ex-wife actually.”

And there it was, the reality of people with lives. Of course he had an ex-wife, he probably had a girlfriend, or two. Just look at him. What did she have? A 24/7 job as FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Violent Crimes section, an antisocial cat, and a bookcase full of half-read books.

The air between them grew thick then. He looked at her, and scratched his head as if searching for the right words in his scruffy red hair. She took another sip then placed the mug on the table in front of them. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Time to make the donuts.”

He laughed, and she saw how his eyes stayed on her.

“Can I see you again?” he asked. He slid a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, and without a belt, she could almost see his pubic bone.

“Don’t you have to see me again?” she said. “You know, to finish my tat.”

“Right.” Relief washed over his face. “Maybe we should book that follow up now?”

In that moment, restlessness washed over her again. It was the same feeling she had when she left her downtown office last night, like a frightened bird trapped indoors. The urge to flee swelled inside her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him again, she most certainly did. She just didn’t know when, or how, or if there would ever be another right time to follow her abandon again.

“I’ve got your card.” She lied, but it didn’t matter. She knew how to find him.

“Sure. OK. Cool,” was all that Walsh said. He reached out and lightly hugged her, careful not to bother the healing ink. She hugged him back, and for a moment in his arms, her chest filled in a way that she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“What do I owe you?” she asked, digging through her jacket pocket.

“No, please,” Walsh said, waving his hands in front of her. “We’ll settle up when I’m finished.”

She hesitated, wanting to protest, but thought better of it. She had to give him something to chew on and if her return was that bone, then so be it. “You have a deal,” she said. She turned on her heels and hurried out the door, stepping into the new dawn light without looking back.

Four

Bridget met Connie Winslow on the corner of 147th Street and Hammock Boulevard. Connie was a great field agent, and an even better friend when she needed one.

The government issued black SUV rolled to a stop and Bridget got in. "Thanks," she said.

“No problem,” Connie said. A grin spread across her face. “Your gun and badge are in the glove box.”

Bridget retrieved her forgotten items. “Anyone notice?”

“Not at all."

They drove a few blocks in silence.

“So where did you end up last night?” Connie asked, the suspense clearly killing her.

“What makes you think I ended up anywhere of interest?”

"Well, I left at 11:00PM and you were still at the office. And now you're way across town without your gun and badge. That makes me think you ended up in a place of interest.”

Bridget removed her jacket and eased the leather holster over her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Connie notice her back.

“Jesus, Bridge, what happened?” Connie’s eyes darted between the road and the bandage covering her lower back, trying to get a better glimpse.

"Don't ask."

“You got a tattoo!” Connie said.

“What makes you think it’s a tattoo, of all things?” Bridget knew Connie was not going to let this rest.

“Well, you either have some major rug burn, or a new tattoo, wild thing.”

Wild was not an adjective people used to describe her. Professional. Hard working. Punctual. Dependable. Bridget was all of those, but wild–no. Momentarily overcome with hysterical reckless abandon, but far from wild. She wondered if Walsh Jackson, tattoo artist extraordinaire, thought of her as untamed. What would feral look like to a man who lived on the edge? She shook the thought of him away. It wasn’t that she regretted last night, but reality looked clearer in the daylight. He was a tattoo artist in Richmond Heights, and she was an FBI Special Agent in Charge who had worked her whole life to become the youngest SAC in FBI history. What could they really have in common other than one hot steamy night?

When Connie and Bridget arrived at Grim’s Reaping Tattoos, they found the crime scene riddled with flashing lights and police tape. Bridget spotted ASAC Furlong talking to local Miami PD officers. He was a good Assistant SAC, one of the best agents in the field, but she knew he was gunning for her job. When she joined them, Furlong looked surprised to find Bridget there at all.

“What do we have?” she asked him.

Furlong stayed at her side as they entered the shop. “Two Caucasians, one male, one female. And-”

Bridget gasped at what she found: the victims were strapped to the tattoo chairs. Pools of blood encircled them, but that was the least horrid part of the scene.

“Double decapitation,” Furlong added.

The forensics team already fast at work, snapped photos of the crime scene. Flash, pop, flash, pop, went the camera bulbs. Shivers went through her.

Murdered people laid out on chairs not unlike what she herself had sat in only a few hours ago. She gazed at the victims’ heavily tattooed bodies, noting the color and lines. The man was heavy set and had every inch of his chest and arms covered with ink. The woman, also bare-chested, her pert breasts lay fully exposed on her light olive skin. The ink on her was more controlled, less of an intricate pattern and more of a selection of taste. She stared at the woman’s arms in particular. The green and blue design there, it was familiar to her in a way she did not yet understand. Without thinking, she took a few steps toward the bodies for a better look, but Furlong held out his arm to stop her. She had almost stepped in evidence, the pooled blood, without realizing it. A first.

He leaned in, whispering something that only she could hear. “Are you OK, Ash?”

She knew what his words really meant; the agent who never makes a mistake nearly contaminated a crime scene, and that he had saved the day. Jerk.

“I’m fine, Furlong,” she lied. “I wanted to get a better look at their ink. Maybe it’s meaningful to the case.”

Furlong motioned for Lamont, the head of Forensics. In his sterile-white collection suit, Lamont inched his way around the blood to where they stood.

“We’ve haven’t been able to locate the victims heads yet, ma'am,” he said.

“Interesting,” Furlong said. “Should we call in Brent from Serials?”

Bridget held a finger to her lips. Without locating the victim’s severed heads at the crime scene, Furlong probably wasn’t the only one in the room thinking serial killer. Keeping tokens was the calling card for collectors. There was the staging of the victims, the way the pool of blood seemed to be an attraction rather than a symptom of the crime. The signs were all there–Miami had a new serial killer, but something gnawed at her.

“Got any shots of the wound area?” she asked Lamont.

“Yeah.” He showed Bridget and Furlong the photos on his camera disk, the pictures that showed the points on the bodies where the head was removed. The precision of the cut looked so clean and skilled, yet something seemed off.

“Might be a good idea, Furlong,” she said. “But let’s wait for the labs. Let me know, Lamont, when you’ve got something.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lamont said, returning to his collection duty.

“Do we know their identity yet?” she asked Furlong, who clearly looked ticked off over the Serials block. He’ll get over it, she thought to herself. He always does.

“We believe the man is the owner, Bob Grim, and the woman is possibly his wife, but we won’t know anything until the DNA comes back.”

“Is there any next of kin?”

“Local is checking on that now.”

“Let me know what they find out. I’d like to interview them personally.”

Bridget took in the scene once more: the lifeless bodies, the blood, the ink, all of it. She recognized the gruesomeness, the cull of brutality. She had seen it hundreds of times in countless cities all over the country. Yet here, today, looking at these victims, she felt her skin tighten in a sickening way.

Without another word, Bridget removed herself from the crime scene. She brushed past her detail, avoiding their looks, ignoring their questions, and pressed on toward the double-parked SUV. Connie was at wheel; she had kept the motor running. Bridget quickened her stride. The press circuit had assembled at the bakeshop across the street. It was her job to speak to them. If she left now, Furlong would get the hit of limelight. It might be too much for him; she’d have to keep one eye looking over her shoulder from now until the end of time. Bridget stopped at the curb. Her mind went blank and the waking city around her roared in her ears.