Inked on Paper (10 page)

And I definitely liked where this was headed.

Chapter Sixteen

Jake

Sunday morning

I stared at the notebook on the desk in front of me while I stretched my fingers and shook out my hands. This writing thing was a hell of a lot harder than I remembered. Much easier to type the words than handwrite them.

My eyes slid over to the clock sitting on the corner of my desk.

Three o’clock in the morning.

How about that?

I’d been writing and rereading for a solid two hours. And as I skimmed the first chapter once more through blurry eyes, I knew I could keep going but wasn’t sure I could stay awake enough to make sense. Instead, I flipped back to the first page.

Kora and Donovan. Even after the first chapter, I knew this couple was going to be explosive. I definitely was on to something here. Scorned woman, white knight, who didn’t love that shit?

However, I didn’t want to get too far ahead of myself, even if I was fairly certain I’d broken through the block. The pessimist in me tacked on,
even if it was potentially only temporary
.

My thoughts drifted back to the coral-haired woman with the sweet smile and stormy eyes. Presley Abrams. The woman I’d loosely based Kora on. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I was fairly certain I’d found my muse. She was sexy, smart, independent. Beautiful. Did I mention sexy?

And I couldn’t seem to get her out of my head.

I’d hated sneaking off last night without saying good-bye to Presley, but I’d had no choice. One, I’d realized that word had gotten out on the social media sites that I was out and about in downtown Austin because my cell phone had been blowing up with notifications, which would ultimately bring more people. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to mingle with the readers, but I really was a private person. I didn’t do well in those situations.

And two, I’d had the urge to write. So, when that impulse had taken over and I’d realized it was late, I had known then that I would be up most of the night. While Presley had been otherwise occupied with a customer, I had nodded to Gavin before leaving, then hurried back to my condo, making coffee and settling in my office shortly thereafter.

During the walk back, I had mentally prepared an outline for the new work I’d just come up with. Once I was in my office, I’d utilized the white board and mapped it out, spending time noting physical descriptions of characters, potential scenes, the hows and whys. Basically, the story arc.

Once I’d jotted all of that down, I’d jumped right into the words. Now, roughly five hours and one and a half pots of coffee after I’d left Presley back in that booth, a story board created, and a little more than a thousand words written—not even a fraction of my personal best—I knew I needed a break, but was scared to walk away from my desk.

What if my muse left before I was finished with her? Did I really want to leave Kora and Donovan hanging like that? There was still so much about them I didn’t know yet. And yes, I was referring to fictional characters, a couple of imaginary people I would get to know extremely well in the coming weeks. I hoped.

I shrugged my shoulders to ease some of the tension there.

Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes and thought of Presley. Wondered if I’d ever get the chance to see her again. Twice in a week by sheer chance seemed almost as though the universe had set that little plan in motion, but I wasn’t about to get too excited.

Seemed the procrastinating devil on my shoulder had turned into a pessimist as well.

The only reason I’d walked away without asking for her number was the simple fact that I knew I would see Gavin again. Shit, I could walk next door and probably see him now if I wanted. And since the two of them were friends, I figured my chances of finding Presley had improved exponentially.

“Meow.”

I peered over at Cat. “I know,” I told him. “It’s late. I should sleep.”

“Meow.”

I glanced down at the notebook, then over at my laptop.

Lifting the lid, I made the screen come to life, then entered my password and typed
Presley Abrams
into the Google search bar just for the hell of it. I hadn’t expected to get any hits back, but what I found had my eyes widening. I clicked on the first link, which took me to a website.
Her
website.

She was a tattoo artist. Interesting.

And hot.

Sitting there, I peered through the various pictures of her work. She wasn’t merely beautiful; the woman was incredibly talented. Damn. The sketches, as well as the tattoos, were phenomenal.

“Shit.” I sat back and looked at Cat, who had curled up beside the laptop. “I think my muse is a helluva lot more complex than I originally thought.”

“Meow.”

“Glad we agree.”

I looked at the screen, noticed an
about
section. I clicked on the link.

A photograph of Presley—professionally done, with her sporting what I assumed was her natural blonde hair color—appeared on the screen, along with a short bio.

Presley Abrams has been tattooing since she was eighteen years old, ever since her best friend taught her how to wield the gun. She’s been professionally inking people for seven years, currently working at Different by Design, a well-known shop in Austin, Texas.

Not only is Presley an award-winning tattoo artist who has inked hundreds of tattoos, she’s also a sought-after tattoo model, sporting ink by some of the industry’s greats.

Tattoo model?

“Fuck me, Cat. I think I’ve got some more work to do.”

I got to my feet, carried my empty coffee cup to the kitchen, and stuck it in the dishwasher, then returned to the windows in the living room overlooking downtown Austin. The streets below had quieted, not as many cars or people weaving their way through the congested city. As I stared out, I wondered what Presley was doing right that moment. Did she live close? Or did she drive in to the city? How old was she? The article said she’d started tattooing at eighteen and had been doing it professionally for seven years. Did that mean she was twenty-five? Or was there training involved?

Surely there was training. Yeah, I got that the artistic ability had to be there, but…

I turned back around and went to my office, leaning down to peer at the screen.

Different by Design.

I highlighted the link, then did a Google search.

Hmm. Just down the road from me.

Maybe it was time for me to get another tattoo.

Well, not tonight, of course. I was too damn tired for that. Not to mention, I’d have to give some thought as to what I wanted. I had a few tats already, like the backpiece that had taken me nearly a year to have completed due to the intricate detail, as well as the sleeve on my left arm.

At least it was something to think about.

And more importantly, now I knew I would definitely have the opportunity to see Presley Abrams again.

“All right, Cat. Time to call it a night,” I called out as I flipped off the lights in my office, glancing once more at the notebook on my desk before the room went dark. “We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

Chapter Seventeen

Presley

Lying on my bed, I stared out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars in the sky above. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done in the city thanks to the air pollution, which meant my nighttime view wasn’t as great as the Realtor had promised it would be.

Not that there was anything I could do about that now.

I’d been lying here for at least an hour, doing my best to sleep, but to no avail. I was pretty sure I’d nodded off once, maybe twice, but had woken when I heard the front door open, slamming into the wall.

My first clue that Gil was home had been the not-so-sexy squeal from the unknown woman who was accompanying him. I couldn’t even count how many different versions of, “Oh, Gil,” I had heard over the two years that I’d lived with him.

I cringed, rolling my eyes and mouthing the words the woman had moaned only minutes ago. “Oh, Gil, yes. Keep doing that.”

Why hadn’t I thought to get a condo that was sound-proofed? This was fucking ridiculous. Listening to Gil get his freak on with random women night after night… Not cool at all. I should’ve paid closer attention to that upon inspecting this place.

“Oh, yeah,” the woman moaned, and I realized they’d made it to Gil’s room.

For sure I should’ve at least found a place that had a master bedroom that didn’t share a wall with the second bedroom.

I rolled my eyes when Gil’s headboard hit said wall.

Maybe I could convince Gil and Gavin to switch rooms.

Rolling over, I grabbed my pillow and covered my head.

“Ah, yes!”

“You’re a screamer, aren’t you, baby?” Gil asked her, his words muffled.

Lord, don’t encourage her, you dumb ass.

The headboard continued to knock against the wall and I pretended not to hear it.

Well, I tried to, anyway.

Reaching over, I grabbed my headphones, shoved them in my ears, flipped on my music, then replaced the pillow.

“Oh, Gil! Keep doing that!”

I rolled my eyes. This couldn’t be happening.
Again.

Turning up the music and closing my eyes, I let my thoughts drift to Jacob Wild.

Tonight, while Gavin had been working away, I had spent some time doing a little research on Jake. Not because I intended to see him again—even if he was my neighbor—but because he’d piqued my curiosity. Especially with his journal. I figured for sure most writers these days used a computer. Apparently that wasn’t always the case. From there, I’d wanted to know what made a famous writer tick.

It looked as though the infamous bad boy author had gone on hiatus for at least a year, causing an influx of wonder and fear from the readers who sang his praises, worshipped at the shrine that was Jacob Wild, crowned king of dirty talk.

From what I could tell, Jake had a huge personal fan base—something like two and a half million Facebook followers, close to a million Twitter followers, and an actual fan club. Seriously. Another thing I noticed was that a lot of those women were interested in knowing whether or not he was open to doing a little hands-on research for his books. That had sparked my curiosity, too, because as I recalled, most authors didn’t look like a walking sex Popsicle.

But Jacob Wild… Sex on a stick.

“Shut up, Presley,” I mumbled to myself.

I’d learned in that short amount of time while I’d been stalking him online that he was thirty-six, lived in Austin, had written fourteen novels—most of which had caused at least two dozen orgasms per capita—in his short but lucrative career thus far. That was just from the brief bio on his website. I’d moved on to check Amazon, where I’d found more information. I’d looked up his books, even scanned some of the glowing reviews.

Admittedly, it had been a while since I’d read a book, but I definitely wasn’t opposed to the idea. Once I scanned the brief descriptions of a few of his most popular ones, I’d been intrigued. A flush had warmed me from the inside out when I’d read a review that had—quite nicely—detailed some of the interesting sex scenes.

I had to admit, based on what I’d read, I was one of those women who could definitely fall prey to the sexy seduction that was Jacob Wild’s writing. According to one reviewer, Jacob Wild definitely knew how to make a woman weep.

From her vagina.

Yep, it had actually said that.

It was noted that his love stories were known to pull some strong emotions, but the sex… These bloggers were definitely good at what they did. Based on their high praise, and yes, even some of the critical points, I wanted to know more. If this guy had mastered the art of the sex scene, shouldn’t every woman be interested?

Oh, and there’d been the one review that had suggested that Jacob Wild would be smart to own stock in Duracell or Energizer because … yeah.

Now, as I lay in the dark, eyes closed, I imagined his hands roaming over my body, lighting up nerve endings that hadn’t felt a man’s touch in more than a year. I could practically feel that rough stubble on his cheeks as it scraped against the insides of my thighs.

I groaned into the pillow, turning over as I chastised myself for getting carried away. Then Blaze’s words echoed in my head:
Honey, you need to get laid. You know, by some outrageously hot guy who’s gonna pin you against the wall and make you beg for mercy.

Maybe she was right. And Jake would be just the guy.

No. No, he most certainly would not.

Shut up, subconscious.

This was not a good idea. The last thing I needed to be doing was fantasizing about some guy I had no business fantasizing about. Seriously, he was my neighbor. Weren’t neighbors off-limits or something?

If not, they should be.

Just because.

Instead of letting my imagination run wild—no pun intended—I should’ve been coming up with an epic design that would catapult my career, launch me to the next level, secure my future. I was an artist, for chrissakes. Hell, I was part owner of one of the most successful tattoo shops in Austin, only the nest egg I’d hoped to have by now had just been depleted.

Granted, I’d learned in recent years that, though successful, my shop didn’t have that
je ne sais quoi
that most people who tuned in to reality television were expecting. A lot of people who walked into the shop anticipated the sort of drama they saw on TV. Not that my shop didn’t have enough drama of its own—Blaze brought her own special blend—but it wasn’t the sort that people would want to sit and watch week after week. Hell, I did that and I wasn’t typically impressed.

“Oh, Gil. Fuck me harder!”

I groaned. “Oh, Gil, stick your dick in her mouth so she’ll shut up.”

For a brief moment, the sound in the other room quieted and I laughed. Yep, they’d probably heard me and I didn’t care that they had. Listening to Gil nail these women to the wall was tiring. And for as long as I’d known him, not once had he found a chick who was original with her porn star dialogue.

The headboard hit the wall again and I sighed. The least Gil could do was make the girl climax so she would stop screaming his name. It sounded like a bad horror movie, which, contrary to popular belief, wasn’t at all sexy.

Grabbing my phone, I pulled up Amazon, then searched Jacob Wild. I downloaded his most recent book and began to read. Reading had always helped me to fall asleep.

Unfortunately, I learned a few minutes into the story, when it came to Jacob Wild, chapter one wasn’t nearly enough.

Two hours later, I was sitting up in my bed, blankets kicked to the end as I once again stared at the small screen, consuming word after word, lost in the drama. I still couldn’t believe that a guy I’d met in a coffee shop had written this.

It was good.

Okay, better than good.

In fact, it was so good that I’d paused long enough to grab my sketchbook so I could draw. Nothing major, just a woman’s face and hair. I’d detailed the eyes and the lips, all based on the way Jacob Wild had described them. I’d seen the image so clearly in my mind while I’d been reading, it would’ve been impossible not to stop and draw her.

But I’d finished that sketch and was once again caught up in the characters, wishing like hell I could be the woman who was being ravished by the handsome stud.

Luckily, Gil and his porn star wannabe girlfriend were fast asleep so I didn’t have to listen to them going at it anymore. What
wasn’t
good was that it was almost five o’clock in the morning and I hadn’t been to sleep yet.

Not that I had anything to do today. I could easily sleep it all away if I wanted to.

Wait.

I looked at the clock again.

Five o’clock.

That meant the coffee shop was opening. Maybe if I went down there to read, I’d find some inspiration and could draw something else. And maybe, if I was really lucky, the author of last night’s inspiration might just show up.

Not that I was holding my breath or anything.