The Darkest Link (Second Circle Tattoos) (5 page)

Reid couldn’t see any connection or similarity between the funny and colorful Lia and the navy-blue-pinstripe Carlisle.

“Ms. Stacey, as I’ve said repeatedly, I have no intention of getting drawn into my father’s media activities. Now, I’m clearly with a friend in a private establishment, which means you should head back to whatever corner of this restaurant you came from and leave me alone.”

“I know, I’m sorry to disturb you, but surely you are aware of the speculation. Here, let me give you my card.” The woman pulled a business card out of her purse and thrust it toward Lia. “Don’t underestimate the boost for your father to be seen as a family man outside of his courtroom persona.”

Lia shifted to the left to avoid the business card being waved close to her face.

“You have your answer, Ms. Stacey,” Reid said, coming to his feet, ready to call the host over if she didn’t leave. “You should go.”

“Okay, I’m gone. But you might want to get some media training, Julianna, because you really suck at it.” With that, she flounced away.

Reid sat, and watched as Lia rubbed the sides of her face with her hands, up and down, before repeating the motion behind her ears. “Hey, you okay, Red?” he asked, taking one of her hands in his before kissing the back of it, the skin sweet and soft beneath his lips. He’d meant the action to be reassuring, comforting even, but the simple taste of her drove him crazy.

Lia sighed and sat back in the chair, placing both of her arms on the armrests. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just . . . I guess I should explain.”

While the whole thing was a bit surreal, he didn’t like the way Lia’s shoulders rounded a little. “I got it. Can’t say I’ve ever had a reporter interrupt a meal to harass my date, but hey, I’m all for new life experiences. I’m guessing you and your dad don’t see eye to eye.”

“I don’t want anything to do with my father’s politics. I don’t even agree with half the shit he says.”

He didn’t, either, but he was glad to hear her say it, too. Her eyes had darkened a fraction, now a steely, determined gray. “Does this happen to you a lot?”

“Occasionally,” she answered, not giving much away. For some reason it irritated him. He wanted her to tell him, wanted her to trust him, which was completely fucking batshit crazy, because she’d be gone tomorrow, and he’d be back to business as usual. And he also wanted to kiss that pouting bottom lip to make whatever kind of weird-ass crap was going on in her life go away.

“I have an idea,” he said, taking the menu out of her hands. “We both have stuff going on, but I like hanging out with you, Lia. So how about we forget who we are for a little while and just enjoy each other’s company for tonight?”

Lia leaned forward in her seat. “I love that plan,” she said with a slow smile, looking up at him through dark lashes. “Can we go back to the part where you talked about kissing my lips earlier?”

Reid moved closer. “Which part was that? Remind me.” He grinned.

“The part where you said they were pretty.”

“Pretty? That was a poor word choice.” He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Such a lazy word. There is nothing pretty about your mouth.”

She inched so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his face. “So what words would you use?”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Sultry, sinful, sexual, and most of all—”

“Are you ready to order, sir?”

The two of them jumped apart like naughty schoolkids trying to steal a base behind the bleachers. Lia bit her bottom lip to stop the grin before she opened the menu and covered her face.

If Lia was on the menu, he most definitely was.

They ate the sashimi, grilled lobster yaki, and tuna kobachi while sipping on Sapporo, a choice that surprised him. She struck him as a champagne or cocktail kind of girl, but she knocked back her beer and entertained him with stories about the studio and her friends, never raising the topic of her father again. He was curious, though, about the nature of their relationship, because it didn’t sound positive, much like his own with his father.

It was impossible to remember the last time he’d spent so much time in a woman’s company he enjoyed as much as he did Lia’s. Despite the fact he’d been ready to kiss her in front of their server and every diner in the restaurant, he’d not come close again.

When he next looked up, the restaurant was empty, and the host was hovering close by. Having gestured for the check and noting the relief on the host’s face, it was time to face facts. He wanted to stay, wanted her to invite him up to her hotel room and take her every way possible. But she deserved better than that, even if his balls might explode before he had the chance to get home and jerk off in the shower.

“I can’t believe we’ve been here for hours,” Lia said, after he paid the bill and they were walking back to her hotel. His hand was in his pocket, and she had wrapped her hands around his bicep, leaning against him.

“Didn’t feel like it, did it?” he said, putting his hand on top of hers.

They reached the imposing floor-to-ceiling glass doors of the hotel. A solid, touchable metaphor for the end of their acquaintance. Lia looked up at him.

“Just how good would those kisses be, Kenny?” she asked, looking at his lips.

“Oh, Lia,” he said, sliding his hands to her hips and pulling her to him until they were flush together. Her hands slid around his neck, and her nails slid along the base of his skull. “They’d be the best fucking kind of kisses.”

“And what are those?” Her lips moved against his as she spoke, and he resisted the urge to dive in and devour her on Main Street, U.S.A., or wherever the fuck they were, despite the fact he could feel her breasts pushed up against his chest.

“The kind that could change the direction of your life if you let them.”

And with that, he kissed her like both of their lives depended on it. Savored the way her lips parted for him, the way she tasted of saki and sweetness.
Holy shit,
those fucking eyes pinned him, laid him bare to her. Allowed him to be exactly who he was, or who he
had
been . . . before.

A good man.

Not a coward.

There it was, in glorious Technicolor. The complimentary newspaper on the hotel’s front desk revealed her father’s first volley into the gubernatorial conversation with a swipe at the current governor’s plans to grant clemency to a number of prisoners.

“Was everything okay with your stay, Ms. Carlisle?”

She looked to the young man who held her credit card toward her. “Yes . . . fine, thank you.” Lia tucked the credit card back in her wallet and waited for her receipt.

It was an odd choice, a criminal defender speaking out against clemency, but her father had always chosen to define his role as holding up the pillars and due process of justice rather than protecting the guilty. The only humor to be found was that the paper found it just as ironic as she did that Franklin Woodrow Carlisle, wannabe Republican nominee, was named after two Democrats.

She was in full avoidance mode as she traveled by taxi to the expo. Her father’s calls had become more and more irate over the course of the evening, which made sense now that his intention to run was plastered all over the local news. His last message had been a litany of instructions.
“Don’t talk to the press, don’t comment on the article or my opinions, please dress in a more conservative fashion, cover up your tattoos.”
The last one had been her favorite. Tattoos ran the full length of her arm and down one leg. The ink was nearly all American Traditional, and she had spent a small fortune flying out to see Oliver Peck, arguably the best in the country at the style. It was the end of August, but temperatures were well into the nineties. What did he expect her to do? Wear a pantsuit and broil to death—or worse, a muumuu?

Thank heavens she was financially independent of her father, thanks to Granny Emmeline having given her the proceeds from the sale of a small Jackson Pollock. If it weren’t for her promise to Granny to look out for her mother, she’d never set foot in her father’s house again.

In the morning she simply wandered around the expo. So many amazing artists were doing unusual things. She watched a young woman go through a scalpel scarification, and tried to decide if it was something she wanted to do, but concluded the move into more extreme body modification wasn’t for her. A Russian artist was completing a beautiful watercolor tattoo, and she asked some questions about how he ensured durability for lighter shades given that the less saturated colors tended to fade. It was a rookie mistake to not ask talented people questions about their art, because she’d learn from anyone who could teach her how to hone her craft.

When she’d arrived at the main stage for her presentation on the history of American Traditional tattoos, there had only been about twenty people sitting and waiting. But by the time she finished, there were closer to a hundred and fifty people.

Lia sat in the greeting area, shaking hands with fans of the show and clients of the studio, while answering questions about her presentation and her career. She’d even been asked for autographs and photographs, which was very surreal, and a photographer with a reputation for taking amazing shots of tattooed women had asked if she’d consider being in a book he was writing about the evolution of tattooed women. All in all, the day had been a success.

Touching her fingertips to her lips, she thought about the kiss Kenny had laid on her. Nobody had ever kissed her like that. She could imagine Pixie rolling her eyes, though, if she told her that—because she’d likely said it about some other guy, some other time. But sweet holy baby Jesus . . . Kenny was something else. He’d surprised her after their kiss by politely turning down the invitation to join her in her room. His hooded eyes had told her he wanted to, but he’d specifically said he was trying hard to be the man she deserved by leaving. She still hadn’t worked out what exactly he’d meant.

When she’d woken up alone, she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or hurt. After one of her many heartbreaks, Ben had told her it was a strength of hers to be so open to the idea of love. But there were times when she felt there was something wrong with her for having feelings that swept her away like a strong undercurrent while everyone else was still paddling in the emotional shallows.

She posed with a biker couple who had made the trip down from Atlantic City just for the expo. They told her how they traveled light and on the cheap. Despite the fact that they were wonderful, they smelled terrible. Which brought her mind back to Kenny and how worried he’d been when he’d removed his jacket. There was no polite way to tell him just how good he’d smelled to her. Give her wholesome and manly over groomed and aftershave every time. So many things had reminded her of him today, it was crazy. It was like the universe was sending her a ginormous, don’t-fucking-mess-this-up sign, but she couldn’t decide whether it was telling her to stand firm or call him.

She hadn’t been willing to beg him to stay, even though a kiss alone had brought her to the edge of some kind of sexual nirvana that she hadn’t been able to quell in the shower later that night.

“Hey, Lia.” A young man with sandy blond hair stepped up to her table and shook her hand. “My name is Pete, and I’m a photographer,” he said, gesturing to the expensive-looking camera hanging around his neck. “I mostly do photography for book covers. There’s huge demand right now for tattooed heroines, and I wondered if that was something you’d considered. You’d make a great model.”

Romance novels were her guilty pleasure, and some of the cover models were damned hot. She was fully behind the wall of abs trend. “Well, thank you for saying so, but I’m not sure that kind of modeling is for me.”

“I beg to differ. I think you’d be perfect for it. You see it’s not just pretty faces, it’s about characters. Can I at least give you my details so you can consider it? I have a job next week that you would be perfect for.”

Lia took the card more out of politeness and respect for his tenacity than any real intent to call him.

While she most definitely didn’t live her life based on her father’s edicts of appropriateness, she was also thoughtful about the things she challenged him on. Every day was a battle to live her own life authentically away from him. So she’d made a decision years ago to only butt heads with him over things she was truly passionate about. Like her career as a tattoo artist, and her own ink, and the way she chose to dress. Becoming a book-cover model, while likely a whole heap of fun, wasn’t something she really wanted.

Carl, the organizer, came over to greet her. “Lia, thank you so much for coming today. Your presentation was incredible and so detailed.”

The history of tattooing had always fascinated her. “It’s amazing how many people have never even heard of Sailor Jerry, yet think of how pivotal his work was to the history of American Traditional tattoos. So many people have the swallow, or playing cards, and lighthouses, but they don’t even know that most of those designs started with him.”

“Well, the audience loved it.”

“That’s so nice to hear. Please consider me if you host other similar events.”

“Would you consider traveling to do this? Like out of state? I know the organizers of the expo in New York in the new year. Bet they’d love to have you on board.”

She’d have to figure out dates and logistics with Trent and Cujo, but she’d make it work. And this was the long-term development of her career, so well worth going toe-to-toe with her father for. “I’d love to do that. Please pass my details along.”

They said their good-byes, and she headed to the office to collect her baggage before she exited the hall. The unimpressive beige Impala sat in the parking lot, having been delivered by the rental car company earlier. It was bland and blah and so unlike anything she would choose for herself, but it had four wheels and would get her home to Miami. Once the cases were safely stowed in the trunk and she said her thanks to Carl, she set the sat-nav for home, turned on her favorite music, and settled in for the three-hour drive. It was five thirty, and if she had a clear run she would be home before nine. She considered giving her friends a call, mentally debating what to do that evening, but as she scrolled through her options only one person came to mind. The one person she wasn’t meant to call.

Kenny.

* * *

Insurance. Wages. Bills. Six thirty on a Saturday night and Reid was still in the garage moving stacks of paper from one pile to another. He looked at the invoice in his hand and made a note to call the vendor. There was no way in hell they’d shipped twelve cases of radiator fluid.

When he had first moved to Fort Pierce, he’d promised himself over and over that he would find a way to get a life. He’d been a mess in those early days, still reeling from the ultimatum his father had laid down, and uncertain where to live or what to do. He’d worked at the garage for two years before the owner decided to sell it. With help from a fellow mentor, Logan, who worked at the bank in town, he’d secured the funds to buy it.

The bad choices he’d made in Chicago still haunted him, and every day he fought to make some kind of peace with what he’d done. Spending time with at-risk youth gave him the opportunity to give back, even if it was only in a small way. He mentored boys from the club at the community center in a bid to help them avoid the kinds of mistakes he’d made. It had given him a small sense of pride to see the first class of boys he had mentored graduate the previous summer.

He ran his hand over the new front wing and light that he’d installed on a fender bender that quite frankly should have been written off. Insurance companies these days were far less willing to pay out, and it irked him when safety was put below profit. The car now needed paint spraying, but it was too late in the evening to start up the noisy booth.

Raising his hands above his head, he cracked his neck from left to right and bent backward to relieve the pressure on his spine. What he needed was a hot bath, a cold beer, and a comfortable bed.

“Hello,” a small voice said from outside the double doors of the garage. “Kenny, are you still in there?”

Recognizing the tone, he called out, “Hey, Tyrell. Come on in. What’s going on, bud?”

A young boy in a pale blue T-shirt and navy shorts wandered into the garage, running his hands over his tight curls. “I was bored. Wondered if I could hang with you for a while.”

Reid pushed the paperwork to one side. “Sure thing, did you have something on your mind?”

“Dad isn’t home yet, and I’m stuck on my homework. Do you know anything about adverbs and shit?” Tyrell handed him a blue notebook and a white sheet of paper from his teacher.

“Language,” Reid chided.

“Sorry,” Tyrell said dolefully.

It had been a long time since he had done English homework, but even though he didn’t know one end of a noun from a verb, he’d figure it out for Tyrell’s sake. His sister, Taylor, would have nailed this, and like he often did, he considered trying to call her. But there would be no welcome for him, and he no longer had her number. Not that he couldn’t find it if he tried. He’d made a token effort once before. Tried to look up her Facebook profile, but her account no longer existed.

Thirty minutes later, with all homework questions complete, Tyrell was happy and Reid was exhausted. What he wouldn’t give for that beer.

“You wanna shoot some ball with me?” Tyrell asked.

“What time are you expecting your dad home?”

“It’s a Saturday. He won’t be home until real late.”

“Sure thing then. Go grab the ball from behind the desk and I’ll meet you out by the net. Just give me a couple of minutes to put all this paperwork away.”

Reid watched Tyrell head outside and shook his head. What kind of parent left a young child alone for hours at a time? He understood that many of the parents in the neighborhood were either single or holding down two jobs, but he fully believed in the concept that it took a village to raise a child and wondered why the community didn’t rally more to provide parental coverage for each other.

But then who was he to judge? His mistakes had ruined his sister and turned his best friend into a monster, and for that he could never forgive himself. Fuck, if he could go back in time, the first thing he would do was fix the mistake that started it all.

The unsettling itch of restlessness niggled at him like it had all summer as he watched a group of women dance. Even standing in the middle of a party at the flashy house of a famous actor wasn’t doing anything for his frame of mind. They’d dropped off the custom bike they’d modified from a performance Suzuki GSX earlier in the day and scored an invite from Caleb Black himself, but the flashing lights and pounding bass of the Black Eyed Peas were doing nothing but giving him a headache. He’d hoped the hot girls and free alcohol would give him a boost of . . . something. But he felt just as empty as when he’d woken up that morning to an angry call from his dad for turning down a dinner invitation from his mom. Pity the asshole didn’t realize he was the reason Reid rarely went home anymore.

“I’m out, man,” he said to Nathan, his best friend.

“Good. ’Cause that fucking frown is depressing me.”

“You want to head out? Call up Taylor and see if she wants to meet up?” It still blew his mind that his best friend had hooked up with his sister, even though they’d been a couple for nearly two years.

“Nah. I’m gonna stay here and live vicariously.”

Reid wandered down the hallway to find Caleb.

Laughter rang out from a door that was ajar, and he stepped inside. Caleb was cutting lines of coke on the top of the glass desk.

“Want some?” Caleb asked.

Fuck.
What he wouldn’t give to go back to that period in his life. To be able to articulate to his parents the pressure they’d placed him under as they continued to disapprove of his career choices. To spare his sister those awkward moments when they compared the two of them at the dinner table. Maybe then, if he wasn’t so frustrated, he’d have found the strength to just say no and fucking leave. But he hadn’t. Instead he’d strode into that room, snorted his first line of coke, and left feeling like the king of the fucking world.