Inked Magic (17 page)

The door opened and closed. He glanced up as she said something to the two FBI agents and then all three of them walked out of sight.

Bryce said, “The number thirteen? Right?”

He closed his eyes so it’d be easier to imagine having her with him. “Yes.”

W
hat do you want?” Etaín asked, the air crackling between Parker and her as a result of their last encounter.

“Did you hear the news?”

She resisted the urge to fuel his anger by saying she’d been too busy fucking to pay attention to the news. “No. Is there another victim?”

“No one’s been reported missing yet.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Tyra Nelson died last night,” Trent said.

Sadness smothered Etaín’s hostility. “Her family?”

“They made it in time. They were with her. We’re here because we need you to reach out to other tattoo artists.” He glanced at her brother, prompted him by saying, “Parker.”

Parker visibly forced himself to relax. He opened a folder she hadn’t noticed and extracted a piece of paper, holding it out to her.

Chills swept over her at the image there. She recognized it instantly and panic swept through her as she fought to keep
all
of Tyra’s memories from spilling in, as if the sight of the tattoo had opened a crack in the barrier walling off her reality from Tyra’s, as if Eamon’s warning about not being able to manage as she always had was coming true.

When she was certain of her control she looked again, forcing herself to view the drawing as if it came from a terrible book about someone
else’s life. They’d cut away everything else but the tattoo, then enlarged it. A band of demonic faces with their mouths open in screams and glee. Clawed and horned, some of them with tails, a seething mass of evil that would unofficially identify the Harlequin Rapist.

“You agree this was done by a professional?” Parker asked.

“Yes.”

“Then there’s a chance the guy we’re looking for has had work done in San Francisco. Other artists will talk to you where they won’t give us jack shit. Someone might recognize this and provide a lead on this guy. It’s a long shot but you’re making the rounds because of the fund-raiser, which gives you the perfect opportunity to ask about the tattoo. Just come up with some reason besides the truth. We don’t want to accidentally tip this guy off if we end up getting close to him this way.”

She looked up at Parker, surprised he knew she was involved in the fund-raiser. Saying no wasn’t an option and wouldn’t have been even if she hadn’t lived those moments of Tyra’s terror. She took the drawing and folded it, slipping it into her back pocket. “When’s the funeral?”

“What does it matter? You’re not going.”

“And I gave you permission to boss me around when?”

“Don’t be fucking difficult, Etaín. The reporters will have a field day if you show up and they make the connection between the two of us. Somebody talked about your visit to the hospital yesterday, probably the nurse who recognized you.”

Trent interceded again, putting a calming hand on her shoulder. “For all we know, this guy thrives on the publicity. We’ll have people at the funeral but he might be smart enough to be satisfied with what ends up in the news. Even if you haven’t been identified, some asshole cameraman will end up zooming in on you because you fit the profile. This guy is looking for his next victim now, if he hasn’t already found her. He’ll strike in six to fourteen days unless something’s happened
and his pattern is changed. Your being at the funeral would be like painting a target on yourself.”

Then use me to draw him
out.

The thought came in a wave of nausea and was accompanied by a terror that had her mind closing on it. She couldn’t make the offer. She couldn’t say the words.

“I need to get back inside. As soon as I finish with Jason, I’ll visit some shops.”

H
e knew it was her though his back was to the door. He felt her like sun against his skin.

Pulling cash from his wallet he tried to count out what he owed. He had to do it three times, at first because he was listening to see if the other two were with her. And then because she came into view.

He kept getting distracted by her. She was so, so beautiful.

He wished she wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He wanted to see her bare arms. He wanted to know if she had tattoos there.

His mother had had them, the ugly homemade kind, not skin art like he and Kevin
got.

It didn’t matter whether she did or not. She was his choice.

He turned away and went to the door. There was a rush of fear as he opened it. A giddy sense of relief when he stepped outside and there were no cops waiting for
him.

The thrill of what he’d just done made him laugh out loud. He wouldn’t get this close again, not until it was time to take her. But he couldn’t stop himself from looking through the window and seeing her one last time before he left.

His pleasure diminished. Not a popped balloon but a leak that filled with anger and made him feel sick inside.

She was talking to the fag again. It made him remember the times his mother had brought strangers home. Once she got high, she always forgot
about him and Kevin being there. It didn’t matter to her what happened then.

He didn’t want to think about that right now so he squinted, blocking out the queer and seeing only her, surrounded by a golden glow. Nothing would change his mind now. She was his choice.

He didn’t have to worry about watching the others anymore. He just had to figure out where it would be safe to take
her.

Usually the watching and planning made it more exciting. But he didn’t think he’d be able to wait once he had the chance to take
her.

Already he felt like crying at being apart from her. His heart hurt thinking she’d forget all about
him.

E
taín gave Jason until well after lunchtime. By then her stomach was growling and her hands were cramping while he was zoned on endorphins and in a place a client into the BDSM scene had likened to subspace.

She wiped off the excess ink and leaned back to assure herself she’d reached a good stopping place for Derrick. “How about we call it a day? I need to visit some other shops. You know about the fund-raiser on Saturday right?”

“Already spreading the word about it.” Jason opened his eyes and craned his neck, trying to get a view of the new ink.

She passed the mirror. “There’s going to be live music though I don’t know who yet.”

“I’ll let people know.” He moved the mirror around. “The work’s totally excellent. Thanks for stepping in.”

“No problem.”

She took the mirror back and bandaged him, giving him the lecture and the handout before ringing him up and saying goodbye. As she cleaned her equipment and station afterward, she made a mental list of the places and artists she’d show the drawing to.

A chill of fear slipped in at how easily Tyra’s reality had threatened to overwhelm her own. Looking at her palms she felt sweat trickling down her sides.

What if she was wrong? What if she couldn’t keep going like she had been, not understanding the full truth of what the call to ink meant? Only managing it instead of controlling it?

Wiping damp palms on her jeans, she told Bryce, “I’m out of here.”

He glanced up from the woman he was working on. “Do me a favor sometime today?”

“What?”

“Derrick’s not answering his phone. Can you swing by his apartment? Do what you can to get him put back together? And after you’ve done that, tell him I’ve cleared his appointments for tomorrow, but he’d better put on his big girl panties and come to work, or call his clients and reschedule them himself. I’m not his daddy or his mommy. I’m his boss and I’ve got enough of my own shit to deal with.”

“I’ll stop by. But I’m going to pretty up your message.”

“Pretty it up all you want, just pass it on.”

“I’ll do it before I go to Saoirse. See you there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He grinned. “I don’t think you’re going to get rid of Cathal very easily.”

She started to say she hadn’t even slept with him, but held the words because Bryce would say, “Yet,” and she wouldn’t be able to deny it.

“I’m gone.”

She was leaving a different shop a couple of hours later when her cell rang. The incoming number was unfamiliar, but she recognized Trent’s voice.

“Nothing yet,” she said before he asked. “I’ve shown it to nine artists so far.”

“It’s a long shot. But we’ve got to turn over every stone until we find the one this slime-ball crawled out from under.”

“I’ll call if something pops.”

She closed the phone.

It rang before she could pocket it.

“I’m actually calling about something else,” Trent said.

Fear jolted her. “Did something happen to Parker?”

“Shit. Sorry. No. He’s good.”

Her fingers whitened against the black of her phone. She hated that the thought of something happening to Parker still had the power to rip her apart, when he’d written her off unless he needed her help on a case.

“Then why the call?” She cringed at hearing herself sound like a cold-hearted bitch.

The silence on the line lasted long enough she thought maybe Trent had hung up.

He finally answered. “Look, sorry. I’m screwing this up royally. This doesn’t have anything to do with the taskforce, and Parker doesn’t know I’m calling you. A situation came up that requires a tattoo artist, like yesterday. It’s a paying job. Will you help me out?”

A Fed who apologized, that and the fact he’d served as a buffer earlier with Parker tilted the scales in his favor. “When?”

“Now.”

“I can be at Stylin’ Ink in about thirty.”

“No.” The quickness and force of it made her pulse jump. “This needs to be kept private. It’s cover-up work. The next time this guy is seen in public he’s got to be wearing different ink.”

“Gang tats?” She was halfway to changing her mind about doing it, paying job or not. She didn’t like the dreams that came with that kind of work, not stolen memories but dark reflections of them caught in ink.

“Yeah. But he’s one of the good guys. Been on our team from the start.”

“Undercover?”

A long pause. “Yeah. Fair enough. You’ll find out anyway.”

“How big a project is it?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen him since he went under. We grew up together. He’s only been in San Francisco a couple of hours.”

“Where do you want to do this?”

“I’ll pick you up and take you there.”

“I’ve got to be somewhere later tonight, with a stop somewhere else before then.” Regardless of the cause she wasn’t going to break her promise to Salina.

“You’re doing the favor. You say when you have to leave and it’ll happen.”

“Is he on this side of the bay or Oakland side?”

“This one.”

“You know where I live?”

“Yes.”

“Pick me up there. I need to get my kit and change clothes, in case there’s no time to go back home.”

“I’ll head that way. Look for a silver mustang. I won’t get out.”

“Okay. See you in a few.”

She made it home fast, an advantage of riding the bike. After putting the Harley in the garage she took the steps to her apartment two at a time, stripping as soon as she closed the door behind her.

A quick shower later and she put on a fuck-me bra and panties before going to the closet. She wasn’t much for clothes. Jeans worked for her most of the time. Throw on a long-sleeved shirt and she was ready to go.

Despite being a tattoo artist, she didn’t expose the work on her wrists and arms. One of her mother’s lessons, maybe too deeply engrained to ignore. Beyond that, she’d never found it mattered what she wore when it came to men. It all came off anyway if she decided to spend the night.

She reached for a light blue shirt, a memory halting her before she tugged the garment from the hanger. Cathal with his dark-as-sin presence and carnal warning about showing up at Saoirse wearing a short skirt.

A hot roar of lust arrowed straight down to her cunt. Her hand followed, sliding beneath the waistband of her panties. She’d see him tonight. She’d be with him tonight.

Her labia grew flushed and swollen, her fingers wet from arousal. A honk in front of the apartment had her pulling her hand back with a soft laugh. Just like a cop to show up and spoil the fun.

She took in her options, going for black, a long-sleeved blouse with buttons up the front and a tight mini-skirt that make her think of Jason’s leather. She finished the look with short black boots, not bothering with hose or makeup. She’d never needed either.

A quick transfer of cell phone, billfold, and the picture of the tattoo into a small black purse and she was ready. The kit stayed packed with everything she needed for working away from the shop or the apartment.

On the way out she snagged the black Harley jacket, silently chiding herself for treating it like a security blanket. Trent had pulled up close to the bottom of the steps. She stowed the roll-on suitcase and got into the car.