Inked Magic (2 page)

Cathal curled his hand into a fist and fought the urge to answer the verbal jab. He looked beyond his father, at the mourners moving through the fog, leaving Caitlyn to be lowered into her grave.

After a lifetime of keeping his distance, of staying clear of his father and uncle’s business, he wondered if he was about to take the first step on a slippery slope that ended in prison or violent death for most of those who took it.

“How much time do I have to convince her?”

“As much as you need as long as you’re working it steady. I got Denis to agree to that much. To hold off acting. Brianna . . . Well, you’ve seen her. She’s not going to get any worse in the time it’ll take you to come back with an answer.”

His last visit to Brianna played out in his mind, bringing rage and
despair at how a vibrant, talented girl now had to be kept heavily sedated and constantly watched. “What’s the woman’s name?”

“Etaín.”

“Irish?”

His father shrugged again. “Don’t know. All I have is the first name and where she can be found. She’s a tattoo artist. Works at a place called Stylin’ Ink.”

“In San Francisco?”

“Yeah, in the city.”

Guilt. Regret. Misgiving. They clawed at him, tearing him up inside and creeping into his guts.

His choice to open a club where people with money traded on their looks and names as they played hard and fast, his involvement with musicians, all of it was an ongoing test of himself—that he could be around vice without becoming what his father and uncle were: criminals.

He saw his mother approaching and knew he had less than a minute before it would be out of his hands. His father glanced over his shoulder and saw the same thing. “You’ll do this for the family?”

The question hung between them, tense with time running out. Heavy with choice and consequence. Innocence and guilt, and the ominous weight of lives already shattered and those that might end the same way.

“I’ll do it,” Cathal said as his mother reached the car. “For Brianna and for Caitlyn.” And so he could live with his own conscience when it came to them, and to the artist Etaín.

D
esire hummed through Etaín, piercing the layer of purple latex separating her skin from Salina’s as if the barrier was nonexistent. It coursed through her, stirring an echoing need, though for a man instead of a woman.

It’d been too long since she’d had sex.

She paused to wipe the excess ink off Salina’s back, and to give the hand stretching the skin a break. “You’re thinking about doing the nasty.”

“And you can tell how? I’m not even looking at you.”

“You don’t need to be.”

She didn’t need the visible signs. Salina’s emotions spiked through the gloves like a needle plunging in and hitting a vein, dumping something foreign into her bloodstream.

Skin didn’t lie, not to her. It was her gift, sometimes her curse, to feel what others felt when she touched them, especially when she worked, and afterward, to catch glimpses of their memories.

Tattooing forged a bond, and to give it up would be to give up living. She’d been doing it since she was thirteen, her first tattoos the stylized eyes on her own palms. They’d haunted her dreams and turned into a compulsion she couldn’t escape. It was the same with the elaborate, multicolored vines twisting around her forearms and growing upward from wristbands her mother had inked on her when she was eight.

“One night is all I’m asking for,” Salina said. “Come to the club. Hear Lady Steel play and party with us afterward. I’ll show you a good time. And it’s not like I’m asking you to give up cocks.”

Jamaal snorted without looking up from the row of butterflies he was outlining at the base of his client’s spine. “Dildos aren’t as good as the real thing.”

“And you’ve had both so you know for sure?” Etaín asked.

“I don’t swing that way, baby, you know that. Spend a night in my bed and I’ll show you what I can do.” White teeth flashed against mocha-toned skin. “But I’m warning you, once you’ve had black, you ain’t never going back to those pretty white boys you go around with.”

“Yeah, and if I take you up on your offer, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for DaWanda.”

“There’s enough of me to go around, baby. Besides, DaWanda’s a church-going woman. She’s all about forgiving my sins.”

“More like she’s desperate,” Salina said.

“That was low, and you wearing a shitload of my work. I broke a sweat on your tits and it wasn’t because there were mountains to climb and nice big peaks to camp out on and explore.”

Etaín laughed, familiar with the scene on Salina’s chest. “If you were sweating, it was because you were picturing an X-rated unicorn-and-virgin scenario.”

“Probably comparing his cock to the unicorn’s horn and seeing he comes up short,” Salina said.

“Freud would back you on that.”

“You two are some mean bitches, doing me like this. Don’t think I’ll forget it the next time you come around asking me to put some ink on you.”

“As long as you remember payback’s hell,” Etaín said. “It’s going to take another session to finish the work on your upper thigh. One little slip . . .”

“I ain’t no fool, soon as I get home I’m going online, see if I can find myself an iron-plated jock. Extra, extra, extra large, so I can keep all my essential equipment safe.”

Salina made a choking sound. “Hello. Delusional.”

Etaín dipped the needles of the shader into a cap of gray ink. “What do you expect? When’s the last time you saw a pack of condoms labeled small?”

Salina snickered. “Or extra small.”

“Makes a dildo start looking good in comparison.”

“Damn straight.”

Etaín paused to study the big-breasted mermaid she was working on before placing her hand on Salina’s skin to stretch it. Desire slid into her bloodstream again, a warm pulsing that didn’t bother her even if she didn’t reciprocate it.

The shop went quiet except for the hum of tattoo machines and the sound of U2. She was putting the final touches on the mermaid’s tail
when the door jerked open and Derrick stalked in wearing a skintight fuck-me dress and high-heels.

“Don’t let me keep you from your business,” he said, sniffing for effect. “Life goes on.”

The outfit and thick mascara were enough to clue Etaín in, but when he headed directly to the player and changed the tunes to John Mayer she knew he’d been fighting with his boyfriend again.

Jamaal’s machine crashed down on his work stand. “No fucking way! I can’t work to that. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever again after last week.”

Two-hundred and fifty plus pounds of muscle headed toward the player with all the determination of an NFL linebacker. Derrick stood taller, thrusting his chin out. “Go ahead. Strike out at me because I’m in touch with my feelings. Everyone else does.”

“Knock that shit off, you two,” Bryce said, coming around the privacy screen and halting at the sight of Derrick. His eyes widened and his hands went to his hips. “Nice of you to finally show up for work. Now go home and change clothes. Either that or call and reschedule Orlando.”

“Since when do we have a dress code?”

“Since I got finished getting things set up for
your
client, then came out and saw you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Then sue me. After you get out of drag and stop channeling your inner diva.”

Derrick huffed. “Well if that’s the way you feel—”

“I do. I’m not having my shop trashed by Orlando when he walks in to get his ass worked on and sees you waiting for him like that.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“I’m the boss. It’s my privilege.”

“I’ll change, but it’s under protest.”

“That works for me.”

“Fine. I’m leaving.”

Derrick flounced his way around the counter separating the workstations from the waiting area. He stopped at the door and added, “If I don’t make it back in time, you spread Orlando’s ass.”

“Save the drama queen routine for after hours. You want to act? Dress up like a man and come back pretending you’re hetero, at least long enough to finish the work on Orlando.”

A violent slam of the door was Derrick’s response. Bryce laughed.

“Not very PC,” Etaín said.

“I don’t give a shit about political correctness.” He hit a button on the player, silencing John Mayer and filling the air with Nickelback.

Bryce paused long enough to check the appointment screen on the computer, then cleaned the waiting area and organized the reference materials. By the time he was done, she was putting antibiotic ointment on the areas of the tattoo she’d worked.

He strolled over and stopped next to her. “Nice. What have you got, two, three more sessions to finish it?”

“Four,” Salina said. “Maybe five. I don’t like being on the receiving end of pain.”

“Make sure Etaín takes a picture of this one when she gets finished with it. I definitely want it on the website. Good advertising.”

“Putting a picture of Etaín up would be better.”

“She’s threatened to quit if I do.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Etaín said. “And I am standing right here, you two.”

Bryce opened one of the packages of nonstick pads on her worktable, exposing the adhesive tabs and handing it to her. She applied it to Salina’s back.

“So you think you could fix Derrick up with someone?” Bryce asked.

Jamaal snorted. “Fat fucking chance of that. She can’t find someone for her own self. You ever see her out with the same guy twice?”

The quiet businesswoman he was tattooing spoke up, “You ever
try to find a good-looking man in San Francisco? One who’s not gay, already taken, or a total jerk?”

“Present company excluded?” Bryce asked.

The woman’s expression took on the look of a deer in the headlights. “Sure,” she said, dropping her head so it rested in the face cradle attached to the massage table.

Etaín hid a smile. Only a serious tattoo aficionado would look at Bryce and think he was gorgeous. His body was a heroin-chic canvas with very few places in need of ink, and plenty that had been pierced.

The ink and metal put a lot of women off. Their loss as far as she was concerned. Both told a story of struggle, survival, and ultimate victory over the demons plaguing him.

He’d been heavy into drugs, dangerous sex, and the fringe lifestyle that went with both, but he’d found his way out of it through his art. The same way she’d avoided going crazy and ending up dead from an overdose or from hooking up with the wrong kind of guy.

Bryce opened a second package and passed it to Etaín. “You know people. What Derrick needs is a take-no-bullshit type, somebody who’s going to keep him in line.”

“Like maybe someone into whips and chains,” Jamaal said.

“A collar and leash work better,” Salina volunteered.

Jamaal snorted. “Not touching that one.”

Bryce handed a third nonstick pad to Etaín. “What about a cop? You know any gay cops on the prowl for a significant other?”

Etaín met his gaze and raised her eyebrows. “You want me to start hitting up the cops who come around the homeless shelter when I’m there?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

She shook her head and went back to concentrating on covering the areas of Salina’s back that needed it. “Derrick may not be ready to call it quits with the current boyfriend. You know how he is.”

Bryce sighed. “Yeah, I know. Too damn sensitive and accommodating for his own good. But think about finding a nice stable guy we
can set him up with, okay? His reliability goes to shit when his relationships tank.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He handed her one last pad. “Appreciate it. You heading out? Or hanging to do some art work?”

“I’m gone for a while. I promised Justine I’d swing by the shelter sometime today to go over the final schedule for the fund-raiser. We’re in countdown mode now.”

“Yeah, thing is coming fast. How many artists you get signed up?”

“Twelve, with another five saying they’ll come in if things get crazy. I’ve already done a bunch of stencils to speed things up. Almost everyone else is bringing some of their own flash, too. Stuff that won’t take more than thirty minutes to tattoo.”

“I’ve got a couple of design ideas I’m going to work up and bring with me. I don’t want this to get into a pissing contest, so anyone, regardless of whose shop they’re from, is free to use them.”

“Thanks.”

“Plenty of regulars have told me they plan on showing up on Saturday. I’m guessing it’s going to be busy. Should be a nice chunk of change for the shelter. “

“It’s all good.”

Bryce reached out and grabbed the thick wheat-gold braid snaking down her back. “Yeah. It’s all good. You and me, we’ve both done our time on the streets and in shelters.”

Etaín shivered, thinking about the wild stretch of her teen years, and her father’s way of scaring her straight. It made dying in an alleyway seem good in comparison, though she had to give it to the captain, his method had worked, just not for the reason he thought it had.

“Briefly in my case,” she said, shaking off the memory, though the shadow-pain of it lingered from the continued estrangement with the policeman she’d once called Dad.

“That’s the best way. Enough to know what it’s like and never forget it.”

Bryce gave a little tug to her braid. “You’ve got one more appointment today, a late one. Promise you’ll call the shop so one of us can step outside and make sure you get in okay.”

“Will do.” She didn’t need to ask why. A serial rapist had been terrorizing San Francisco and the cities near it for months.

Bryce wandered off as she covered the last part of the mermaid’s tail and gave Salina her aftercare instruction, both verbally and in writing. It didn’t matter Salina had been through it before, many times. She’d rather err on the side of caution, not just for Salina’s benefit, but for her own.

She took pride in the tattoos she created. Each piece reflected on her as an artist.

Fresh tattoos were wounds. They were thousands of punctures to the skin, damage that the body healed, trapping the embedded pigment beneath a see-through layer of thin scar tissue.

Etaín pressed her fingers gently along the edges of the bandages, assuring herself for a final time that they were secure before easing Salina’s shirt down.