Temporary (Indelibly Marked #2) (9 page)

“It’s funny to think that only a few miles away is
Hollywood.” Emily kept her hand loose in his and stopped to peek in the window
of a small dress shop. She shook her head and they went to the next store
featuring old vacuums and sewing machines. With a shrug they visited the next
window. The shop was empty except for a ‘For Sale’ sign.

Emily continued to stare inside.

“Did you find what you’re looking for?” He laughed.

“Do you ever think anyone finds what they’re looking for?”
She pressed her palm to the glass.

Still keeping hold of her hand, he moved up behind her. “The
other night you said you did.”

Without speaking, she leaned into the window, cupping her
hand around her eyes.

“What did you find?” Ivan wanted to know.

At last she turned to him. “What are you looking for?”

He stared into the empty store. At one point he would have
said he’d found everything. Then he looked back to her. Since the first time
they slept together, he hadn’t given another woman a second glance. Who was he
kidding? It was long before that. He wanted things between them back to the way
they were before everything imploded. Maybe at the end of the day, he simply
wanted her. “I don’t know…let me give it the same test you did.” He pulled her
over, wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her. Rather than allowing his
urges to guide him, he focused on the kiss.

Over the last year he’d kissed her too many times to keep
track. There was something to be said for kissing the same person over and over
again. But not every girl. Once upon a time, his goal was not to kiss the same
person for more than one night. Emily’s kisses possessed familiarity, but the
excitement never left.

In the middle of the block on Ventura Boulevard, the charge
didn’t come from kissing her in public. It came right from her. The way she
resisted but gave in, how she opened her mouth first and held on by hooking her
fingers in his belt loops.

Every time they kissed her taste woke up his appetite, and
she left him insatiable. With Emily, he always had the thrill, that
one-of-a-kind ache right in his center. It told him he had to have her for more
than a fast romp in the sheets when they needed it.

She broke the kiss and pushed him back, her dark pink lips
matching the flush on her cheeks.

Couple his craving with the way he felt compelled to never
leave her side, and he knew he’d landed in a deep, dark pool of trouble. She
was the same girl who he snuck into a PG-13 movie when she wasn’t yet thirteen.

With a slight shake of her head, she returned to gazing
through the window.

“Emily?”

“I guess it’s my turn to ask if you got the answer to your
question.”

     “I think it gave me more questions.” He tried to
inhale, but he couldn’t get a full breath. And his phone went off again.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

“The only person I want to talk to is with me.”

She put her hand to her chest. “What if it’s James?”

“I didn’t think of that. It’s gone off a bunch.” He
scrambled to get the phone out of his pocket and dropped it.

“Ivan!” As she yelled his name, her phone went off. With
breakneck speed, she retrieved it out of her purse and answered. “Shane? Is
everyone okay?”

Damn him for not taking responsibility. He hit the sidewalk
before standing and putting his arm around her. Why hadn’t he at least checked
caller I.D.?

She leaned into him. Twice in one day she looked to him for
support. No matter her age, she always held her own, but the mention of the
lawsuit, and apparently anything bad that might have happened with her brother,
pushed her a bit too far.

“Do you swear everything’s okay?” she whispered.

The baby. No wonder. For maybe a second, he waited for her
to respond before joining her in losing it. “Emily, the baby?”

“Learn to spit it out!” She thrust the phone at him. “The
baby’s fine.”

“What’s up?” He leaned against the building and wrapped his
arm around her. In an instant she buried his face in his chest. While he needed
to ride it out, she needed to let it out.

“I’m the one alone with the pregnant woman, what’s with all
the emotion?” Shane asked.

“Dude, you are a like a time bomb.” He shut his eyes. “No
offense.”

“No offense taken. I guess I should start each conversation
with I’m fine, Lindsay’s fine the baby’s fine.”

“I don’t care about you, but good news on the little one and
Linds would be appreciated.” He ran his hand over Emily’s hair.

“When you didn’t answer, I called the shop, they said you
took Emily out. Thank you for taking care of my little sis, by the way. There’s
no one I trust more.”

“No problem.” He shook his head and did his best to play it
cool. Shane possessed psychic superpowers, and he’d detect any hanky-panky if
he made a false move.

“Hey, I’ll let you guys do your thing, but I wanted to know
how things were going.”

Every muscle tightened in an effort to hold back how things
were really going. “They’re great, the shop runs itself.” He hit his head
against the concrete wall.

“Cool, call me later when you can talk. Tell Emily sorry.”

“Later.” He hung up.

Neither of them moved for several seconds, but at last Emily
lifted her head. Her eyes red rimmed, and her makeup smeared.

“Yeah, everything’s great.” He gently moved her away and
paced in front of that damn empty store. “Everything is wonderful! Look how
great we’re doing!”

“Ivan?”

He ignored her, turning up to the sky and holding his arms
out. “For a woman who could beat the crap out of most guys, you’re crying. The
lawsuit keeps getting worse. I think I’m going to have to go to the doctor to
get rid of the burning in my stomach, and we can’t even take a simple ride without
it turning into an emotional construction site.”

“Ivan?”

“What!” He faced her.

“Did James or anyone call?” A lone black tear traveled down
her cheek. “I feel like I’m sitting in a room full of explosives.”

“Damn it!” No wonder she broke down, every call, every
message, everything they heard held bad news. He lifted his own phone and
scrolled through the missed calls. “No, only Shane.”

She nodded.

“I’ll tell you what I want to do. I want to drive back to
the shop, kick the shit out of Billy, James, and that guy who’s trying to wreck
us. Everyone.” He slammed a fist into his own palm.

“No.” She ran over to him and took his arm. “No, Ivan.”

He forced his focus on her.

 “We can’t do that. I never want anyone thinking we’re the
bad guys or the thugs. You and my brothers, you’re artists, never forget that.”

“You think we’re artists?”

“You are.”

“Well, remember you’re a girl.” He wiped his forehead.

“I may be a girl, but I’m not your litter sister.” She
squared her jaw.

Point taken. He nodded. “What drew you to this empty store?”

She pursed her lips and swallowed. “I don’t know. The shop
is so busy that at one point I thought it would be cool to open a second one,
now…it doesn’t matter.”

“You are the dreamer.” He didn’t really mean to speak aloud,
but Emily had dreams, goals, and needs. She wanted more. Her brothers and her
parents taught her to never settle.

“It’s stupid,” She said and shrugged.

Yes, always the dreamer. He’d disappointed her time and
again with his reality of what he thought of them and their situation.

“I guess we’re not going to get an answer on the mediation
any time soon.” She turned to the empty storefront window.

“I wish I could fix this.” He wanted to do something for
her, not Shane, the shop, or even himself. Just Emily.

“We probably need to get back to the shop.”

“Yeah. I need to call Jake at
Inked Skin
first, and
see when he can come do some publicity for the shop.” He took out his phone and
scrolled through the numbers.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her smile. He went on a
ride to clear his mind and only ended up with more questions and one answer. No
longer was Emily his mascot. Ivan wanted her, but he didn’t know if he could
have her. Above all else, he didn’t want to disappoint her. And he had no clue
about what his next move should be.

Chapter
Eight

“I’m good, and I’m not thinking about Permanent or Ivan.” As
Emily rode up the elevator to Mark Markson’s studio in Beverly Hills, she
repeated that mantra over and over. Though she didn’t believe a word of it, it
felt productive to say them.

No. No thoughts of Ivan and the way he asked her, five
times, where she was going. No focusing on Permanent and the fact they still
hadn’t heard from James about the mediation. Maybe she sabotaged her date with
him by having those thoughts of Ivan. So what. She needed to concentrate on her
career. In a bold move, she turned her phone to silent. Since Lindsay’s bed
rest announcement, it had not been completely disconnected once.

At the eleventh floor the elevator doors parted. Setting her
repetitive loop of anxiety about Ivan and Permanent on pause, a fashion heaven
opened up in front of her.

Rarely did something match how it was pictured. Usually
photo enhanced images always ended in real life disappointment, but Mark
Markson’s studio did not.

Decorated in all white, the studio allowed the true stars of
the show, the clothes, to stand out. Rock music thrummed in the background,
giving the place its heartbeat. A few scattered people dressed in all black, lay
in wait until one of the amazing garments would grace their bodies. Emily said
a silent word of thanks for going with her instinct and dressing in all black.

With her makeup case rolling behind her, she stepped out of
the elevator and assessed the lay of the land before making her presence known.

“So I take it you like my playground?” Mark came around a
curved wall and headed toward her.

Not wanting to come of as some gawker, she tilted her head.
Along with his so-called playground, Mark also fit the perfect image of an L.A.
designer. Tall, with dark buzzed hair, a bit of scruff on his round face,
wearing a loose black hoodie and jeans as if he didn’t have a care at all about
what he wore. Yet she knew his look was as deliberate as hers.

He stared down at her, studying her face. “You played up
your own features to a tee.”

She stayed perfectly still, but slowly exhaled at having
past the first test.

“In fact,” he crossed his arms and stepped back. “If I could
stretch you five inches taller, you could be a model yourself.”

With the focus of all the other women in the studio on her,
she straightened on her four-inch heels and did her best strut toward one of
the racks of clothes. “Trust me, those inches don’t make a difference.”
Something told her she needed to make sure she’d played tough, and she
completed a perfect turn. Growing up with brothers and their models of
perfection plastered to their walls taught her a thing or three. She might not
have the height or the a-cup to be a model, but she could play one with the
best of them.

A full smile took over his face. “My instinct is you have
what it takes to play in my sandbox.” He guided her through the studio and over
to a makeup and dressing area lined with mirrors. “Let’s see what you can do
with my line.”

A door opened and as if they’d rehearsed, three models
entered; a brunette, a redhead, and a blonde, the full triple-scoop. Truth be
told, they put her walk to shame. Not to be distracted, she studied the
clothes, and the similarities and differences between the beautiful women.

All three wore slicked back hair tied in a long ponytail.
Obviously Mark preferred his models long and tall with a lot of angles.

In a throwback to aviation gear, the brunette stopped in
front of her and posed. She wore fitted pants, leather, knee-high boots, and
dark colors. Emily wanted to fly away in that ensemble and her mouth watered.

The model gave her a quick wink and took her place in the
first chair.

Model number two came forward. Her outfit, a butter-colored
leather evening dress swirled with her as she made her turn. Her red hair
played off the dress and though similar to the sleek brunette, she was more
willowy and soft. She even gave Emily a sweet smile.

Like a camera, her mind clicked running snapshots of the
makeup possibilities. The brunette needed something dramatic, edgy, but the red
head was more ethereal and other-worldly.

In what could only be a wedding dress, the blonde took
center stage. White shredded tulle floated around her and a studded bodice
outlined her whisper of a waist. Her face…something rang familiar about her
face. Her expression was stoic and serious. She was the type of woman the guys
would describe as gorgeous, but bored.

Emily bit the inside of her mouth trying to place her, and
then the model narrowed her eyes in a glare.

Carson. Oh, her man-whore brother. The woman wanted her
brother and her silent sibling gave in and took her out a couple of times,
dumping her because—

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring any of the other cockroaches
with you. Don’t you all travel in a pack?” Little Miss bridal dress lifted her
chin and turned to take her spot.

Yes. Carson dumped her like bad bologna because she was a
bitch. “Nice to see you again, Sissy.” She ached to call her the other name,
but in a business setting she needed to keep it civil. Unlike the shop, she had
no clout here.

Mark came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“What do you think?”

“I think they all need makeup.” Though her insides
fluttered, if she’d learned one thing from her brothers, it was to never show
fear. Of course, she also learned to be on the offensive, but there was no way
she’d be offensive there. She’d warned all the males in her life about that
time and again. All the males included Ivan, and in an instant he took over her
thoughts again. Over and over he asked where she was off to, and she repeatedly
avoided the question. Too often she’d talked when she was on the verge of
something wonderful, only to have it fall flat.

“Then let’s get to it.” Mark motioned toward the models.

“Turn up the music,” Emily requested. She needed to
concentrate and block out the voices in her head.

“Consider it done.” With a final pat on her back, he walked
away.

Once more she assessed the three women. The sour snarl
across Sissy’s face grew even more bitter. While she would have loved to do her
makeup first and get it over with, her mind went blank, blocked on what to do
other than give the model a clown nose and a sad face.

Instead, she rolled her case to the brunette. The music
rose, and she opened her first drawer to her familiar friends, palates of
color, brushes, and glamour. While tattoos told an intimate story about the
owner, makeup could transform anyone into someone else entirely.

“How long have you been doing makeup?” The brunette lifted
her chin and closed her eyes.

“Since I was fourteen.” Emily studied her complexion and
used two foundations to blend the perfect match for the already pristine skin.
Acne was her personal enemy in her teen years and she’d discovered she could
mask the blemishes better with dramatic makeup.

“Oh, cool.” The woman lifted only one corner of her mouth in
a smile.

“Where did you go to school?” Sissy spun the chair toward
her.

She sucked in her cheeks. School could be added to the long
line of items she didn’t complete. Her stint at makeup school lasted two
classes where she knew more than the instructor. Refusing to let the school
inhibit her creativity, she quit and flitted between jobs. Of course, Shane and
Ivan finished their apprenticeships and Dillon went to college. Even Carson
spent some time at the community college.

“I’m self-taught.”

Sissy let out a chuckle. “That’s another word for amateur.”

Too many people throughout her life called her that or
worse. One of them her own big brother when he found out she’d abandoned the
formal training he’d set up. After that, he disappeared, and Shane swept in to
save her with a hug and a job.

She ground her teeth together.
No thinking about the shop
and Ivan.

“I didn’t go to modeling school.” The brunette closed her
eyes.

“Everyone learns differently.” She paused, taking a second
to stop her hand from trembling before completing the eye shadow.

“Or in your case, you didn’t learn at all,” Sissy hissed.

Dillon always told her she needed to be committed to one thing,
and she forced herself to focus on her task. Taking another lesson from her
eldest brother, she decided not to engage with Sissy. The other men in her life
would have taken her down for less.

She needed to add Dillon to the list of things she wouldn’t
allow to distract her.

Unlike most women she did makeovers or lessons for, the
model knew not to move or flinch even as Emily applied eyeliner and mascara.
Rather than working to enhance features, or create something her client could
duplicate, runway makeup allowed her to create something outrageous.

As she’d pictured, she transformed her first model into an
unusual mix between glamour and punk. It was Rosie the Riveter, if she put on
combat boots and pierced her tongue.

“I really think you need to speed things up. Mark doesn’t
like it when people dawdle.” Sissy twisted her ponytail around her fingers.

Instead of a grand reveal where she would turn the chair
around and allow her client to gaze upon their new look, she treated her trial
as if she were truly behind the scenes at a fashion show and moved along,
tripping on her case when she stopped in front of the redhead.

“Careful with all that makeup around these clothes.” Sissy
fluffed up her tulle.

She steadied herself and her supplies, managing to keep
everything from tumbling. For the first time in her life, rather than fight,
she ached to run out. All she needed to do was open the top drawer, slide
everything inside and take off. The mess could be sorted out later, but if she
wanted to be something other than an amateur, she had to press on and at least
finish.

Before continuing, she tossed away the used applicators and
took a second to clean up her work area.

“Wow.” The redhead leaned forward.

“What is it?” Emily finished her prep and chose several bases
to do her color match, putting little bits of the makeup into a new small
plastic container.

“You keep everything so clean. Most of the artists double
dip.” The model wrinkled her nose.

Emily peeked over at her caddy. “I learned from the best.”
Shane and Ivan both spent hours setting her up when she first decided to pursue
makeup. Ink caps, the containers the guys normally used to separate their ink
per client, she used for bits of makeup. She set up her workplace much like the
shop, making sure used applicators were zoned off and disposed of never to come
in contact with another person or her supplies. The bottom fell out of her
stomach at a sudden thought. Did Billy follow all the proper steps? Make sure
everything was spotlessly clean? Shane and Ivan drummed into her and Carson’s
and all the artists head, that above all else, keep everything sterile.

“Oh, now I know where you got your so-called training, from
a bunch of tattooed guys.” Sissy crossed her arms.

People said the word tattoo in one of two ways, with
reverence or with disgust. The snarl in Sissy’s voice couldn’t be mistaken for
anything except the latter. Heat consumed her. Screw running away, maybe she
needed to tell Sissy she also learned a great left hook from a bunch of
tattooed guys.

“Really?” The redhead widened her eyes. Her tone laced with
fascination served to douse Emily’s fire.

“Yes, my brother owns a shop in Hollywood.”

“Oh, I always wanted a tattoo.”

“You won’t get in there; if you don’t fit in they’ll kick
you out.” The blonde swung her leg.

Emily inhaled, taking her time to feather out the foundation
before responding. “Funny, I don’t remember you wanting a tattoo, Sissy.”

“I would never ruin my body.”

“You can’t ruin what is already spoiled.” The next time she
saw Carson, she’d hug him for not getting seriously involved with a pretty face
with an ugly inside. She balled her hand into a fist then relaxed her fingers,
not wanting to be lowered to her level.

“Excuse me?” Sissy put one foot on the floor as if preparing
to stand.

Her brothers’ DNA kicked in once more and Emily lifted her
chin. “In your case I would agree with your opinion of my brother’s shop.”

“What does that mean?”

She put her tools down and stepped toward the woman. “You
are right, you would not fit in there. The ink slides right off the slime.”

Sissy slid her foot back.

She returned to her model. Maybe Dillon, Sissy, and her
makeup teacher were all right. She was an amateur. No doubt her chances of
getting the job were gone now, but she had to carry on.

“I love tattoos.” The redhead opened one eye.

“Me too.” She made sure the model matched her vision. Light
sparkling skin, but monotone colors, the pop would come with the lipstick, but
wouldn’t compete with the dress.

“How much longer are you going to take?” Sissy piped in.

Without acknowledging the intrusion, she pressed forward. In
a real show she would have many models in a row with no room to banter, not
that it mattered; there would be no runway for her.

“You’re as cocky as your brother,” Sissy said.

Emily dabbed a bit of gloss on the redhead’s lower lip,
stepped back to give her one last assessment. She turned to her case to clean
up, begging her mind to come up with any makeup for the bitch other than
shoving an eyeliner pencil into her eye.

“Are you going to start on me?” The woman refused to quiet
down.

She stalled in an attempt to figure out her plan. The twist
in her stomach overpowered her racing heart, and her body broke out into a
sweat. No wonder the Elliotts traveled together, there was always someone to
help, or in her case, someone to hide behind.