The Greatest Risk (Second Circle Tattoos Series Book 5)
Page 1
The Greatest Risk
A Second Circle Tattoos Novella
Scarlett Cole
Contents
The Greatest Risk
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Scarlett Cole
THE GREATEST RISK
by Scarlett Cole
Chapter One
“And the winner is…”
Holly Eden took a deep breath as she watched Trent Andrews, tattoo artist extraordinaire and judge of the TV show Inked, take the envelope from his fellow judge Dred Zander, lead singer of Preload. She took a deep breath and tried to ignore the heat of the studio lights that beamed down on her head. The gold envelope glittered in the rock star’s hand. Her future rested on its contents. If she won, she’d open the tattoo studio prize right here in New York. She’d be able to salvage her reputation and rebuild what had been ripped away from her. If she lost… well, she’d be out of options, unemployed, and broke. She’d run out of sofas to surf and spare beds to crash on, and if she wasn’t careful, she would run out of friends to call on, too.
She tried to ignore the red light on top of camera three that reminded her that the finale was being broadcast live to millions of homes across America. She did hope, though, that Joshua, wherever he was, was watching. God, how naïve had she been? He’d convinced her to invest the money she’d been saving to repay her parents, the money meant to mend their broken relationship. She missed them in her life, but they weren’t ready to speak to her yet. He’d sold it to her by reminding her that becoming a partner in his tattoo studio would speed up the rate at which she was capable of saving as an employee. She’d even thought she’d been investing in a future when she’d agreed to become a partner in his tattoo studio. And because he’d taught her to become a tattoo artist, because he’d platonically taken her in when her parents had thrown her out, and because he’d invested in her that way, when he’d proposed that they use her savings for an expansion of the studio, she’d trusted him. Week after week afterwards, he’d promised that the paperwork was still at the lawyers. And then he’d disappeared, along with all of her money and everything that had been in the studio’s bank account. He’d been last seen getting on a train headed south, having left his staff unpaid, his business in foreclosure, and her—his would-be business partner who had lived in the apartment above the studio—broke and homeless.
The first day he hadn’t shown up for work she’d been worried about him. Two days later, she’d called the police and reported him missing. Only after a week had she received a text in response to the hundred she’d sent him: I’m fine. I’m sorry.
When a friend had hooked her up with an audition for Inked, she’d jumped at the chance. It was a risk, for sure, but if she won the first prize of a tattoo studio, she’d hire everyone else who had worked for Joshua and hadn’t been able to find other work as tattoo artists yet. Sure, Breacon had found a bar job, Christmas-time was a busy season, after all. Flick was selling her art, and Gremlin had taken the opportunity to volunteer for a charity in Nepal. But Holly couldn’t stop thinking about being able to reunite with them. If she was fast, she could even make an offer on Joshua’s studio equipment to the liquidator before everything shut down for the holidays. It would stop the whispers… the whispers that were preventing anybody from hiring her right now… the whispers that she was perhaps involved somehow. That perhaps she and Joshua were more than platonic friends and she was merely biding her time before she left to join him.
She was thankful that none of the employees of the studio believed the rumors, but that didn’t help pay the bills.
A bead of sweat rolled down her back, and she hoped that it wouldn’t show through her floral-patterned tunic dress, a bargain from her favorite vintage store in Bushwick, the part of Brooklyn she’d lived in before everything had crashed down around her and where she was going to ride out the last few weeks of Gremlin’s lease if she lost. The fabric suddenly seemed too warm for the studio. She resisted the urge to spin one of the many black and silver gothic rings on her fingers as she mentally tried to control the thoughts whizzing through her head.
Her mouth felt dry, but she knew better than to run her tongue along her teeth. Dred had taken her aside during episode six and had sweetly told her to stop doing it, suggesting that she instead use Vaseline to keep her gums from feeling dry. It hadn’t helped, though. Instead, her mouth now just felt sticky.
Today was episode sixteen. Her last and final chance. Up until now, the judges had been able to save contestants, but the final round was one hundred percent viewer votes.
She looked over at the only other competitor left, Johnny “Razor” Russo. With his obnoxiously charming smile and his how-you-doin’ wink, he’d been a fan favorite, especially with female viewers. He stood, hands in pockets, practically eye-fucking the camera. Holly hated his easy confidence, hated the way he’d schmoozed every one of his contestants. Most of all, she’d hated the way he’d taken what they wanted their tattoos to look like and turned them into something he’d wanted to do. How many of his clients had gone home and felt “reality TV show remorse” once they’d lived with their ink for a while?
His ink, while good, was nowhere close to as good as her own. The realist tattoo of Freddie Mercury that she’d done for a hard-core Queen fan on the music lovers’ episode had ended up even better than she could have imagined. Her own favorite had been the one she created on the memorial episode for a female firefighter who’d wanted a minimalist line-drawing memorial for her grandfather who’d died while working as a smokejumper on a Montana mountain range. Trent had said that it was the best tattoo he’d ever seen done on the show, its simplicity and creativity conveying an incredible amount of emotion.
Holly doubted herself in countless ways. But not when it came to her ink. She knew she was the best artist on the show, but she just wasn’t able to put on a performance like some of the other contestants who’d been picked as much for their personalities and ability to create made-for-TV conflict as for their capabilities as tattoo artists.
Holly took a deep breath. Trent had saved her from elimination in round eleven when she’d been up against the controversial Deacon, Dred had saved her in round thirteen when she’d faced off against smooth-talking Ferdie. A friendly, drama-free, working-class girl, who tended to mind her own business, was a hard sell on a reality TV show.
If it weren’t for one of Trent’s employees, Lia, a red-headed bombshell whom she’d met on an earlier episode, Holly would have probably completely blended into the background. Holly had loved Lia’s pin-up girl style and outgoing personality, which contrasted with her own quieter seventies vibe, and she’d been incredibly kind, honest, and helpful. Lia was the reason Holly now wore more make-up to help her features withstand the glare of the high-studio wattage, the reason she’d amped up her look a little, and the reason her blonde shoulder-length bob sat in loose waves.
Trent ripped open the envelope and slid out the card. Dred read the card over his shoulder, and a quick glance passed between the two men. The viewers wouldn’t have caught it, but having been around the men for so long, Holly could tell what it meant. Her heart sank.
“…Johnny Russo.”
A buzzing began in Holly’s ears. Johnny’s face was scrunched, and he was obviously roaring, but she couldn’t hear anything. Trent shook his hand, as did Dred. It w
as professional, polite. She knew they had a job to do, but it hurt to watch the two men she admired celebrate with Johnny.
“Johnny, how do you feel right now?” she heard, the buzzing subsiding. Dred threw an arm over his shoulder.
“I feel like the king of the world,” Johnny replied. “I mean, I’ve always known my ink was up there with the best, but this just proves it.”
Seriously? Did the guy even know what the word humility meant? It was impossible to be happy for him when her own heart was cracking into a thousand pieces.
She didn’t want to go back to Bushwick tonight, to Gremlin’s practically empty apartment. She wasn’t ready to face the fact she’d have to get a different job, assuming potential employers didn’t type her name into a search engine and find the rumors about the studio’s sudden demise.
Holly plastered a smile on her face like the producer had told the contestants to do. Be happy for the other person—it made for better television. But when Trent and Dred came to hug her, and Trent whispered something in her ear, she couldn’t make out what he said, the buzzing in her brain having returned.
She’d lost.
Five weeks of filming, of being put up in a house with strangers for a few nights a week, every minute of their lives watched. Five weeks of doing her very best work while trying to find a job as a back-up plan.
And she’d failed. At both.
“And, cut,” someone called out, shaking her from herself.
Johnny raced around the studio, high-fiving the crew while holding his phone to his ear. Trent and Dred circled around Michael, the producer of the show.
“This is fucking bullshit, and you know it,” Trent said.
“Trent,” Michael said, his voice smooth, “when we changed the format this season, we always knew that a viewer-only vote in the final round could go either way.”
“What’s your problem, Andrews?” Johnny asked, seeming to suddenly realize that something outside of himself was going on.
If it weren’t for the non-disclosure agreement she’d signed, she could have videoed the asshole so many times being just like this—the complete opposite of his on-screen persona.
Trent turned. “You’re a great tattoo artist, but let’s call this as it is. She’s better, and we all know it.” He pointed in her direction, and she wished the studio floor would open up and swallow her whole.
“Trent, I appreciate you sticking up for me, but you don’t need—”
“I do need,” Trent said quickly. “I didn’t sign up to oversee a popularity contest. I signed up to be a judge on a TV show.” He turned to Michael. “I know you wanted to try a live public vote finale this year to draw in more viewers, but I’m out if this is the format for next year.”
Holly sucked in a breath, and Johnny did a double-take. As did Michael. “Look, let’s not be hasty. Let’s regroup after the publicity for the finale has died down, mid-January say, and we can discuss.”
“I’m with Trent,” Dred said, slinging his arm over Trent’s shoulders. “Johnny was a really good tattoo artist, but we all know he should have gone home in round eleven.”
It should have made her heart soar to know that the judges had been rooting for her…but miss by a minute, you miss by a mile. She hadn’t won, and no amount of wishing and hoping was going to change that. She was unemployed, broke, and had no other option but to go home.
“I want a retraction, nothing less. Don’t bother me again until it’s sorted,” Ryan Arden said before ending the call. Fucking lawyers. It still irritated him that he’d lost the band Dramageddon even though they had a name he’d personally hated. The first night he’d seen them in a bar frequented by a metal crowd, he’d noticed their talent, their raw energy. Damn, the lead singer, a kid of twenty with charisma pouring from his veins, had vocals that could already fill an arena. They’d been reluctant to sign with him, confident they could manage themselves for now without handing Ryan a cut. So, he’d mentored them, nurtured them even, slowly convincing them to sign with him. And they’d returned the favor by signing with another East Coast agent after a night of drinking. It shouldn’t matter to him that an agent at another agency was in Rolling Stone taking credit for uncovering them but it did. And Ryan was fed up of getting screwed over.
He looked out the seventeenth-floor window of MCB Entertainment’s boardroom, casting his gaze across the sprawling cityscape of New York. Winter was here. It was in the early-morning gray sky and the wind that could whip your scarf off. Catching sight of his reflection in the glass, he fixed his dirty-blond hair that tended to spring a life of its own and then sipped his coffee.
The lights of the huge Rockefeller Center’s Christmas tree twinkled over the ice-rink, and the usual line of skaters were making their way onto the ice as they did every morning. Seven years of living in Manhattan and he’d never set foot on the ice, despite playing ice hockey until he’d gone to college. He watched a couple—clearly capable skaters—make a loop around the rink. They paused periodically to kiss each other, and he realized why he’d never tried skating there. Somehow, it seemed too… romantic.
He ran a finger along the collar of his shirt. Every day he wore the same uniform—fitted suit from a guy who made the trip from Hong Kong once a year to measure him up, tie, and silver cufflinks. But today, the made-to-measure collar of his shirt felt like it was going to choke him. He had no idea why Jack Maloney, the “M” in MCB Entertainment, had asked to meet him at eight thirty in the morning, long before the business came to life.
Ryan yawned and sipped more coffee. Sleep had escaped him. He usually only got six hours—if he was lucky. Bands played late, and he was always into the office early when he was in town. Such was the life of an agent. But getting a call last night telling him about the meeting today had tested his ability to switch off once he hauled his ass into bed.
He’d spent most of the evening checking his numbers. He’d called off his weekly hour-long chat with his mom so he could confirm what he already knew. His bands, bands he’d carefully curated, were all doing well. Better than well. They were kicking ass. Four were in the middle of major arena tours, Ryan’s office up on the eighteenth floor had multi-platinum records on its walls, and everyone was financially stable both for now and for later.
He took a breath and straightened shoulders that ached from his early-morning workout. There was no reason to worry. Well, except for the fact he’d arrived at the office so early that he’d not been able to check-in on Mrs. Percival, his ninety-year-old neighbor, who relied on him to collect her mail from the mailbox when her arthritis flared up. Sometimes, she’d give him a call if she needed help getting moving in the morning, and he prayed today wasn’t one of those days.
“Ryan.” Jack Maloney walked into the room, letting the door swing closed behind him. “Good to see you. Thanks for coming in.” He placed his papers and coffee down on the table to offer Ryan his hand, and Ryan shook it.
“It’s good to see you, Jack,” he said to the man who had launched Ryan’s career. “What can I do for you?”
Jack pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat. “I’ve known you what, seven years now?”
Seven years ago, Ryan had practically begged Jack to take him on. “Seven fantastic years this past summer,” Ryan replied with a grin. After having completed his MBA project on the state of the entertainment industry’s talent management sector, in which he’d identified gaps in MCB’s offerings, he’d summoned the balls to reach out to Jack on social media with cryptic hints about how his current business model hadn’t been set up for future success.
Jack smiled. “Can’t disagree with that. It’s why I want to see you. We’re going to make some changes.”
Ryan’s stomach turned like his parents’ rusted manual lawn mower, the one he kept wanting to replace but his father wouldn’t allow him to do. “Like what?”
Jack eyed him cautiously. “Later on today, I’m going to let Duncan know he’s leaving the business.”
What the—?
While he processed the news, he focused on keeping his face straight, pretending to look at the Christmas tree that stood in the corner. Duncan was the vice president of the East Coast offices, including the satellite offices in Nashville, Tennessee and Atlanta, Georgia. How far did the shake-up go? Was his own ass on the line?
“So, what happens here now that Duncan is gone?” Ryan’s mind raced with possibilities. Was he getting Duncan’s job? It was a stretch, but he was game. He knew he could do it.
“We aren’t ready to announce Duncan’s replacement yet. It’s going to take time. But unfortunately, Duncan is leaving immediately because of some financial irregularities our last audit turned up.”
Man, as much as Ryan wanted to know how big those financial irregularities were, he needed to get focused convincing Jack that he could do the job. He had a head full of ideas for growth. There was so much he could offer to the business.
“We thought we had time for his succession plan. I spoke to Tavener, who is second-in-command over at the West Coast office, but he can’t move to the East Coast. So, we need you to run it temporarily while we find someone. Take the position in an interim capacity.”
Interim? The words were a kick in the chest.
“Is there any particular reason I’m not being considered for the role permanently?” he asked, his voice rough as he tried to mask his disappointment.
“You’ve done good, Ryan. That’s about the sum of it. We love your energy, your drive, your determination. Not just with the artists you look after, but with the business. Your reports never just contain data. They contain insight. Insight we can do something with, make decisions from.”