Busted (Stacked Deck Book 11)

by Emilia Finn

  Every person who has ink plays a large part in planning what’s going on their skin, but only if they’re lucky like me could they have an amazing artist at their beck and call. I can drop hints and details at the most random times, and Em will takes notes – though of course, she’ll allow the design to evolve as I change my mind – then at the end, this is what we get.

  “You like this?” Em peeks over her shoulder and grins. Her long hair is tied up in a high ponytail today to keep it out of her face while she works, but the way she stands now means that it glides over her shoulder as she studies me. It drags along her back, and tickles the bare skin of her shoulder blade as it moves.

  “Shit, EmKat.” The moment I’m able to stop looking at her succulent body, her sparkling eyes, and instead focus on her drawing, my heart jumps and draws me closer. “The detail in that is badass.”

  “Yeah, well.” She stands tall again as I step close, pulling her to my side as I study the screen. “I am the best,” she boasts. “Everyone knows it.”

  “And humble too. It’s such a sexy quality.”

  “You must be confusing me with one of your other floozies. Let’s go.”

  She slides out of my hold and snags a massive roll of plastic wrap from beneath her desk. While I study the computer screen, Em goes to work sanitizing and covering an already sanitized chair. She works with soap and paper towels, then an alcohol spray, then the wrap so it’s almost like she’s wrapping a mummy. When she’s done and heads across the room to the back wall, she washes her hands at a sparkling sink, and lathers up in a way that I think perhaps surgeons do. Soap over her hands and wrists, arms and elbows. She scrubs until the fluffy soap permeates the air, then she washes it all off and dries her skin.

  Em works through her routine of cleaning, sanitizing, collecting tools from the autoclave, and selecting inks and colors. We’re working only in blacks and grays today, but there are a million shades of those – something I had no clue until Em showed me. Bringing each new thing to the silver trolley by her chair – also sterilized and covered in plastic wrap – she dumps them where she needs them, and heads back to collect more.

  It’s a slow, methodical process, I guess, when preparing to stab someone’s skin and leave your mark behind. From making sure everything is safe and clean, to making sure the art is exactly right, and that you have all of your tools ready for use.

  Em does her thing with a hum under her breath to go along with the music coming from the speaker, but twenty minutes after we walk in here, we’re ready. My shirt is off, my back is pressed to the chair, my chest exposed for the world to see – or, well, Em – so when we’re both satisfied with the placement of the stencil, the soft buzzing of her tattoo gun begins, and Em’s face stops mere inches from mine.

  Her eyes, a sparkling, bright blue, come to mine for a beat while she holds the gun above my skin, but when I say nothing, only put my hand on her hip in silence, Em’s lips quirk up with playfulness, and her hand comes down so that the first dots of ink transfer.

  This isn’t the first time Emma Kincaid has put her art on me. But it sure as hell is the first time we’re doing it with our faces this close, with my hand on her body, and her lips near enough to kiss.

  “Fart?” Her voice is melodic, gentle and kind.

  “Mm?”

  “I love you.” She flashes a sweet smirk. “Forever.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Too fucking bad, I think to myself, my phone wont stop vibrating in my pocket.

  Six hours, three Cokes, one can’t-take-the-pressure-anymore, unsanitary moment in a sanitized space, and mutual orgasms later, I push up to sit again when Em declares her work done.

  My new ink is badass, my girlfriend is the sexiest woman I know in a pair of jeans, and her dad, knowing we’d be here, just so happens to be standing at the back door of the shop, slamming his fist against the metal door and demanding entrance.

  “Let me get that,” Em watches Bobby through the security feed on her computer screen. Chuckling at his insistence and inability to be patient, she peels off her ink-stained gloves and tosses them into the trash can, then casting a fast glance back over my uncovered chest, she nods, and does this little smirk of arrogance that she does every time she finishes a piece she’s particularly fond of. “Check it in the mirror,” she says on her way out. “Let me know if I need to tweak anything.”

  More thudding at the back door makes her move faster.

  “I’m coming, Daddy! Geez. Just wait a sec.”

  I push up off the chair, grimacing at the slurp of sweat and skin against the unforgiving plastic covering, and move to the mirrored wall that stands between Em’s cubicle and the next one along. I study my reflection and the art she transferred to my skin likes it’s no big deal that her hands and mind can work in perfect harmony to recreate something from a screen.

  Em’s lines are always sharp, never shaky. Her shadowing is dramatic and always comes with the right weight. Her work is so steady that it rarely hurts all that much – I mean, it’s still needles being pushed into my skin thousands of times. But Em has this way of making it barely a feather’s touch, or perhaps it’s the distraction of her beautiful eyes being so near that takes my mind off the pain.

  I twist my torso so the lights above play off my shiny ink at different angles. My pecs stand out, my abs well-defined after a lifetime spent inside a gym. I’ve always liked my body, been proud of its strength and how I look, but when Bobby Kincaid stomps his way into the room and glowers because I’m half-naked in front of his baby, I turn and consider a shirt.

  “That looks so good,” Em reiterates when she comes back into sight. Her eyes stay on my chest, on her art, and not on her father’s sucked-on-a-lemon expression. “Don’t you think, Daddy?”

  “Awesome art, baby.” Then his eyes come to mine. “Put your shirt on.”

  “Daddy.” Em isn’t afraid of her father like most men in this town are. But then again, I’m not sure Em is afraid of anyone. Nor do I think a single woman who knows Bobby is afraid of him.

  He’s formidable to men, but a marshmallow when it comes to women.

  Em taps her father’s stomach as she passes, then steps up to me, so fucking close that it feels like she’s announcing to the world that we sometimes fuck. To me, it’s a neon sign screaming that we’re more than friends. A message written in the sky that we’re no longer platonic.

  How does no one know yet?

  But I guess to Em, she’s just doing her job as she folds her neck just a little to study her work. She brings a hand up, feathering her fingertips over the skin just on the outer side of where she inked, and though she’s close enough that her sweet breath bathes my skin, Bobby doesn’t Hulk-smash the room, so I guess, from his point of view, everything is still fine.

  “It’s perfect,” Em whispers as ‘Sweet But Psycho’ comes on Spotify, and my eyes meet Bobby’s over her head. He stands on the other side of the room in jeans and a gym shirt that shows off his broad shoulders.

  Perhaps our fathers have adult children now, but that doesn’t mean they’re old. They’re still in the gym daily, still training, still teaching, which means they’re not soft, nor are they slow or weak.

  Emma’s fingers feel like a sin on my skin. She’s so close, and my hands itch to take her hips. But that, I suspect, would be a dangerous mistake on my part – more dangerous than that time he thought I gave her alcohol at prom – so I dig them into my pockets instead, until Em is done with her inspection. And while she does that, my phone continues to vibrate.

  The second Em steps away to begin cleaning up, Bobby’s stance relaxes, turning less and less taut as I slap my own covering down on my ink – I’ve had practice at this – and then pull a shirt on. Once I’m dressed, he’s back to being the guy I grew up knowing… my godfather, and the man I was named after.

  He’s my dad’s best friend, an uncle of sorts, but without the blood bond – thank you Jesus, or else the way I feel about his dau
ghter would be that much weirder.

  When I’m done with my shirt and cross over to grab my phone, Grace’s name spams my screen and draws a sigh that piques Bobby’s attention.

  He spies my screen, since I guess he’s not interested in privacy, and when he sees Grace’s name over and over again, the final thread of tension leaves his body. It’s like there’s a part of him, a very small, very deeply buried part of his subconscious, that knows his daughter is close with a grown man. But Grace’s presence means that I’m busy with her, and not his daughter.

  “You got admirers?” Bobby comes to lean against the partition that surrounds Em’s cubicle space. Crossing his ankles, he relaxes in to chat while his daughter tidies up. “You still dating that girl?”

  “Um… no, not really.” I feel Em’s sizzling gaze on the back of my neck.

  More than two decades of being her best friend means I know when she isn’t pleased. But it makes me smile. She’s jealous of Grace, and knowing that is fun after years of me watching her date jock after jock.

  “Grace and I used to date,” I tell Bobby. “She’s cool—”

  “She’s not cool,” Emma snaps. “She’s a whore who wishes Rob would fall in love with her.” She slams steel trays into the sink and silently promises that if I laugh, I’m dead. “Grace is a bottom-of-the-pyramid, soggy from all the dregs, uncool slut that deserves five minutes in the octagon with me.”

  Bobby’s grin grows. “Tell us how you really feel, baby.”

  “I just did! She makes me want to say the C-word, and we all know that’s extreme. She’s a two-faced, opportunistic whore who could have landed herself an amazing man, but she was more interested in jumping from bed to bed and treating Rob like a backup plan.”

  “Hey now,” I grumble. “That’s offensive.”

  “Now you’ll choose someone better.” She stops her attack on her equipment, and flashes a conspiratorial grin. “That someone will be very lucky, and she’ll know what she has, so she won’t mess it up. Assuming you also accept how lucky you are, and don’t do dickish things like leave crumbs on a counter she just cleaned.”

  “Oh yeah,” Bobby inserts. “Chicks hate that.”

  “It’s true,” Em bobs her head. “Chicks hate it. Chicks also hate Grace, so leave that in the trash where it belongs and move along.”

  “Well, shit,” I drawl for them both, “I’m so glad we had this chat to discuss a woman I’m already not dating. It was fun.”

  “Sure was,” Em singsongs. Turning back to the sink, she begins assembling what she needs to put into the sterilizer, and what she needs to toss away. “Why are you here, Daddy?”

  “I need a reason?” he counters. “You came from my balls, baby. Means I never need an invitation to drop in.”

  “Gross.”

  He chuckles. “Come get lunch with me. I want a date with my youngest, and I’m not willing to wait until you can squeeze me into your busy schedule.”

  “I could probably pencil you in for fourth of July… next year.”

  “Ha.” He rolls his eyes. “You have ten minutes to get your ass in my car. Then you’re mine for as long as it takes to eat the lasagna Mac’s mom made.”

  “Oh, lasagna.” Em looks to me. “I’m going to lunch with Daddy.”

  Snorting, I shake my head and swipe her keys. “And I’m not invited. Got it. I’ll take your car, you go with him, then you can swing by the apartment later to get yours back.”

  “Solid plan.”

  Em quickly finishes her cleaning. It’s all routine to her, muscle memory, something she could do with her eyes closed. It takes only minutes, then she bounces across the shop and stops in front of her father. “Ready.”

  He offers her his arm, like it’s the nineteenth century again, and he’s about to take her to the opera. She loops her arm in his, snuggles into his side, and though she doesn’t see it, I do; the smile that says he’s so fucking in love with being her dad.

  Marrying Kit might have been the first truly right thing he ever did. Then making the kids he did… it’s all so much bigger than it seems on the surface. And he knows it, I think. He knows he might be the luckiest man on the planet.

  “I’ll see you later, Fart.”

  “Yep.” I follow them out of the shop, since Em has to lock up and set the alarms. But once the light flashes red, I lift my chin in farewell, and though I wish I could kiss her goodbye, I suspect if I try, Bobby might rearrange my face. So I leave it alone. “See you when you get back.”

  “You live in my house,” Bobby grumbles. “Not his apartment. Don’t you forget that.”

  Emma only laughs and cuddles in close as he leads her to his SUV. “I won’t forget, Daddy. I could never.”

  I have nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, so I head home and stomp my way up the stairs.

  But now, I wish I’d gone somewhere else, anywhere else. I wish the universe had warned me to stay the fuck away, or run away, or go back to high school and make different choices. But that’s not what I get.

  Instead, I make it to my floor only to find Grace sitting on the top step, with tears in her eyes – not the loud, attention-seeking kind, but something a lot softer. Something, well… not-Grace-like.

  She glances up when I crest the flight below, and our eyes meet. Then a single tear falls, and my brows draw together.

  “Grace?”

  “I knocked,” she murmurs. “Luke wouldn’t let me in, so I figured I’d wait for you here.”

  “Grace, I don’t… You and I…” I shake my head and stay where I am. I don’t dare go closer. “I’m not interested in a hookup, so you should probably just go—”

  Shaking her head, she slowly stands and firms her quivering lips. “We need to talk.”

  Emma

  What. The. Fuck

  Lunch with my father stretched into dessert, then milkshakes, then pie, and then early dinner, since we both have the metabolism of professional fighters, despite the fact neither of us do that – him, anymore; me, ever.

  Well, perhaps not the exact metabolism as the pros, but still, our eyes tend to be bigger than our stomachs, and though I make my way up the stairs in the twins’ apartment building with a belly full of regret, I can’t find it in my heart to be sorry for spoiling whatever I was actually going to have for dinner, nor the little potbelly that now hangs over the top of my too-tight jeans.

  Tonight, the guys will likely order takeout, I’ll sit and watch them eat, and though I’ll tell myself not to, the chances of me consuming a little bit of whatever they get is high, because I never like to miss out. After that, Rob and I will do what Rob and I do best: movies, snuggles, and pretend to be only friends, while Luke sits mere feet away and remains blissfully ignorant to our wandering hands.

  It’s exciting, dangerous, and exhilarating to sneak. So I guess we’ll hold on to that for a little longer, and then eventually, we’ll tell my dad, and Rob will face the gauntlet of fighters whose job it is to guard my heart.

  Rob may be family already, and perhaps he’s my dad’s best friend’s son, which will probably get him on a fast track to acceptance, but still, there will be no automatic in for him. There will be no special treatment or favors afforded to the guy who wants to date Bobby Kincaid’s youngest daughter.

  Rubbing my stomach and beginning to regret that extra slice of pie I absolutely didn’t need, I move onto the twins’ floor and smile for Mrs. Mabel when she opens her door and pokes her nose through the gap to check who’s coming and going. Kind to the guys, she is, but she still has an eagle eye on who walks by.

  Her vigilance is inspiring, really, considering how loud she herself keeps her television. How does she hear our footsteps coming up the stairs, when Jeopardy is so loud and drowning everything else out?

  “Mrs. Mabel.” I tip my chin – a habit I guess I’ve picked up from watching my dad over the years. “It’s a nice night out there. The sun and the moon are both in the sky for a minute more.”

  “It’s
just Mabel, silly girl. Not Mrs. Mabel.”

  I shrug and walk to Rob’s door, but turning back, I tell her, “My parents taught me different.” I grin and think back to sixth grade with Mrs. Crab. If you’d asked her, she’d say my parents taught me nothing except barbarianism and bad manners. But, eh, she doesn’t know shit about me. “You have a good night, okay? I need to go sit down and let my body work off some of these carbs before I die of gluttony.”

  “I don’t think you should go in there just yet.” Mabel opens her door further, and glances to the one I stand in front of. “Um… those boys have visitors. I think maybe they need privacy.”

  “Visitors?” I open the apartment door with a roll of my eyes. “Luke always has visitors, Mrs. Mabel. If I stayed in the hall every single time he had a girl’s ankles by his ears, I’d never get to come in. I’ve got it under control. But you have a good night, oka—”

  “Emma Katherine.” Luke skids into the doorway and crashes into me until we’re in a half-hug. “Hey, you wanna come to Rhino’s with me?”

  “Rhino’s?” I shake my head. “Are you crazy? It’s Sunday night.”

  “But we could do crack and break shit. Sounds awesome, right? C’mon.”

  “What? No!”

  I swing out of his hold and clamp my lips shut when the spinning makes my milkshake shift. Striding into the apartment and waving off both Luke and Mabel, I drop my phone on the scarred dinner table that barely gets used and, spying my own keys from when Rob took my car, I grin and continue forward into the empty living room.

  The TV is on – I guess Jeopardy is keeping everyone entertained tonight – but when Luke scrambles into the apartment, slamming the door in his wake, and draws my attention, my brain catches up with what’s happening around us.

  Luke has no girl with him, which means the visitor belongs to Rob. And Rob is nowhere to be found in the shared space.