In Her Words (A St. Skin Novel): a bad boy new adult romance novel

by London Casey

“You alive in there?” Jeff yelled and pounded. “I’ll go get goddamn management.”

  I growled and stuck my right hand between my legs. I cupped myself and opened the door.

  “What?” I yelled.

  Jeff put a hand out, blocking his view of my lower half. “Good morning to you. We’re leaving in twenty minutes. Flights are getting all fucked up because of some storm. We have to get there early if we have a shot to take off.”

  “I’m flying private today?”

  “With the band.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Bring earplugs if you plan on sleeping,” Jeff said. “And put some clothes on. Jesus, Cass.”

  I slammed the door.

  Where the hell did she go?

  I ran through the hotel room one more time, still naked. The curtains were open and I was sure someone at the hotel across the street had a hell of a show of me running around like a fool with my stuff flopping around. Not that I was ashamed of what I had.

  I checked every corner and every crevice of the damn room. I put on a pair of jeans and left the bedroom, going down to the vending machines. No sign of Scarlett.

  Back in my room, I called the front desk and tried to ask them if they saw someone that looked like Scarlett leave. Or maybe she was at breakfast. Or maybe …

  No.

  She was gone.

  She bolted.

  She took off after our one night stand. Hell, if anything, that should have been a favor to me. Skip the awkward conversation in the morning. Me trying to remember the woman’s name. Trying to scramble to get her out of the room without leaving any breadcrumbs as a trail to have her cling to me.

  But it was different with Scarlett.

  We spent a good portion of the night actually talking. Drinking. Laughing. Writing those lyrics.

  “The lyrics,” I whispered.

  I flew from the bed to the dresser. I grabbed for the notebook we had been writing in. I flipped to the page where we had written the lyrics and I froze.

  Half the page was missing.

  It was ripped right in half.

  The part that I wrote.

  “She took it,” I whispered.

  She literally ripped the page in half and took the words I wrote for her. Worse yet, she left me with her words.

  In her words.

  That’s how it all started.

  And that’s what I was left with.

  Her words. And nothing else.

  It shouldn’t have stunned me like it did. It shouldn’t have hurt like it did either. Maybe in some messed up way, I knew there was something greater than one night between me and Scarlett.

  And maybe I somehow knew that Scarlett left with more than some words I had written for her.

  Cass

  NOW

  CAS

  I finished the last shading of a jaw of the skull and pulled the needle away. I wiped with a paper towel and nodded with satisfaction. I had one earbud in with some heavy metal blasting. The thudding of the double bass drum and bellowing lyrics about fighting for some sense of freedom resonated with me as I tattooed someone. My wireless speaker was on my counter with some really good chill music vibing through the speakers. My client—a dude name Chet—had his right arm up and covered his face. He had some thick ass headphones on over his ears.

  I put the needle gun down and kept wiping the fresh ink. A mix of black ink and Chet’s blood mixed together. Once I felt comfortable enough I surveyed my latest masterpiece and pushed back on my wheeled chair. I tore off my black gloves and tossed them.

  I gave Chet a nudge and he moved his arm and looked at me.

  When he took his headphones off I heard some kind of rap beat going. He grabbed his phone and killed the music. I tore the earbud out of my ear and did the same.

  “All set, brother,” I said.

  It was Chet’s first ink. He chose his ribs, a risky move because that shit hurt. But he suffered through it in only two sittings. Not bad. He winced and jumped, leaving me reminding him that I was permanently tagging his skin. In other words, take a fucking chill pill and suffer through it.

  I flipped a mirror over and let Chet check out the full reflection. He could see the skull but it would be upside down from his angle.

  “Ah, fuck,” Chet said. “That’s dope.”

  People still said that, huh?

  “It’s good,” I said. “Let me patch that up. Get yourself some medicated lotion and keep it clean. Trust me, you don’t want that infected. I don’t do refunds and I don’t fix something you fuck up.”

  Chet nodded. “Yeah, no problem. When can I show it off?”

  I grabbed a fresh set of rubber gloves, ointment, paper towel, and medical tape. I got myself set up to finish this damn job for good. “It’s going to scab, brother. You can show anyone you want. Just be careful. The better it heals now, the better it’ll look later.”

  “Can you take a pic?” Chet asked and thrust his phone at me.

  This was what it came to. Normally I’d have people taking fucking selfies with me. That was part of the gig though. Tate and Maddox loved the social media aspect. I fucking hated it. I did my time in the spotlight, as seen by the guitars hanging on my wall. In an amazing twist of fate I traded my guitar pick for a tattoo gun. Life was a fucked up ride. Buckle up, brother.

  I took the damn picture of the tattoo with Chet’s phone and then took one with mine. I had some kind of app on my phone to upload all the pics to and Maddox would get it uploaded on the site and across social media.

  I patched Chet up and that was that. I took him to the counter where he finished paying his bill. He threw down a hearty tip for me and I offered my hand and thanked Chet for the business and gratuity. I gave him a St. Skin business card and signed my name on the back.

  “You come back, brother,” I said. “See me again. I’ll hook you up with a discount.”

  “Shit yeah,” Chet said. “I drove three hours to see you, man.”

  I put my hands together in prayer and nodded. “I am forever grateful.”

  “By the way, I didn’t want to say anything, but I was a fan of you from your touring days. Saw you a bunch of times. You played with Rip Down for a while.”

  I cringed on the inside but I forced a smile. I pointed to a sweet custom flying V on the wall. Gold plates, black and white body, and beat to hell and back. It still had the same strings on it from the last time I fired it up.

  “See that there? That was my final guitar on tour with them.”

  “I remember that one!” Chet yelled. “I knew it. I saw it. I knew it. I have that DVD.”

  “They made a DVD?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You’re in it.”

  I nodded. I had a bank account that would get random deposits here and there. Live shows sales and apparently DVD sales.

  “Thanks again, brother,” I said.

  The door opened to the shop and in walked a beauty who stood five feet tall with tits that blocked the view of her feet. Time for Chet to fuck off.

  The bombshell walked to the counter. She had ink all over her arms. All the way up the backs of her hands. Her lips were red and pouty. Her hair was fake blonde. Her tits were fake too, but what did I care? Technically speaking my skin was fake because of my ink. And I dare anyone to tell me the stories on my skin weren’t real.

  “Can I help you, darlin’?” I asked with a grin.

  “I’m here to get pierced,” she said.

  “Pierced,” I said. “Dare I ask what you want to get pierced?”

  Without hesitation, she grabbed the top of her already low cut tank and started to pull. I saw the purposely frayed edge of a lacy bra before she kept going. I let her go until I saw the dark hue of where her nipple began.

  I put a hand out and touched her wrist.

  What are you doing, man? She wants to rip her tits out, who cares?

  “I get it,” I said. “One or both?”

  “Both,” she said. “If I can take it. So maybe just one.”<
br />
  “I’ll hold your hand if it’ll help,” I said. “Just stare into my eyes, darlin’. Nothing to worry about with pain. Plus, it only hurts for a few seconds. Then it’s good. It’s really good.”

  She smirked at me. I saw Danny from the corner of my eye. He was the shop’s assistant. A lot of the guys—and women—called him their bitch. That’s exactly what he was. But I kept it at assistant.

  “Danny,” I growled. “Get over here.”

  Danny rushed to the counter, holding a stack of mail. “Yeah, Cass?”

  “Cass,” the fake beauty purred.

  “This woman needs our help,” I said. “I’m going to take her back. You’re going to get the paperwork ready. Piercing. Nipples.”

  Danny’s cheek turned red. This guy loved heavy metal music, could skateboard like a pro, had two little tattoos, and blushed at anything that involved skin covered up by clothing. I caught him looking at the woman. Probably trying to picture her naked. I grabbed his shoulder to snap him out of his little wet dream in the making.

  “Got it?” I asked.

  “Got it,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Cass, you don’t—”

  “Thanks, Danny,” I said.

  I walked from behind the counter and offered the woman my arm. “I never got your name, darlin’.”

  “Kat. With a K.”

  “And I’m Cass with C,” I said.

  “Cass and Kat,” she said. “It has a ring to it.”

  “Yes it does,” I said. “Oh, yes it does.”

  I spent years out on the road and it was maybe the greatest time of my life. I never got a chance to front my own band in a really big way, but I played guitar, drank whiskey, had all the women I wanted, and always had the best way to get out of any commitments—a new city.

  Settling in Hundred Falls Valley and throwing ink around at St. Skin was calming. Then women like Kat would come in and remind me of what it used to be like.

  I took her to the piercing room and she, again, started to take her clothes off. She really wanted her nipples pierced. I lunged forward and grabbed at her shirt.

  “Kat, I don’t do piercings,” I said. “Just tattoos.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I’ll still show you.”

  “You can show me the after,” I said.

  And, ladies and gentlemen, here is the world of Caspien. I’d get within spitting distance of tearing someone apart and before slowly backed the hell off. I think part of me was left behind on the road. At least that’s what I constantly told myself. Sometimes it made reality feel like a blur.

  The door opened behind and in walked Prick.

  Seriously, that was his name. He took care of all the piercings and handled some of the overflow for tattoos. Normally the basic ones. The first timers getting introduced to the needle with a butterfly on the ankle or a cross on the arm.

  Prick had more piercings than I wanted to count. He was the only guy that I openly wanted to see his dick, because that was pierced too.

  “All warmed up for me?” Prick asked. He flicked the tip of his tongue to his lip ring.

  He had frosted tips, crystal clear blue eyes (I swore they were fake, aided by contact lenses), and looked ready to break out into a dance routine from a 90’s boy band video or some shit.

  “She’s all yours,” I said.

  “Thanks, bro,” Prick said. He stepped forward. “I’m Prick. You know why I got that name?”

  “Why?” Kat asked.

  “Because they called me a ‘prick’ when I pierced them. I figured I should just be called that. Right? So when you scream out ‘prick’ I know you’re screaming my name.”

  Kat giggled and I left the room.

  As I walked through the shop, each little room and cubicle had its own music pouring from it. Heavy metal, rap, some slow screeching emo shit. A little of it all.

  I checked the book at the counter. I was free for another hour before I had someone coming in for some touchup work on a fucked up tattoo from fifteen years ago.

  I cleaned up my station from Chet and sat down. I grabbed my pad and a pencil and started to sketch. How the fuck did I end up here? That’s a crazy story. Considering I failed art class all through high school. To be fair, during that time I was more interested in getting drunk, getting high, and trying to hook up with anyone I could. I didn’t actually discover drawing until I was on the road. The whirlwind we all call life saw me step off a bus to the gritty streets of L.A. I wanted to take my guitar, my songs, and change the world.

  Change the world …

  I stopped drawing.

  It was basically the same sketch. I was trying to perfectly draw a woman. I had yet to have someone come in and want a portrait done. We had a guy—Max—who was an expert on portraits. A social media viral sensation which helped to boost St. Skin’s popularity. I had to hand it to Tate and Maddox, they put together a good team of artists and knew how to shove it in everyone’s face.

  Back to my sketch.

  I always drew it with the woman slightly turning her head. Her hair covering the right side of her face. Her eyes. That was always my favorite part to draw. I’d always try to change something. Reaching some kind of perfection. The size of her iris. The shape of her actual eye. The length of eyelashes. Such small details, but yet they were so defining to a person.

  Change the world. Change someone’s life.

  I shut the sketch pad the second those words came to me.

  It had been—

  I grabbed at my right drawer. I opened it, knowing what I had tucked away. I glanced up at the wall of guitars. Each one a memory. A story. A piece of me. But inside the drawer was maybe the greatest thing I ever took from the road.

  “Cass,” a voice said behind me.

  I shut the drawer and turned around.

  Tate stood there.

  He was a monstrous size of a man. I was one of the few in the place that matched him. Hell, I was even a bit taller. Tate looked as though he were patched into a motorcycle club, not a savvy businessman running a popular tattoo shop.

  I stood up. People were afraid of Tate but I didn’t give a shit. I didn’t need the job. Being the touring guitarist for several popular bands did wonders for the bank account. Tate knew that. I had nothing to lose. But he did. He couldn’t afford to lose me.

  “Tate,” I said.

  “Need your help.”

  I followed him to his office. Before I could get there, the door to St. Skin opened. I saw the guy hustling in like the shit was about to go down. He had his right hand in his pocket. I put my hand out and pushed at Tate’s back.

  All I could think about was one thing—gun.

  I turned and shielded Tate and the rest of the shop.

  “Where is she?” the guy yelled. “Where the fuck is she?”

  Danny was behind the counter. He was a good guy. He would take on anyone. He would lose too.

  I stepped in.

  “Whoa, easy there, man,” I said.

  I put my hand out and the guy swatted it away.

  Ah, shit, you shouldn’t have done that.

  “I want to know where the fuck she is,” the guy said, showing his teeth as he spoke.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “My girl. She wanted to come here and get her tits pierced. I said fuck no. I said I don’t pay your fucking bills so another dude could feel you up and play.”

  “That’s not how it works,” I said. “We’re professionals here.”

  “Fuck yourself,” the guy spat, spit hitting my face.

  I put my hand to his chest. “You need to back out of this shop right now. She’s old enough to make her own decisions. I’m sure it’s already done by now.”

  The guy reached for his pocket again. “Then I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

  I had Danny to my left, shaking. I had Tate on my right, not sure what he was going to do. I’m sure behind me I had heads poking out to see the drama.

  If this asshole pulled out a gun …
r />   I had to drop him.

  Channeling the anger that felt like it was kept up in a prison, I threw a left punch. It came across the guy’s chin and he went flying back. I heard Tate yell my name. The guy bounced off the front window and stumbled toward me. There was shock on his face.

  I grabbed his shirt. “I gave you a warning. Now get the fuck out of here. If I start swinging again I won’t stop.”

  Tate grabbed my shoulder and pulled. “That’s enough.”

  Tate opened the door and ushered the guy out. I heard the guy yelling something about the police, a lawsuit, whatever.

  I turned and saw people standing there with their phones out.

  “Shit,” I growled.

  Tate was then next to me. “I better get Maddox. We’re going to need to spin this one.”

  “You heard that guy, Tate. He was reaching for something.”

  “Maybe a picture of his girl.”

  “Maybe a gun. You want to take that risk?”

  “Cass, this isn’t the kind of place that gets shot up.”

  I looked at Tate. “It could be. You guys bring in people from all over the country. If that guy took out a gun—”

  “Go calm your ass down,” Tate said.

  I thought about going back to my sketch. Why bother though? It was an entire pad of the same sketch over and over. I walked through the shop and out the back door. I stood in the little alley that was wide enough for a dump truck to get through. I crashed on a milk crate and took a lighter out of my pocket. I flicked it off my leg and watched the flame burn. I quit smoking during my last tour. It was hard not to fall back into that habit. Of all the habits I had in my life, that was probably the lesser of all evils. Yet it was the hardest to fight.

  The door swung open a few minutes later and out came Axel, carrying two coffees.

  “You look like shit,” I said.

  “Had a wild night,” he said. “Heard you beat someone up.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Someone texted me.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “A friend of a friend in a chair,” Axel said. “Here, have a coffee. It’ll calm you down.”

  “You know caffeine speeds you up, right?” I asked.

  Axel stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He took a deep drag and blew the smoke into the air. “You want one of these instead?”