Inked Magic

by Jory Strong

  Right away he knew she’d never be a choice, but he looked down at her arms anyway. They were covered.

  He scooted forward then glanced over his shoulder to see if his brother had noticed what was on the news, but no one was there. Kevin must have gone into the bedroom.

  The woman said, “This is Latoya Logan. As you can see we’re at San Francisco General Hospital where police have confirmed that the Harlequin Rapist’s latest victim is in intensive care.

  “Police are refusing to give any details as to the nature or severity of her injuries. The hospital staff is also refusing to comment, either on the victim’s condition or the rumor that taskforce members brought in a psychic to help them catch the man who has been terrorizing Bay Area women for months.”

  The scene changed to the studio. The woman newscaster said, “Latoya, it was my understanding that an artist was brought in, leading to speculation the latest victim can identify the rapist.”

  The reporter in front of the hospital appeared in the upper corner of the TV screen. She said, “Right now it’s not clear whether the woman they brought in is an artist or a psychic. Off the record, I have been able to confirm that a woman was brought in, and that she is not believed to be officially connected with the taskforce.”

  “Have they released the latest victim’s name?” the male newscaster asked.

  “No. I—”

  “Hold on, Latoya,” he said. “We’ve got breaking news. A spokesman for the taskforce is about to make a statement.”

  The scene cut away, going to the room they always showed the taskforce in. Scooting closer, so he was barely on the couch, he concentrated on the faces like he always did, so he’d recognize them in case they somehow started getting close.

  The FBI agents were to the far left. The blond one was at the very end. Next to him was the dark-haired one. Usually he didn’t remember names, but he remembered theirs because once he’d lived in a home where there were two brothers named Parker and Trent.

  Next to the FBI were police officers from different cities. He knew where a couple of the cities were, but not all of them.

  A policeman from San Francisco was the only one standing. He motioned for the reporters to be quiet and said, “First of all, the taskforce wants to quell rumors of having called in a psychic. We have not done this, nor will we be doing this. The Harlequin Rapist will be stopped and brought to justice as a result of thousands of dedicated man-hours arising from the cooperative efforts of local, state, and federal law enforcement personnel.”

  He smiled. They always said that.

  He didn’t know whether to believe them about the psychic, but he wasn’t worried. His brother believed in psychics and supernatural stuff. He didn’t.

  A reporter yelled, “I heard that an artist related to a high-profile SFPD captain was brought in. Is that true?”

  The policeman ignored the reporter. His expression got grimmer.

  This is it, he thought, feeling a little burst of excitement.

  The policeman didn’t disappoint him. He said, “At five minutes after midnight, the latest known victim of the Harlequin Rapist was pronounced dead.”

  The room exploded with the sound of reporters shouting questions but all he heard was, “Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah.”

  He turned off the TV and lifted the bowl to his mouth, drinking the rest of the cereal and milk then carrying the bowl to the sink. The blankets and pillow he used for sleeping on the couch were already folded and put away. The only thing he had to do was take a shower so he’d be clean.

  People noticed when you stank, especially if they had to spend time close to you. It made you stand out in their memory and then they talked about you after you left. He didn’t want either of those things to happen because of his visit to the tattoo shop.

  Cathal woke in a tangle of sheets, his hand fisted around an erection, his body humming from erotic dreams starring Etaín. Frustration rode him along with the lust. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d settled for his hand instead of a woman’s mouth or cunt.

  “Fuck.”

  The word sent a jolt of sheer need through him, followed by a surge of anger at not being able to peel his fingers away from his dick and go take a cold shower.

  He slid his hand up and down on his shaft, helpless against carnal fantasies of having Etaín beneath him, thighs spread as he fucked her.

  His breathing grew hurried as he imagined what it would be like with her, his heartbeat erratic, the strokes harder, faster, until jets of semen escaped, splashing onto his chest and abdomen in a hot wash of release.

  It didn’t improve his mood or reduce his frustration.

  He got to his feet and went to the shower. He wouldn’t let her stay under his skin like this. He’d have her. He’d convince her to help his family. Then he’d be done with her.

  Liar.

  He hardened again thinking about her, fantasizing about her on her knees in front of him, her mouth pulling on his cock instead of his fist. Sucking him until he found a second release as water sluiced over his skin.

  Cursing, he left the shower and toweled dry, every nerve ending oversensitized, abraded.

  His cell phone rang as he stepped out of the bathroom.

  Crossing to the nightstand he picked it up. Sean.

  “You somewhere we’re okay to talk?” Sean asked.

  “My place.”

  “Good enough.”

  It should be. He paid Sean a fortune to keep it and the club free of listening devices.

  Cathal willed himself not to get into a pissing contest over not hearing from Sean the night before. Venting that way wouldn’t help but he couldn’t completely keep the bite out of his voice when he asked, “You have anything you want to share?”

  The pause on the other end told him Sean was trying to decide whether to let the barb roll off him or not. He finally answered in a just the facts, and nothing but the facts tone.

  “I got a tracker on the bike, found out where she lives. She went home and stayed there, alone, lights out until a little after one. I had someone watching, gut instinct, and it’s your dime anyway.

  “At two fifty-three she leaves on the Harley. Makes a beeline for the Sunset District. Pulls in where two guys are waiting for her in the driveway. She hands something to one of them and he heads into the apartment. She and the other guy follow, but at the door they get into an argument.

  “She takes off and goes to a place I’ll come back to in a minute. There she knocks on the door and a few minutes later, follows a sedan to an estate close to where your old man and your uncle live. Another guy is waiting for her there. Far as I know she’s still there.”

  Jealousy gripped Cathal and he didn’t like the way it felt. “Who?”

  “As in who is she with? Blond guy. Long hair. Shirtless. That’s all the description I got. But the address, now that I can tell you something more definitive about. The house is owned by a corporate entity, a name you’ll be familiar with. Aesirs.”

  Eamon.

  “Fuck!” Cathal couldn’t hold the curse though it was directed as much at himself as it was at Eamon. He should have called her last night. He should have told her she could call, regardless of the hour. They must have hooked up after she left to meet with her brother and—

  Reason overtook anger. Barely.

  The timing didn’t work for it to be a planned date. Everything about what Sean described seemed off, skewed into weirdness until Cathal connected her handing off something with remembering how he’d wondered if the call from her brother meant a visit with a crime victim.

  “Who lives in the Sunset District?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Her brother.”

  “Right in one and not easy to confirm. She goes by a different first name than the one she had as a kid, and there are very few pictures of her even from then, but you’ll recognize who she is when I give you a last name.”

  “What is it?”

  There wa
s an explosion of breath. Not a good sign. “Chevenier.”

  Surprise passed through Cathal like an electric charge. He remembered the scandal, only because his father and uncle had talked about it at the dinner table, approving of the fact that a cop who had married into a wealthy and powerful old San Francisco family not only had the balls to acknowledge a bastard child publicly, but take her into his home and raise her.

  To be sure, Cathal asked, “As in, daughter of Captain Chevenier?”

  “That’s right. And sister of Parker Chevenier. Does that name ring any bells?”

  Cathal searched his memory but didn’t come up with anything. “No.”

  “How about FBI. The Harlequin Rapist taskforce. And while we’re on the subject, is she a psychic, an artist, or a psychic artist?”

  Uneasiness exacerbated the edgy frustration Cathal already felt. “You want to get to your point here?”

  “I take it you haven’t brushed up against the news yet this morning.”

  A glance at the twisted sheets on his bed had Cathal baring his teeth. “No.”

  “There’s a story circulating about the taskforce calling in a psychic to help them identify the Harlequin Rapist. The source is supposed to be someone at San Francisco General. The claim is that members of the taskforce were seen bringing in a woman who has helped on at least one other case, the one where that kid was traumatized in a home invasion at the beginning of the year. There’s also widespread speculation this unknown person is related to a high-level SFPD captain. You want to add anything here?”

  “When I called you yesterday she was on her way to meet her brother.”

  “Then the news that the last victim—now dead—saw something might not be too far off. Since you’re paying for my time, I’ll give you my opinion. The leak could be for real, or it could be a deliberate attempt to direct this sick bastard at a certain target—Etaín—with her permission, I’d assume, though you know how assumptions go. Look up victim profile and she’s a ringer for the women this guy goes for when he grabs a white one. My advice to you, which you might want to pass on to your father and uncle, is to stay away from her until this plays out and the attention of the taskforce and the media aren’t on her.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ll keep tabs on her movements with the tracker, but that’s all for now.”

  “Call me when she leaves Pacific Heights.”

  “Will do.”

  Cathal hung up. He hesitated for a second, then direct dialed his father.

  His father answered immediately. “Your uncle just left. He saw something on the news that upset him.”

  Cathal rubbed a hand over his chest. He had the feeling everything was spinning out of control. “You calm him down?”

  “For now. But Denis can’t take much more in the way of bad. He needs something good to keep him holding steady, like you showing up for dinner tonight with that woman you’re interested in.”

  Cathal’s gaze once again went to the bed with its tangle of sheets, empty of the woman who’d invaded his dreams and was with another man right now. Determination eradicated any whisper of conscience. He’d have her beneath him by morning.

  “Make it a late breakfast tomorrow.”

  “I’ll tell Denis. I’m counting on you, son. Don’t let me down.”

  Cathal’s hand tightened on the phone before he set it on the nightstand. He dressed, a plan already forming, so after eating breakfast he went directly to Stylin’ Ink.

  Her bike wasn’t there, but then Sean hadn’t called, so he knew it wouldn’t be. She was still with Eamon.

  The thought made his mood ugly and dangerous, a combination capable of sending a musician crying from an audition. He shouldn’t care where she was or who she was with. On some level he recognized that.

  It didn’t change anything.

  The best he could do to manage the jealousy eating at him was to tell himself she was a challenge. And he wasn’t used to losing.

  Through the window, the only person he could see was Bryce. Perfect. The conversation during dinner had made it clear to him that Bryce and the other two, Derrick and Jamaal, were more like family to Etaín than coworkers.

  He entered the tattoo shop, knowing the advantage was his because Etaín had already given him the leverage he needed.

  “She’s not here,” Bryce said.

  It took effort not to snarl.“I know.”

  Cathal extended a hand and introduced himself. “You’re the one I’m here to see. Etaín mentioned Salina and her band. I’d like to get in touch with her as a surprise for Etaín.”

  Bryce laughed. “Etaín passed on going home with you, huh. You must have spooked her. What happened?”

  Cathal fought to keep his lips from pulling back and his fury from rising. “Her brother called.”

  Bryce’s amusement died in a frown. “Asshole.”

  “She took off afterward. I haven’t heard from her since.” The inclination toward violence heightened as he imagined her naked, lying beneath Eamon.

  Bryce looked at the computer screen, moving and clicking the mouse on the counter. “A couple of hours and she’ll be here.”

  “I’d rather see her at my club later tonight.”

  “Slick move. So that’s where Salina comes in. You give her band a chance to play at Saoirse and Etaín is grateful, meaning maybe you get laid instead of getting the brush-off.”

  Cathal managed to keep his temper in check. Barely. “I don’t need gratitude when it comes to Etaín. I don’t need to pay a woman for sex, in favors or in hard cash. Not that what happens between Etaín and me is your business.”

  “Good thing to know but you’re wrong. Coming here and asking for Salina’s number makes it my business.”

  Cathal pulled his phone from his pocket and called up Etaín’s number before showing Bryce the screen. “I don’t give a fuck about Salina and her band. Any day of the week I’ve got a dozen musicians trying to crawl up my ass. It suits me to combine business with a surprise for Etaín but I’m flexible when it comes to arranging time with her.”

  Bryce laughed. “Don’t hold back just because Etaín and I are tight. You know, you’re not the type she usually goes for. But I’m thinking maybe that’s not a bad thing. She needs someone who’s not going to let her walk away after a hot night between the sheets.”

  Cathal’s cock throbbed in anticipation of having that hot night. And though his rational mind denied Bryce’s assumption that this was about more than a casual fuck, the jealousy clawing through him made it a lie.

  He could tell himself he was doing this in order to keep Etaín from ending up on a collision course with his uncle, but there was more to it than that. What had begun as duty, the lesser of two evils, had morphed into something else the moment he’d seen her through the front window of Stylin’ Ink.

  A couple of clicks with the mouse and Bryce lifted the shop phone, punching in a number. “Hola, chica. You interested in playing a gig at Saoirse?”

  From across the counter Cathal heard the scream.

  Bryce handed off the phone. “All yours.”

  Cathal didn’t bother with setting up an audition. Drinks on the house made even the worst band survivable as far as the club’s reputation went.

  It took less time to outline his requirements and expectations than it had taken to get Bryce to make the call. Failure to deliver wasn’t an option. Not on Salina’s part. And not on his when it came to meeting his father and uncle for breakfast and having Etaín accompany him.

  “No problem,” Salina assured him for the fourth or fifth time. “Etaín won’t let me down. She knows how big a deal this is for the band. I’ll come by the shop and get her promise in person. When does she work today?”

  “You’ll have to ask Bryce.” Cathal passed the phone back to Bryce and left the shop.

  Fierce desire moved downward, settling in his cock at the prospect of Etaín coming to the club. He’d warned her what would happen if she step
ped foot in Saoirse.

  Tonight he’d make good on the threat. Then follow it up with a long encore at his house.

  Nine

  Etaín woke to the feel of a warm chest against her back and a hardened cock against her buttocks. She turned to face Eamon, a heated tide of pleasure rolling through her at the sight of him sleeping, the sheet falling erotically across his abdomen.

  Last night there hadn’t been time to study him, but this morning she took the opportunity to appreciate just how beautiful he truly was.

  His features appealed to her as an artist and a woman. Aristocratic nose and chin. Lips that could thin with censure and anger, but, as she had reason to know, could also deliver on the sultry promise of passion.

  Need unfurled in her belly. She pressed her thighs together, enjoying the swell and heat of desire. Enjoying the memory of what it had been like with him.

  Portraits weren’t her natural calling, but looking at him, she thought she could spend hours capturing his image on paper, his moods and expressions, all the subtle nuances of who he was.

  Glancing away from him, she took in her surroundings for the first time. The multi-multimillion dollar view of the ocean was breathtaking, but it faded into nothing compared with the paintings hanging on the walls.

  Cézanne. Van Gogh. Henri-Edmond Cross. Georges Lemmen. Postimpressionists she’d fallen in love with when she’d taken an art class.

  The sight of them made her shiver in an ecstasy there was nothing carnal about. She left the bed, drawn to the artwork though standing a breath away brought uneasiness. Why had he sought her out?

  Glancing at her palms, she saw the answer there but was unsure of what she would do with it. What he might tell her about her gift and how to gain better control of it would come with a price. And given the masterpieces gracing Lord Eamon’s walls, she doubted she’d be willing to pay it.

  She shrugged the concern away. She’d lived this long without understanding the full truth of what the call to ink meant. She could go a lifetime not knowing.