by Jory Strong
Trent interceded again, putting a calming hand on her shoulder. “For all we know, this guy thrives on the publicity. We’ll have people at the funeral but he might be smart enough to be satisfied with what ends up in the news. Even if you haven’t been identified, some asshole cameraman will end up zooming in on you because you fit the profile. This guy is looking for his next victim now, if he hasn’t already found her. He’ll strike in six to fourteen days unless something’s happened and his pattern is changed. Your being at the funeral would be like painting a target on yourself.”
Then use me to draw him out.
The thought came in a wave of nausea and was accompanied by a terror that had her mind closing on it. She couldn’t make the offer. She couldn’t say the words.
“I need to get back inside. As soon as I finish with Jason, I’ll visit some shops.”
He knew it was her though his back was to the door. He felt her like sun against his skin.
Pulling cash from his wallet he tried to count out what he owed. He had to do it three times, at first because he was listening to see if the other two were with her. And then because she came into view.
He kept getting distracted by her. She was so, so beautiful.
He wished she wasn’t wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He wanted to see her bare arms. He wanted to know if she had tattoos there.
His mother had had them, the ugly homemade kind, not skin art like he and Kevin got.
It didn’t matter whether she did or not. She was his choice.
He turned away and went to the door. There was a rush of fear as he opened it. A giddy sense of relief when he stepped outside and there were no cops waiting for him.
The thrill of what he’d just done made him laugh out loud. He wouldn’t get this close again, not until it was time to take her. But he couldn’t stop himself from looking through the window and seeing her one last time before he left.
His pleasure diminished. Not a popped balloon but a leak that filled with anger and made him feel sick inside.
She was talking to the fag again. It made him remember the times his mother had brought strangers home. Once she got high, she always forgot about him and Kevin being there. It didn’t matter to her what happened then.
He didn’t want to think about that right now so he squinted, blocking out the queer and seeing only her, surrounded by a golden glow. Nothing would change his mind now. She was his choice.
He didn’t have to worry about watching the others anymore. He just had to figure out where it would be safe to take her.
Usually the watching and planning made it more exciting. But he didn’t think he’d be able to wait once he had the chance to take her.
Already he felt like crying at being apart from her. His heart hurt thinking she’d forget all about him.
Eleven
Etaín gave Jason until well after lunchtime. By then her stomach was growling and her hands were cramping while he was zoned on endorphins and in a place a client into the BDSM scene had likened to subspace.
She wiped off the excess ink and leaned back to assure herself she’d reached a good stopping place for Derrick. “How about we call it a day? I need to visit some other shops. You know about the fund-raiser on Saturday right?”
“Already spreading the word about it.” Jason opened his eyes and craned his neck, trying to get a view of the new ink.
She passed the mirror. “There’s going to be live music though I don’t know who yet.”
“I’ll let people know.” He moved the mirror around. “The work’s totally excellent. Thanks for stepping in.”
“No problem.”
She took the mirror back and bandaged him, giving him the lecture and the handout before ringing him up and saying goodbye. As she cleaned her equipment and station afterward, she made a mental list of the places and artists she’d show the drawing to.
A chill of fear slipped in at how easily Tyra’s reality had threatened to overwhelm her own. Looking at her palms she felt sweat trickling down her sides.
What if she was wrong? What if she couldn’t keep going like she had been, not understanding the full truth of what the call to ink meant? Only managing it instead of controlling it?
Wiping damp palms on her jeans, she told Bryce, “I’m out of here.”
He glanced up from the woman he was working on. “Do me a favor sometime today?”
“What?”
“Derrick’s not answering his phone. Can you swing by his apartment? Do what you can to get him put back together? And after you’ve done that, tell him I’ve cleared his appointments for tomorrow, but he’d better put on his big girl panties and come to work, or call his clients and reschedule them himself. I’m not his daddy or his mommy. I’m his boss and I’ve got enough of my own shit to deal with.”
“I’ll stop by. But I’m going to pretty up your message.”
“Pretty it up all you want, just pass it on.”
“I’ll do it before I go to Saoirse. See you there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He grinned. “I don’t think you’re going to get rid of Cathal very easily.”
She started to say she hadn’t even slept with him, but held the words because Bryce would say, “Yet,” and she wouldn’t be able to deny it.
“I’m gone.”
She was leaving a different shop a couple of hours later when her cell rang. The incoming number was unfamiliar, but she recognized Trent’s voice.
“Nothing yet,” she said before he asked. “I’ve shown it to nine artists so far.”
“It’s a long shot. But we’ve got to turn over every stone until we find the one this slime-ball crawled out from under.”
“I’ll call if something pops.”
She closed the phone.
It rang before she could pocket it.
“I’m actually calling about something else,” Trent said.
Fear jolted her. “Did something happen to Parker?”
“Shit. Sorry. No. He’s good.”
Her fingers whitened against the black of her phone. She hated that the thought of something happening to Parker still had the power to rip her apart, when he’d written her off unless he needed her help on a case.
“Then why the call?” She cringed at hearing herself sound like a cold-hearted bitch.
The silence on the line lasted long enough she thought maybe Trent had hung up.
He finally answered. “Look, sorry. I’m screwing this up royally. This doesn’t have anything to do with the taskforce, and Parker doesn’t know I’m calling you. A situation came up that requires a tattoo artist, like yesterday. It’s a paying job. Will you help me out?”
A Fed who apologized, that and the fact he’d served as a buffer earlier with Parker tilted the scales in his favor. “When?”
“Now.”
“I can be at Stylin’ Ink in about thirty.”
“No.” The quickness and force of it made her pulse jump. “This needs to be kept private. It’s cover-up work. The next time this guy is seen in public he’s got to be wearing different ink.”
“Gang tats?” She was halfway to changing her mind about doing it, paying job or not. She didn’t like the dreams that came with that kind of work, not stolen memories but dark reflections of them caught in ink.
“Yeah. But he’s one of the good guys. Been on our team from the start.”
“Undercover?”
A long pause. “Yeah. Fair enough. You’ll find out anyway.”
“How big a project is it?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t seen him since he went under. We grew up together. He’s only been in San Francisco a couple of hours.”
“Where do you want to do this?”
“I’ll pick you up and take you there.”
“I’ve got to be somewhere later tonight, with a stop somewhere else before then.” Regardless of the cause she wasn’t going to break her promise to Salina.
“You’re doing the favor. You say when you have to l
eave and it’ll happen.”
“Is he on this side of the bay or Oakland side?”
“This one.”
“You know where I live?”
“Yes.”
“Pick me up there. I need to get my kit and change clothes, in case there’s no time to go back home.”
“I’ll head that way. Look for a silver mustang. I won’t get out.”
“Okay. See you in a few.”
She made it home fast, an advantage of riding the bike. After putting the Harley in the garage she took the steps to her apartment two at a time, stripping as soon as she closed the door behind her.
A quick shower later and she put on a fuck-me bra and panties before going to the closet. She wasn’t much for clothes. Jeans worked for her most of the time. Throw on a long-sleeved shirt and she was ready to go.
Despite being a tattoo artist, she didn’t expose the work on her wrists and arms. One of her mother’s lessons, maybe too deeply engrained to ignore. Beyond that, she’d never found it mattered what she wore when it came to men. It all came off anyway if she decided to spend the night.
She reached for a light blue shirt, a memory halting her before she tugged the garment from the hanger. Cathal with his dark-as-sin presence and carnal warning about showing up at Saoirse wearing a short skirt.
A hot roar of lust arrowed straight down to her cunt. Her hand followed, sliding beneath the waistband of her panties. She’d see him tonight. She’d be with him tonight.
Her labia grew flushed and swollen, her fingers wet from arousal. A honk in front of the apartment had her pulling her hand back with a soft laugh. Just like a cop to show up and spoil the fun.
She took in her options, going for black, a long-sleeved blouse with buttons up the front and a tight mini-skirt that make her think of Jason’s leather. She finished the look with short black boots, not bothering with hose or makeup. She’d never needed either.
A quick transfer of cell phone, billfold, and the picture of the tattoo into a small black purse and she was ready. The kit stayed packed with everything she needed for working away from the shop or the apartment.
On the way out she snagged the black Harley jacket, silently chiding herself for treating it like a security blanket. Trent had pulled up close to the bottom of the steps. She stowed the roll-on suitcase and got into the car.
He gave a low whistle. “Hot date tonight?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
He laughed, making his good looks even more pronounced. She wondered how he managed to spend all day working with her brother, Mr. Humorless. Mr. Conform or You’re a Low Life, a belief he got from the captain. Then again, Trent was a Fed. So he must fit the mold, too, even if he knew how to lighten up.
“So where are we going?” she asked.
“Quinn’s at a hotel in the Castro.”
Her eyebrows lifted at that. “A gay FBI agent?”
“No. Castro District was a safe place for him to hole up. That’s all.”
“Works for me. I’ve got to stop at a friend’s place. His apartment is in Corona Heights.” Still, she was curious. “So what gang did this guy infiltrate?”
“Aryan Brotherhood.”
Her hands closed in automatic self-defense, fingers covering her palms at the prospect of applying ink to someone who’d managed to successfully pass himself off as an AB member. She focused on something else. “Do you guys have any leads on the Harlequin Rapist, besides the tattoo?”
“The hotline rings constantly, but the tattoo is our best shot. By far.” He glanced at her. “After the story broke about the visit to the hospital, Parker and I came clean with the rest of the taskforce—without mentioning your name or admitting your relationship to him. We talked to the profiler.
“Now that we know the escalation of violence is the result of Tyra seeing the tattoo, the profiler thinks it’s possible the next victim will be black, kind of a do-over to rebuild his confidence. He’s only solidified his signature and started alternating between the different victim types in the last couple months. Before then, almost all of the women were black. The profiler also said that if the news media finds out who you are and starts showing your picture, it might actually make you safer. You’d be high risk for the rapist then. And this guy goes for low.”
Uneasiness rippled through her. A need to flee as memories of those years with her mother came unbidden, bringing with them her mother’s favorite refrain as they moved from one place to another, to remain uninvolved, invisible to those around them.
Parker and Trent might not have mentioned her by name, but they’d told a bunch of cops skilled at investigation. Her involvement wouldn’t remain secret for long, and if—when—they caught the Harlequin Rapist and found the tattoo on his arm, she’d be asked to help more often, exposing her gift in an ever-widening circle.
Chill bumps multiplied on her skin. Her heart skipped into a fast beat, then a faster one when the car accelerated and took a corner sharply enough to bang her into the door.
She glanced at Trent and saw his attention alternating between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. “Problem?”
He made another turn. And another. Heading away from the Castro, then back toward it, taking a different route before finally answering, “I picked up a tail. I wasn’t positive at first. Young couple. Guy and a girl. Probably wannabe reporters who recognized me as taskforce and now want to get a shot of you. That’s the trouble with the fucking Internet. Everybody’s after their moment of fame and it doesn’t matter if someone else’s life goes to shit because of it. Fucking idiots. I brought the Mustang because it’s not my usual ride and it’d take digging to trace the plates. Obviously I should have gone for tinted windows.”
He glanced over and read her concern. With a visible effort he relaxed. “Don’t worry. I lost them. They never got close enough to photograph you.”
She knew that. She had a sixth sense when it came to cameras pointed at her. Always had. Her mother was the same way. “Where’d you first see them?”
“Oakland side, near the Bay Bridge. This is just a fluke sighting. I didn’t see the car on your street.”
Some of the worry left her. “Good.”
“You might want to consider staying with friends until interest in you dies down. Your first name is different than the one you grew up with, but it’s just a matter of time before someone makes the connection between you and Parker and the captain. Then you’re going to have reporters camping out in front of Stylin’ Ink and your apartment.”
“They won’t find the apartment. There’s nothing connecting the address to me. If they show up at the shop then I’ll head to LA or Vegas. After the fund-raiser.”
“Heading out might be a good idea anyway if we don’t catch this rapist, in case the profiler is wrong about the likelihood of your being a target. Hotel’s up ahead. I was planning on going in with you, but I think it’d be smarter to drop you off. Quinn’s in Room 213. I’ll call him and let him know you’re on your way up. You have cab money? Enough to get you wherever you need to go after Quinn and then back home?”
“I’m good.”
He stopped close to the hotel entrance. As she was getting out, he said, “Thanks for doing this. I know you and Parker—”
“Let’s not go there. I’ll send you my bill if your friend doesn’t cover it.”
Eamon prowled around his office, moving from one piece of furniture to another, only occasionally glancing down at the human diners on the terrace. Necklaces, rings, hair ornaments, and earrings covered every surface.
The sight of so much glittering wealth would make a Dragon drool but nothing caught his eye. Nothing seemed a suitable gift for Etaín, though all would look more beautiful for being placed on her.
With a sigh he cleared his chair, scooping up the treasure and dumping it on his desk in a careless pile. Amusement found him, saving him from true aggravation.
As a distraction against her absence, this wasn’t work
ing. And if he were really so foolish as to present her with a priceless piece of jewelry at this point in their courtship, he’d soon be reduced to ordering Liam and Rhys to capture and bring her to him.
He steepled his hands, touching his fingertips to his mouth. Knowledge was the gift he needed to give her, but as he’d already discovered, being with her distracted him from pursuing any purpose but pleasure. And beyond that, she was more guarded than he’d expected, and much less hungry for information than he’d hoped.
A soft brush of magic announced Rhys’s presence, presenting a welcome interruption until he saw the expression on his second’s face. “Tell me.”
“She slipped away again.”
“How?”
“It’s the bigger picture that’s more important. Two men stopped by the tattoo shop earlier today. She spoke with them outside. Earnestly, I’m told by the humans watching her, and who recognized both men, though it took them a while to determine how they knew the faces. The men are FBI agents and on the taskforce trying to locate the Harlequin Rapist.”
Uneasiness filled Eamon. For the most part he didn’t pay attention to human-on-human crime unless it touched someone he was ultimately responsible for, but the topic of this particular predator came up repeatedly among the wealthy and privileged dining at Aesirs. “What did they want of Etaín?”
“They passed her a piece of paper, but after they departed, she went back to work and remained for several hours, finishing up with a client before leaving to visit other shops. Nothing seemed amiss. She returned home and was there for only a few moments before one of the men arrived. She left her apartment, dressed for an evening out and with a suitcase. They followed the car back to San Francisco but either she or the driver became suspicious. The agent purposely lost them.”
Eamon kept his fingertips touched to his lips in an effort to affect calm against the emotions battering him. “A date with the intention of being gone several days?”
“Based on what they witnessed outside the shop, neither of those following her thought she was romantically or sexually involved with him. I’ve stationed humans at all the places where she might reappear.”