by Jory Strong
“Stay at my place tonight?”
It made sense. “Yes.”
Her phone rang before they were ready to leave. Relief hit her when she saw Trent’s number in the display.
“Tell me you’re calling to say you got him,” she said instead of hello.
“I take it you don’t watch TV or listen to the radio much.”
“I don’t. Bad habit.” Left over from those years with her mother, when it seemed nothing going on in the world around them mattered.
“He’s dead,” Trent said. “Tried his best to take the SWAT team with him but no one else was hurt. Sick pervert had pictures in his bedroom, enough evidence to have put him on death row even if we never find the place where he took his victims.”
She heard Parker’s voice in the background and stiffened. “Be right there,” Trent said, obviously talking to her brother.
“Gotta go,” he said to her. “Press conference is about to start. Get to a TV or turn on the radio. This is important, Etaín.”
She put the phone in her jacket pocket. “That was one of the taskforce members. Turn on the TV. The Harlequin Rapist is dead.”
They settled on her couch and watched as the taskforce members filed into a room filled with reporters. She steeled herself against feeling anything at seeing Parker, but couldn’t suppress the ache that came when the captain joined the others.
The press conference went as she expected, with the spokesman claiming a tip had led them to the suspect. He gave minimal details of what they’d found in Kevin Wheat’s apartment, but enough of them so women in the Bay Area could feel safe—at least when it came to this particular predator—and interest in the story would die down as far as the media went.
She tried to stop herself from repeatedly glancing at the captain. It’d been months since they’d talked, and that had ended in a familiar argument about her wasting her talent using skin as a canvas instead of producing work to be sold in galleries.
He didn’t like that she worked in Bryce’s shop. Didn’t like that word got back to him she was often out with musicians. He thought at any minute she was going to spiral downward on drugs because of her choice of friends and profession.
She forced her attention back to the spokesman but he was stepping aside and the captain was taking his place behind the podium. “I’ve been asked to participate in order to clear up the rumor concerning my daughter’s involvement with the taskforce,” he said, and her heart gave a lurch, knowing her anonymity was about to be stripped away.
“Though Etaín is an artist, and has on occasion worked with the authorities, she was asked to visit Tyra Nelson in the hospital, and the subsequent rumors about it circulated in an effort to draw the Harlequin Rapist out. She fit the profile of the type of woman the taskforce believed he would choose as his next victim. That was the extent of her involvement. It was a long shot, and at no time was she ever in danger, nor did he make an attempt to take her. In the end, it was solid police work and a tip from a citizen that led to his being identified and stopped.”
The captain stepped away from the podium and the spokesman opened the conference to questions. Cathal captured her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “What’s the truth? Did they make you a target? Or are they trying to kill any media interest in you?”
She wanted to believe the captain’s presence and his speech were about deflecting attention, and given the fund-raiser tomorrow, she appreciated it. But . . .
“I don’t know what the truth is,” she said, her thoughts going to Liam’s showing up at the bar, and the fight that ensued when Eamon followed. “Except that I’ve been kept safe.”
A reporter’s question intruded, cutting through the air with a sharp-voiced, “Has a taskforce been formed to deal with last night’s murder of a diplomat’s son and three other boys?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
Another question about Brianna’s rapists came after that one. Cathal rose from the couch and turned off the TV. His back still to her, he asked, “Did you know they’d been killed before the police showed up here?”
“No.”
She went to him, arms going around his waist, cheek rubbing against the solid muscles of his back. “It can’t be undone.”
“I know. I’m not sure I wish it could be even though I’ve been fighting against being like my father and uncle since I was thirteen.”
The same age she’d been when the call to ink had come. “A turning point?”
He laughed but there was no humor in it. “You could call it that.”
“What happened?”
“I fell in love with poker. I played it online some but for the wins to be satisfying, I had to pit myself against people who were real to me, not names on a screen. My parents’ house is a couple of blocks away from Uncle Denis’s. The kids in my social network had money, the same as I did. Even at the start, these weren’t low-stakes games, and I had a talent for cards.
“At thirteen, I had a couple hundred grand in winnings. Cash, just sitting around my room. And for a cut, one of the guys my father kept around for protection had fifty or sixty K in jewelry he was converting into cash for me.”
“Your father and uncle knew what you were doing?”
“At the time, I didn’t think so. Looking back, they knew. They just didn’t say anything because letting things play out is how they operate. They wanted to see where I’d go with it. If it would bother me kids might be stealing to cover their losses. And what I’d do when someone gambled big and couldn’t pay up.”
“And that happened?”
“Yes.”
Cathal forced himself to face the memory, knowing if she chose to, she could see it. “There was this one boy who was a degenerate gambler at seventeen. He also played football. He was twice my size. Popular. I extended him credit, a huge line of it. He used it up then told me he wasn’t going to pay and I couldn’t make him.”
Cathal tensed, bracing himself to have her pull away. “He was wrong. I did make him.”
She tightened her arms rather than reject him. “How?”
“Access to guns wasn’t a problem. I can’t remember the first time my father put one in my hand and let me fire it, that’s how young I must have been. He drew the line at letting me keep one in my room, but it was easy enough to take one of his.
“I waited in the backseat of the kid’s car. He got in and as soon as he started driving, I sat up and put the barrel against his head, then proceeded to convince him he could either pay his debt or live in fear of an injury that might leave him unable to play football if he survived at all. The car smelled like piss and shit by the time I was done talking, that’s how effective I was.”
“Would you have gone through with your threat if he hadn’t paid?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, facing the ugliness. “When I made it, it was real. After I got out of the car and he drove away, I puked.”
“You scared yourself straight.”
“I thought so.”
She bit his shoulder before he could express the doubts he’d experienced as he looked at the drawings, feeding them to the fire one-by-one. “Given no good options,” she said, “you chose the best one and I’m here with you as a result of it. You tried to change the course of something you knew you couldn’t stop, but you weren’t able to. The only innocent victims are Brianna and Caitlyn.”
Turning in her arms he rubbed his nose against hers. “Let’s go away after the fund-raiser. You name the place. Hawaii. Europe. The Caribbean. My treat. We’ll go for a week at least. Stay longer if we decide we want to.”
She was tempted. Beyond tempted.
It wouldn’t be a working vacation. The only skin she’d touch was his and he was safe from her gift. Her changing gift.
She sighed, finally confronting what she hadn’t been willing to for most of the day. She closed her hands, a sign she had no intention of reading him. “What about Eamon?”
Cathal stiffened in a
nswer, but when she would have pulled out of his arms, he stopped her with the tightening of them. “You can invite him. Just promise to pick a place and let me take you there after the fund-raiser.”
“I’ll need to wrap things up and reschedule some appointments.”
“Same here.” He nuzzled her ear, took the lobe between his lips and gave a sweet suck. “Promise, Etaín.”
“I promise.”
Thirty
Eamon took a final sip of coffee and set the mug down on the elegant table. “Shall we leave, gentlemen?”
Liam exchanged a glance with Rhys. “And here I was beginning to think having a woman in his life definitely didn’t improve his personality.”
Rhys gave a small tilt of his head. “I had the same fear, especially given yesterday’s testiness.”
Eamon could afford to be amused by them. Today marked the end of his allowing Etaín the unfettered freedom to do as she pleased. Adjustments would be required due to her involvement with Cathal. And he found himself willing to grant her more leeway than he once would have thought possible, but certain risky behaviors would cease.
Involving herself with the police was one of them. Tattooing anyone other than those he gave approval to was another. Despite what he felt for her, he would be Lord, and she the Lady who answered to him.
“The humans are organized?” he asked Liam.
“They should be arriving at the shelter now. Twenty to begin with and another twenty to come later if necessary. They’ll pay, sign waivers, and get their artist tickets so they can be in Etaín’s line as soon she settles at a workstation.”
“Excellent.” Eamon rose from his seat. “I believe it’s now time to check on my intended.”
He sat near a grocery cart full of junk, whimpering when he saw her, then shoving his knuckles into his mouth to keep from doing it again. Whore. Slut.
She was with the dark-haired man, but in spite of it, in spite of what she’d done to Kevin, he still wanted to be with her. She was so, so beautiful. Golden like the sun, warming the snake between his legs so it started waking.
He hunched his back. Drawing his knees against his chest so he could hide the growing bulge at the front of his pants.
Just a little while longer. He just had to wait a little while longer and they’d be together.
Kevin wouldn’t be there and that made him sad. But a part of him, a small guilty part was glad he didn’t have to share her.
He could keep her as long as he wanted that way. Kevin wouldn’t say when to let her go like he had with the others. And when he was done . . .
He shied away from thinking about ruining her face and caving in her skull. He’d keep the promise he made to Kevin, but not right away.
The artists had started tattooing, and on a short stage a couple of musicians were warming up. He watched her as she moved around, talking to lots of different people. He wished he could get closer but he didn’t dare.
He hoped the black girl would come. When he saw her at the tattoo shop he hadn’t paid attention to what car she got into, or if she rode the bus.
He didn’t like the black ones as much. In New York he only chose ones that looked like her. But maybe he’d stay in San Francisco long enough for one more, for Kevin, and because of the golden thread that went from her to the black girl.
He saw the blond-haired man from the fancy restaurant heading toward her. And when he reached her, she went willingly into his arms, kissing him back while the dark-haired one watched.
Whore! Slut! She was just like his mother.
He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his knuckles to keep from making another sound. She wouldn’t act like this anymore. He’d punish her and love her at the same time. And then he’d make sure she never did it again.
She’d live in his memory then. Only there.
He just had to wait now. For the right time to take her.
Eamon reluctantly allowed Etaín to escape his embrace. He wouldn’t have been able to tolerate any of this if he didn’t know it was his people she would touch, and at the end of this day, her true education would begin.
He extended his hand to Cathal, memories of the night before stirring anticipation for the future. Cathal’s handshake was firm, his gaze steady, though a hint of color appeared beneath the dark stubble on his cheeks.
Eamon managed to suppress his amusement, but only barely. Her magic clung to Cathal like a rich, heady perfume and he could well imagine Cathal’s reaction to learning of it.
If he was a man to desire other men, he’d find Cathal irresistible. As it was, he found Cathal . . . a problem with only one apparent solution. Acceptance.
Cathal released Eamon’s hand and took Etaín’s, pulling her into a hug. Seeing her return Eamon’s kiss was all it had taken for fantasies to spiral out of control, expanding on the reality of the night before and bringing with them a hard dick and a whirl of conflicting thoughts. Not regret, the sex had been too incredible for that, but he wasn’t convinced sharing her for the long term was really possible, not when he wanted her with him at his club, and afterward in his home each night. “You’ll be tattooing soon?”
“In just a few minutes. Justine and the other volunteers have everything under control. Most of the artists are already here, plus a few I didn’t think would show up until later. So we’re in good shape.”
She smiled and he felt it in his heart. “Thanks for the music,” she said, initiating a kiss that said other things as well. “It’s the reason why we’ve got so many people showing up this early.”
“My pleasure.” He heard the huskiness in his own voice, the private bubble they were in expanding so he became aware of Eamon again, close enough that a step would have Etaín trapped between them.
It wasn’t a comfortable intimacy. Yet.
He escaped it by saying, “I’m going over to the stage area. Be thinking of where you want to go after this. Anywhere in the world. You’ve promised me a week.”
A nearby chuckle made him look to the right, at a black man with braids reaching to his shoulders and eyes laughing openly at Eamon who said, “Leave. Find Rhys. Let him endure your company for a while.”
Etaín watched Liam go, then Cathal after a final kiss. “Probably time for me to start putting on some ink.”
Eamon stopped her before she could take a step, shackling her wrist. “You’re going away with Cathal?”
The twitch in his cheek would have given him away even if the tone of his voice failed to deliver the message. Lord Eamon was not happy about it.
“You’re invited.”
She expected him to relax and smile, to see this as a positive step. If anything his expression became more intense.
“Did you promise to make this trip?”
“Yes, and I won’t break it.” She tugged at her captured wrist. When he didn’t release it, she said, “Let go, Eamon. I can get off on dominance games in the right situations, but this is not one of them.”
“We’ll talk about acceptable destinations later.”
Her temper flared at his choice of wording. She suppressed it, giving him the benefit of the doubt, because even though sharing her turned him on, working out the details of it would no doubt come with some aggravating moments.
A lot of them, she was beginning to think, glad to have the fund-raiser to concentrate on for the remainder of the day.
She gave another tug and said, “Why don’t you go bond with Cathal over some tunes.”
It coaxed a startled laugh out of Eamon, followed by a smile. And just like that, the tension between them was gone. “Somehow I don’t think he’s quite ready to spend time in my company.”
He gave her a brief kiss then released her. “Do what you need to do. I’ll stay close, but out of your way.”
Jamaal’s arrival drew her away from Eamon.
“You did good, girl,” Jamaal said, nearly crushing her in a hug. “Even if the place Anton’s brother owns got trashed thanks to you being there. Tha
t the guy who came after you?”
“Eamon. He owns Aesirs.”
A laugh erupted. “Damn, you’re something else when you decide you’re tired of doing without. Where do you want me to set up?”
“Your choice.” She pointed to a station at the far end. “That’s where I’m going to be.”
“I’ll grab the one next to it. Bryce and Derrick are going to be here early, soon as they finish the clients they’ve got with them right now at the shop.”
Etaín looked at the rapidly swelling crowd. A lot of them were there just for the music, but they’d end up buying hotdogs, hamburgers, and soft drinks—a last minute add because of the live bands.
“Should have put a cover charge in place,” Jamaal said as they headed toward the workstations.
“Next year.”
A line had already formed by the time she looked up from laying out her supplies. Surprise hit her first, then consternation at having at least twenty people—none of them former clients, none of them with a reason to pick her—waiting when there were other artists available.
“You’re famous now,” Jamaal joked.
She laughed, relaxing. Better this than a crowd of reporters. She gave a come-on wave to the man at the front of the line.
He practically bounced forward in his enthusiasm, putting his ticket on her table and claiming the empty seat.
“Which design?” she asked. All the shared ones were on display where the money was being collected and the release forms signed. And while some of the artists had stencils exclusive to them or their shop on their table, she didn’t.
The man bit his bottom lip, enthusiasm sliding into nervousness as he leaned forward, expression earnest. Unnervingly so. “Please. You choose.”
Her answer was immediate. “No.”
His skin, his choice. She had no trouble with artists who went with the flow of a client’s request, but from the very start she’d never put randomly chosen art on anyone.
She picked up the ticket and handed it back to him. He looked stricken.
“I can’t,” she said, trying to gentle her refusal. “Not in good conscience. You can write the cost off as a donation if you don’t go through with this today. But if you choose to go to another artist, I would seriously suggest you go back and look at the designs, and decide if you want to be wearing one of them for the rest of your life. Lasering it off later will be expensive and very painful.”