He handed her the phone so she could see the picture clearly. Rather than another Greek god, this was a beach scene during a storm, with grey and white clouds hovering above a turbulent dark blue sea. She turned the phone so it was in landscape and used her fingers to enlarge the photo for a better look.
She whistled. “Where do you want this? It’s quite large.”
He touched her shoulder and turned her gently so her back was facing him. With his hands, he traced her shoulders where he wanted the tattoo, from one arm to the other between his shoulder blades. “I want it all the way across. And to make things symmetrical, after this one, I plan to put one on the opposite side. Calypso the sea goddess.”
Willow nodded her head, smiling. “I’m all about the symmetry. We have that in common as well as our filthy fucking mouths.”
Cameron chuckled. “So, can you do this?” he asked, pointing at the picture on his phone.
She inhaled deeply, causing her shirt to pull tight across her chest. His eyes slipped to her bust, not caring one bit if she noticed. When he made eye contact again, she lifted an eyebrow. “Digging the show?”
“Appreciating, yes,” Cameron corrected. Her expression didn’t change, so he cleared his throat and apologized. “Sorry.”
“I bet.” She smirked.
“So, can you do it?”
Again, she inhaled as she thought, but she didn’t lift her chest. As she stared at the picture, sketching the drawing in her mind. She could certainly draw it, but something this complicated would take time to not only sketch but to render that sketch permanently on his skin. While she was positive her skills were up to the task, she’d never done such extensive work.
She glanced at him again. “Based on your outfit, I assume the cost won’t be an issue, but the amount of time this might take could be.”
“I was thinking, and correct me if I’m off base, but can’t we do the tattoo in sections?”
“Oh, yes! That’s what I would prefer if I’m going to do it. Seven or eight hours would be my estimate, and I certainly can’t do that marathon if you want good work.”
He laughed. “Yes, I think that would be best. Would I heal between sessions?”
“That would be my suggestion, yes,” she replied with a smile. “Um, before you make a decision, would you like to see my portfolio? I’ll be honest, I’ve never done such a detailed tattoo. You might want to talk to my boss, Bogey. He’s the best in this area.”
Cameron frowned. “I searched online for the best tattoo parlor in Orange County. Over and over, Bogey’s was at the top of the list with nothing but stellar ratings.” He nodded, agreeing with the reviews. “Yes, Bogey was named as the artist in almost every review, but I have serious doubts the man would hire someone who isn’t as talented as he is.”
“I’m certainly not as talented as Bogey, but I have to agree with you. Bogey doesn’t hire talentless individuals,” she replied, thinking about Jody. “You should still look at the books, though, just to be sure.”
“Sure. Let me see both yours and Bogey’s. But I’ll tell you, if I’m going to let someone work on me, I’d rather it be a sexy chick. I’ve seen Bogey’s picture. He’s a little…”
“Imposing?” she supplied.
“Scary,” he finished.
Willow chuckled as her boss’ form swam into her mind. He was a giant of a man with arms the size of her thighs covered in tattoos. His beard and hair were long, and he always wore leather. He drove a Harley, and many thought he was a member of a motorcycle gang. She’d never asked, and he’d never said. But he did have a habit of disappearing for a week at a time, leaving her in charge of the parlor.
Willow waved a hand dismissively. “He’s not scary. Imposing.”
“Whatever you say. Don’t tell him, but I’d prefer not to meet him in a dark alley.”
“Well, don’t tell anybody, but if he’s going to kill you, he’ll do it on the streets.” A moment of silence passed. Her facial expression didn’t change.
Cameron stared at her, his eyes wide, waiting for her to laugh, but she didn’t. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, shit.”
“Don’t worry, though. I’ll tell him I like you.”
“What happens if you don’t like me?”
Willow just smiled secretively and changed the subject. “Let’s get down to business. I’ll need a day to sketch this. I’ll make it to scale so you can see the details. If you don’t like the sketch, we’ll redo it until you do.”
“That sounds reasonable,” he murmured. She had forgotten the offer to look at her portfolio, and he let her. He wanted her to do the tattoo. “When should I come back?”
She glanced at the clock. “I’ll start on it tonight before I leave, but we close in thirty minutes. Want to come in tomorrow around six? I should have it done by then.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“Will you please text me the picture? I’ll need it as a reference.”
“What a creative way to give a man your number. I like your style, Willow,” he drawled as he pulled out his phone.
“You know, if you weren’t so damn charming, I’d have to cut you off at the knees,” she replied as she leaned on the counter. She recited her number to him, and he sent the picture. After checking to make sure she had it, she smiled at him. “See you at six tomorrow.”
“How about I bring dinner?” he offered.
Willow tilted her head. “That’s not necessary.”
“Not necessary, but I’d like to. I’ll text you tomorrow so you can tell me what you want,” Cameron told her. “See you tomorrow.” He turned and walked off the door before she could speak.
Willow shook her head. Touching that man for several days in a row without attacking him would be incredibly difficult. With a sigh, she pushed off the counter and returned to her computer, though she couldn’t concentrate at all. His smiling eyes and hilarious personality invaded her thoughts. Frowning, she realized she hadn’t quoted him a price. What if she worked all day on that sketch and he couldn’t afford it? Sure, he wore expensive clothes, but he hadn’t responded to her comment. Damn.
Chapter 2
Cameron drove directly to the bar where he had proposed a meeting with Coleman, the lead agent on the investigation of Bogey Archer. Although he’d been given only the minimum of details, after twenty minutes of research, Cameron was well aware of why Bogey was being investigated.
The man was a member of one of the most notorious motorcycle gangs in California, and rumors abounded about his criminal activities. Gun running, drugs, prostitution, assault, murder. The list was extensive and inconclusive. Allegedly, Bogey used the tattoo parlor as a front for some of his more illicit business practices, which was the reason Frank Coleman had contacted him. Cameron had tattoos and had boasted about getting a new one, and Frank had used that information to convince him.
Cameron slipped inside the bar, which was in the bad part of town and sketchy as hell. But no one would recognize either him or Coleman here, and the beer was cold. The interior was dark, and only the career alcoholics sat in the uncomfortable chairs, third or fourth drink in hands, at 9:30 on a Thursday. The lights were dimmed so the patrons didn’t have to see their pathetic lives unraveling in cheap whisky.
After a quick glance around once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Cameron moved to the bar since Coleman hadn’t arrived yet. He greeted the bartender with a nod, ordered his drink, whisky neat, and sat on a stool, staring at the mirror behind the bar so he could watch the door. While he waited, he thought about the girl, Willow. Beautiful, skin so flawless he wanted to touch it to make sure it was real. When she’d turned away from him briefly, he’d seen a tattoo peeking out of her bright pink tank top, but he’d been unable to figure out what it was of. He thought she was African-American, but her eyes were a strange shade. She must be of mixed race, he mused, as he recalled her hair, styled in braids from scalp to shoulders, sort of like Bo Derek in 10.
Her body was somethi
ng some men would drool over, and he was one of them. Busty with a small waist and an ass that rivaled any athlete who loved squats, Cameron imagined Sir-Mix-A-Lot had written his famous song about her. Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six. Haha! Only if she’s 5’3’! And Cameron bet that was exactly how tall she was. She’d fit perfectly against his six foot frame, though he’d have to bend to kiss her.
He hadn’t asked her last name because it wouldn’t have made sense for him to do so, but her first name and occupation would make her easy to research. He’d noticed her laptop and a textbook for a business class, and he wondered if she was planning to open her own shop or if the degree was for something else. As a tattoo artist, he’d expected her to have several visible tattoos, and because she didn’t, he thought maybe she planned on having a different career after she graduated.
His thoughts were interrupted by the door of the bar opening and letting in light from the street. He watched as Coleman stepped in, alone, looked around, and walked to him. He sat on the bar stool next to him with a grunt and lifted a finger to get the bartender’s attention. After being served, he turned to Cameron.
“Do you look for shit holes?”
Cameron chuckled. A full laugh in this place might cause a fight. “I like shit holes. Nobody knows either of us here.”
“People don’t know me at the bar in Chili’s either,” Coleman grouched as he hunched over.
“This place has personality,” Cameron pointed out, gesturing around the bar.
“Personality?” Coleman scoffed belligerently. He sipped his Guinness and moved on. “What did you think?”
Cameron shrugged his shoulders. “Bogey wasn’t there.”
“Yes, I know. I sent you when I knew he wouldn’t be,” Coleman clarified.
“Why?” Cameron asked, his eyebrows up. “I thought my job was to get to know Bogey.”
“So, why did you stay so long if he wasn’t there?” he asked, ignoring Cameron’s question.
“I’m adding to my tattoo, like we talked about,” Cameron replied with a shrug.
Coleman’s eyes bored into his. “Who’s doing your tattoo if Bogey wasn’t there?”
“His assistant.”
“The woman?”
“Yes.”
“The FBI isn’t paying you to get laid, Cameron.”
Cameron chuckled again. “What a job that would be, huh?” When Coleman didn’t crack a smile, Cameron rolled his eyes. “Listen, the tattoo I’m having done will take quite a bit of time. For the next several days, I’ll be hanging out there for at least an hour or two. Lots of opportunity to watch, learn, listen.”
Coleman nodded his head, the idea appealing to him. “That is true. Did you ask about Bogey?”
“No,” Cameron scoffed. “I had no reason to ask a question about him.”
“What about the woman? Do you know anything about her?”
“Haven’t your people checked everyone he’s associated with?” Cameron asked, his tone implying someone hadn’t done their job.
“No need. Yet. If you’re going to spend that much time with her, you’ll need to do the research before you go back. Did you get her name?”
“Just her first name, but it’s unique. Willow,” Cameron said with a smile.
“Sounds like a hippy name,” Coleman grunted as he finished his beer.
“Maybe her parents were. I’m doing the search tonight.”
Coleman nodded as he fished some cash out of his wallet. “You think she knows anything about anything?”
Cameron frowned, remembering her statement about how Bogey would kill him on the street if he wanted to kill him. He thought she’d been joking, but he wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Possibly she thought that kind of joke was funny, and under normal circumstances it would be. But if she knew what her boss was doing other than adding ink to his customers, her statement was almost threatening.
“Honestly, I’m not sure if she does. When he’s gone, I’d bet money she runs the tattoo parlor, but that doesn’t mean she knows about the guns or drugs or whatever.”
“Look into her finances, her background, everything. We’ll know soon enough if she’s involved,” Coleman ordered him as if he didn’t know how to do a search.
“Sure thing, boss.” He rose to leave, ending the conversation with a man he almost liked, and said, “I am getting the tattoo there, regardless of what I find on the search.”
“Of course. Can’t get an FBI agent in a tattoo parlor, so you’re our best option.”
“I used to be an agent,” Cameron reminded him with a wink. “Then I made my millions and said adios.” He turned and walked out, his jaunty step watched by several eyes.
“What a prick,” Coleman murmured with a shake of his head. “Should have made him pay for my drink.”
*****
The next morning, Cameron had a meeting with his board of directors. At twenty-two, while still in school, he’d created a line of surfboards, surfing outfits, and surfing accessories. With a little money from his parents, he invested in himself, began producing his products, and started a website where he sold his products. In two years, and after becoming an FBI agent, his website and its followers had grown exponentially, and by twenty-seven, he’d made his first million. At thirty, he’d retired from the FBI and focused solely on his company, expanding worldwide. There wasn’t a surfer on the planet who hadn’t heard of his brand of surfboards.
He’d been surfing since childhood and knew the ins and outs of the ocean. When he created his first surfboard, he’d tested it himself, in large waves and small, until he was positive the surfboard was perfect, after several modifications. The clothes, shoes, sunglasses, and so forth had been an afterthought handed to him by his brother, Jason, who was in charge of marketing.
After his Skype conference meeting which he thought could have been handled in an email ended at noon, he turned his attention to his other job: FBI informant. Coleman, who had been his superior while with the FBI, had approached him about undercover work. He received a paycheck and benefits from the government as long as he was willing and able to do a little spy work. Nothing dangerous, just blending in, asking questions that seemed conversational, pretending he was nothing but a civilian. And most of the time he was.
Bogey was only his third assignment, one that gave him the opportunity to do both his job as well as handle some personal business: adding to his tattoo collection. After getting the first one, a small sun on his biceps, he thought he’d become addicted. He’d refrained from sleeves, which he really wanted, and chose to put his tats where they could be hidden. The Poseidon was a work of art, as Willow had claimed, and though he would have loved to go back to the guy in New York, the tattoo was his in at Bogey’s. He’d spend a couple hours a day there two or three times a week, giving him plenty of time for reconnaissance.
But for now, he needed to focus on the beauty whose name did not fit her. The woman was anything but willowy. Athletic, muscular, strong. Those were more appropriate words to describe her body. He really hoped she was completely innocent of all wrong doing, had no knowledge of Bogey’s activities. However, if she was involved, he’d put aside his attraction and do his job.
He logged in to the FBI’s search and searched for Bogey’s employment records, finding Willow’s information immediately, even though he had been lacking her last name. Starting at her childhood, he worked his way through her life, not one pang of guilt sitting on his conscious because, he reasoned, this was his job.
Willow’s mother, Keisha, had given birth to her at sixteen. She quit school and had lived off welfare with her mother, also a single parent. He wondered if Willow’s childhood had been a happy one, but the picture of her mother told him a story he might not want to hear. Drugs had been major part of Keisha’s life, and though he saw an arrest record for her, he moved on. He wasn’t interested in Willow’s mother at this time, but he made a mental note to look into her later.
Cameron moved on to her father,
and his eyes widened when he recognized the man on the screen. Pablo, a well-known drug dealer in Orange County, had been arrested and in jail as much as he was free. He’d been twenty-two when Willow was born. Statutory rape was not on his rap sheet, but it should have been, although Cameron seriously doubted Keisha had been an unwilling participant. Even at twenty-two, Pablo had already been chest deep in drugs, though still just a small time seller. Keisha would have been an easy mark.
The man had become a high ranking member of his gang, second only to his boss. Cameron’s frown deepened. Since Pablo had been released from jail six months ago, he’d been hovering around the area, pretending to work at his gang’s mechanic shop, but the influx of drugs from Mexico had dramatically risen.
Unfortunately for Willow, her connection to this man, however weak, was damning. He returned to her bio and noted that her father spent half of her childhood in prison. He wondered if she even knew who he was. Regardless, this was an avenue he would have to pursue and report.
Willow was taking online courses in business and would graduate in another year or so, barring any unforeseen issues. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment fifteen minutes from the parlor without a roommate. Paid her bills on time, had accrued some debt, mostly school related, and sent money to her mother regularly. She made decent money at the tattoo parlor, though he’d bet she often received cash as tips that neither he nor the IRS would be able to find. There were no unexplained deposits in her checking account, so if her father was giving her money, she wasn’t depositing it. He checked her Facebook profile, which was set to private, and wondered if she’d friend him after he returned to look at the sketch. He could garner so much information from social media.
Theories began popping into his head, one that Pablo and Bogey collaborated on the drug trafficking through this area. Was Willow a mule? His impression of her was of an innocent bystander, an artist who was trying to do better for herself by attending college. But in his experience as an FBI agent as well as CEO of his own company, he knew first impressions could be lies.
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