Inked

by Anne Marsh

  “So how come you’re the one who’s out on the street, looking for a new place to live?”

  You know what? I don’t have a good answer for that. I take a stab at it anyhow.

  “Because his name was on our lease?”

  Vik makes a dismissive noise. “If he’s the one who wants change, he changes. You stay and he goes.”

  It’s dark outside, and the few people walking past the window are either staggeringly drunk or so wrapped up in each other that they don’t look inside Ink Me’s windows. It’s liberating knowing that everyone and no one is watching, that Vik and I are alone in this pool of light inside a bigger sea of darkness. I suddenly understand why all those detectives in TV shows shine a spotlight on their targets, willing them to speak.

  The words spill out of me with each question that Vik asks. He can’t care about my answers, not really. He’s working, filling the minutes and the silence the same way he colors in the blank spots on my skin, and yet it feels both surreal and good at the same time. It has nothing to do with my noticing how powerful his thighs are in those wash-worn, threadbare jeans of his, or how his motorcycle boots make me think really, really dirty thoughts.

  “There was no magic putty for my relationship with Mark. The problem is I get distracted by a pretty face and Mark had that in spades.”

  “I’ll be your booty call,” he says as he presses a bandage over my lower back.

  “Excuse me?”

  I sound like I have a stick up my butt. Prissy. Uptight.

  And he repeats the utterly ridiculous, totally crazy thing he just said.

  “If you need a pretty face for sex, you can call me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Harper

  VIK SHOVES A tattooed hand in my face. “Up,” he says.

  His voice is phenomenal. Low and rough, full of heat and humor, the man could make a fortune as a sex line worker. He could read bedtime stories, dirty limericks, the stock report...anything, and I’d be jilling off on the other end of the line because he’s that goddamned sexy.

  Danger, danger.

  Getting up is exponentially harder than lying down. Not only am I more sober, but I’m stiff. There’s also the whole business of my skirt and my blouse, and even though what goes up must come down, my skirt is a challenge. The fabric clings to my legs, and the strong possibility of flashing my high school lover-turned-biker my cotton-covered butt makes me self-conscious. Frankly, I’d feel better about putting myself on display if I wasn’t wearing sensible white cotton.

  Vik solves my logistical issues for me. Large hands close around my waist and yank me upward. I try not to giggle, but a squeak escapes me anyhow. I’m painfully ticklish, and his fingers dig gently into every spot I wish he’d avoid. At least he’s quick. I don’t even have time to worry about the doughnuts I’ve been stress-eating because he flies me through the air and sets me gently on my feet. I’m not a small woman; I started growing up when I was ten and then out two years later. And while I haven’t achieved Jolly Green Giant proportions, I’m not precisely sylph-like, either. I’m tall, I’m sturdy and I’m wearing four-inch heels.

  “Warning would be good.” I dig my nails into his forearms trying to find my balance. The skin beneath the dark scrolls of ink is sun-bronzed. It’s also totally lickable, but I need to not think about that.

  “Vik Air at your service,” he deadpans. “Although you either have to let go or come home with me.”

  We both look down at the death grasp I have on his arms.

  Right.

  I let go.

  Vik strips off his gloves and tosses them into the trash. I guess we’re done here. He might be hot and talented, but this isn’t personal. Sure, I’ve felt this man’s hands on my body, his breath on my skin for three hours, but it’s a business deal. His ink in exchange for my money. Anything else was absolutely not on the price list the girl at the front desk gave me.

  But I want more.

  God help me, but I do. I don’t want tonight to end. Right now, it feels like I’ve lost everything. In the morning, I’ll end my pity party, but right now, I don’t remember what’s right with my life. I just remember the crap. I don’t have my place anymore. My stuff’s packed up in a storage pod. My ex hijacked our Siamese. All I have is work on Monday and...this night. The tattoo, this man’s hands on me waking me up in places I didn’t know I was asleep. Would you want it to end? If I’d been Cinderella, I’d have stuck around on the top of those stairs.

  He steers me away from his bench, his hand low and firm just beneath the spot that burns and aches from his needles. And okay, just above another, slightly more southern spot that also aches and burns because clearly I’m all kinds of messed up.

  “Harper?” His mouth brushes the hair by my ear.

  “Yeah?” My stupid feet stop moving toward the front desk, where an astronomical bill waits for tonight’s piece of folly. Ink and this man do not come cheap.

  “I’m sorry I don’t remember you and I mean it. I’d be happy to be your booty call,” he whispers roughly. “All you have to do is ask, sweetheart.”

  I just...can’t.

  Vik disappears while I settle up with his receptionist for my new ink. I shouldn’t be disappointed. Obviously, the flirty come-on lines are just part of the service—kind of like a hairdresser chatting you up while you’re in her chair and pretending she’s super-interested in your life. I force myself not to look around while Gia runs my credit card. After I sign the receipt, however, I discover a logistical problem.

  Brooklyn’s sound asleep on the couch.

  Since leaving her here would be a gross violation of the girlcode (we’re besties even if she didn’t talk me out of getting a tattoo), I need to get her home. And while I definitely outweigh her, I can’t deadlift her. While I consider and abandon constructing a travois out of her borrowed jacket and hauling her ass home, Gia disappears with a little wave. Guess it’s quitting time at the zoo.

  I could drag Brooklyn outside. The odds of that causing physical damage, however, seem high.

  While I’m weighing bruises against camping in a tattoo shop overnight, a bike roars up, the noise of the pipes bouncing off buildings. Vik seems even larger and wilder straddling the enormous bike, which I figure out fast because my eyes just keep checking out his thighs, those long, muscled legs that end in the sexiest pair of boots, the powerful forearms that effortlessly guide the bike to a stop. I can’t stop looking, which in retrospect probably should be a red flag that this man isn’t easy. That he’s capable of riding all over my nice, tidy, way-too-single life as easily as he does the road.

  I should have run out of Ink Me screaming.

  Instead, I watch him swing off the bike and stride toward me. Possibly, I entertain a few fantasies about pillaging Vikings and village maidens. The fun parts, not the shitty moments involving murder and mayhem. Of course, Mr. Beautiful has no clue about the daydreams playing out inside my head. He’s just being a Boy Scout and making sure I’m sorted before he leaves for the night and whatever fun, sexy stuff bad-boy bikers who look like Vikings do in their downtime.

  “Called you a taxi,” he says when he gets to me, reaching out to touch my arm lightly. The man is definitely snugglier than a cat. A really, really friendly alley cat, I remind myself. Even in high school, his dick had its own frequent flyer club.

  “Thanks,” I blurt out while he stares patiently at me.

  “You want me to follow you home and carry Sleeping Beauty inside?”

  “Do you follow all your clients home?”

  “Only the cute ones.” He winks.

  I think about that for a moment too long. Nope. I’ve got nothing. Flirty banter is not something I excel at—I have a goddamned finance degree from Cornell. Sexy Quips 101 was not part of my Ivy League curriculum. Instead, I reexamine Brooklyn, hoping she’s magically decided to wa
ke up, sober up and get up.

  No such luck.

  She snort-sighs, settling deeper into the leather couch. Vik laughs.

  “She’s out for the night.”

  Thank you, Captain Obvious.

  He puts all those gorgeous muscles to good use, however, sliding his arms underneath her and scooping her up against his chest. They look perfect together, a beautiful blond god and goddess pairing. Her hair trails over his arm as he heads for the door. This is my cue to follow him, and since exhaustion is hitting me hard now, I do. If he’s got a solution for my Brooklyn problem, I’ll take it.

  When we get outside, the taxi is just pulling up. Vik juggles his load of sleeping blonde, and says something to the driver. The guy nods, money changes hands, and then Vik walks around the car, pops open the back door and slides Brooklyn inside. When I open my mouth to protest about his paying, he cuts me off.

  “Duane here is gonna see you back to your place. He can carry Sleeping Beauty in if she needs it.”

  I shouldn’t find his ruthless, roughshod side attractive. I blame the broad shoulders stretching the leather of his jacket, or maybe it’s the way he leans in to buckle up Brooklyn. He’s big but he makes me feel both safe and sexy. He’s just playing around, but it’s been a long time since any guy made me feel like the queen of sexy. Like I don’t have to try harder or do more because I’m enough right now, just as I am. I thought I’d have to wait until I met my Mr. Right to feel like that. Looking back, I guess that should’ve been my first clue that Mark wasn’t the guy for me.

  “Give me your address.” Vik flashes me a wicked smile and I’m grateful I don’t have to admit how wet my panties are.

  I shoot him a look. He grins. Waiting. I heat up some more. “Because the driver needs it?”

  Damn, the man has a sexy laugh. It’s low and rough, a dirty, happy-sounding chuckle. I smile back as he saunters back around the car.

  “Because I want it, sweetheart.”

  My girl parts decide this is the best reason ever. In fact, we should totally give Vik whatever he wants. Immediately.

  Stupid.

  “I’m at the Bellagio,” I admit. “I’m between places at the moment thanks to the Douche.”

  Vik opens the door on my side and hands me in. I’m no dating virgin, but this is the first time any guy has ever physically steered me into a car. I look up at him, intending to protest, and lose my breath. God, he’s gorgeous. Gorgeous and so, so close. I can see firsthand that his eyes are still a dark, hard gray...and those beautiful eyes make me forget all about his appropriation of my elbow—and my free will.

  My butt hits the seat oh-so-obediently, but he doesn’t let go. He cups my elbow with his palm, his fingers stroking briefly over my forearm. It’s hardly pornographic but it’s been a long time since anyone touched me. Or wanted to. I know Mark didn’t, because our California King–size bed had stricter borders than North and South Korea. Mark hadn’t crossed those lines to my side of the bed in months.

  Vik retreats, shuts the door and then leans down, his big, tattooed hands curling around the open window frame. “Got a proposition for you.”

  “Okay.” I’d like to pretend I don’t sound breathless, but this man is like fine wine. He’s only gotten better since high school.

  “We’re having a party out at the clubhouse tomorrow night. Think you’d have fun if you came out.”

  Is he asking me out on a date? Or maybe this is the biker version of a coffee? In theory we’re old high school friends who haven’t seen each other in years, so this could be strictly platonic, or him just being nice because he’s aware my life is a mess.

  “You’re thinking too hard.” He looks amused as he pulls a business card out of his jacket pocket and scribbles an address on it. He takes my hand, tucking the card into my palm and closing my fingers around it. His thumb strokes over my knuckles briefly. “Say yes. I promise I won’t forget you this time.”

  His eyes dip to my mouth. Is he thinking about kissing me? Am I thinking about kissing him?

  “Maybe,” I blurt out, my good intentions melting like my panties.

  I’m still trying to decide as he saunters back to his bike, straddles the seat and rides off. Usually, I’d just admire the view and get on with my life, but nothing about today has been normal. I’ve been rendered homeless, dumped and inked. And after an evening of downing way too many cocktails, I’ve also got a monster-size thirst to go with the start of a headache—and the contacts I’ve been wearing all day aren’t helping. Hooking up with a biker and tattoo artist is also something I wouldn’t usually do.

  But I’m painfully aware that the man’s ass and thighs are a delicious work of art that deserve appreciating. Biker. Charmer. Player. Vik is all of these and more, and the sex appeal just rolls off him. Maybe we could hook up, but it couldn’t end any better than it did the first time.

  Trouble.

  That’s what Vik is. He’s Capital T Trouble.

  He’s not the Mr. Right I’ve been searching for, he doesn’t fit into my life plan, and that makes him most definitely not the person I need in my life right now. If I were smart, I’d sit out on dating for a few months even if said life plan calls for marriage and kids before I’m thirty-five and my eggs start drying up like water in the desert. It’s just that I’d swear Vik looked at me like he liked what he saw. I mean, really, really liked what he saw. And he walked me out and gave me his card and God I need to find a life somewhere. I’ve already taken his dick for a ride, so it’s not like I can even blame curiosity for the warm sensation licking my belly and melting all my resolve.

  I settle slowly into the seat as the taxi pulls away from Ink Me. Brooklyn makes a face like she’s giving serious consideration to puking, so I rub her back and try to not hear the wounded animal sounds she’s making.

  I should throw Vik’s card away. Instead, I turn it over. It’s the general card for Ink Me, with all the basic contact information for hitting up the tattoo parlor for an appointment. On the reverse side, however, Vik has scrawled an address and two words.

  Come over.

  Oh, and he’s also sketched a cartoon Viking that’s...

  Doing something downright obscene.

  To a very large penis.

  That has...

  Ink?

  I shove the card into my purse and try not to wonder if Vik has tattoos in some very personal areas. How likely is it that a guy would let a needle and ink anywhere near his favorite body part? Plus, the pain. And how would that even work? Do you ink when you’re hard or soft?

  He has to be exaggerating.

  I make a mental note to Google penis sizes and hand-to-dick ratios. After that, I’ll clear my browser cache and get on with my life, curiosity satisfied.

  Really.

  I will.

  Bad boys and bankers don’t mix.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Harper

  MY LIFE DOES not magically sort itself out overnight.

  This comes as no surprise, although part of me wishes I’d inherit a fairy godmother or some magic beans. Instead, I wake up alone in my Bellagio hotel room. Since I’m only here for a week or two until I find a new place and I’m paying for my reservation with the Douche’s lifetime hoard of frequent flyer miles, I upgraded to a room with a fountain view. This means I don’t even have to get out of bed to see the watery fireworks. One push of a convenient bedside button and the blackout drapes part with a dramatic swoosh, sunlight pouring inside as the water below shoots upward to the sounds of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

  I go all in and order room service pancakes. A pot of overpriced coffee, hothouse strawberries and a pound of butter improve my mood substantially. I send emails and make calls, setting up appointments to view various condos because unfortunately I can’t live at the Bellagio forever.

  I do Saturday th
ings after I’ve done what I can to organize my life, because it would be a shame to be camped out at the Strip’s fanciest hotel and not take advantage of it. I swim in pools surrounded by faux-Grecian statuary spouting water. I lose ten bucks in the slot machines. I pass on visiting the art gallery in favor of the ginormous chocolate fountain in the hotel’s candy shop because everything is better with chocolate.

  And the whole time I keep thinking about last night. About Vik’s casual invitation to join him at an MC party. He might be hot and uninhibited, but he’s also a biker, and he’s the guy who banged me in the back seat of his car after high school prom...and then promptly forgot my name, my face and every detail of that encounter. I’ve probably idealized his bedroom skills. He’s not worth pursuing, and he likely has zero interest in me that way, even if he did offer to be my booty call. Who says those kinds of things?

  Other than company events, I can’t remember the last party I went to. There aren’t many festive moments on my calendar. Okay, so I could swing by Vik’s clubhouse and check out his party. My night’s wide-open, and how many opportunities will I get to ogle an entire roomful of bikers? Since I’m most definitely not drinking tonight, I could even drive there, which would give me a handy escape route. I’m assuming a biker event is a little rowdier and grittier than, say, a fund-raiser ball, and it’s entirely possible I’ll feel too uncomfortable to do more than just look in.

  I go through the clothes I’ve stashed in the closet. Most of them are work things, with a healthy side of yoga pants. Nothing screams party. I do a quick Google search for biker get-together dress codes but come up mostly empty. Lots of leather and denim, plus the occasional porn-or Coachella-worthy outfit that makes Princess Leia’s slave girl bikini look like a nun’s habit.

  Huh.

  Going naked—or even mostly naked—seems like it would send the wrong message, plus I can’t picture myself strutting around in denim shorts and a black bikini top. Maybe it’s all in the footwear?

  I could go shopping.

  Something tells me that Vik would really enjoy a pair of fuck-me Louboutins, for instance. Or I could wear yesterday’s heels.