My cheeks heat. “It’s just…”
“Are you afraid of Redemption?”
“No, of course not.” I look up and catch a glint in Torment’s eye and the slightest quirk of his lips. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows.
“Every fighter who steps into the cage feels fear,” Torment says. “The good ones use that fear. They control it, channel it, master it. They are the fighters who rise to the top. The ones who let fear control them never succeed. You know them right away because they have their backs to the cage, so worried about protecting themselves, they aren’t even trying to win. What kind of fighter are you?”
“I’m not a fighter.”
“We are all fighters. But sometimes we have to look hard at ourselves to find where our fighter is hiding.”
I know exactly where my fighter is hiding—in the past. And maybe it’s time to find her. Yes, it will hurt when I see him. And I’ll wish that night with Luke never happened or that it didn’t affect me the way it did. But I’ll have my Redemption and Rabid Ink friends around me, and an awesome studio to work in, and money to help out Mom and Dad.
“So it’s settled then.” Torment shakes my hand before I speak. “Good to have you on board. I’ll expect you to start tomorrow.” And whoosh, he is gone. Discussion over.
“Um…I didn’t say yes.” I glare at the closing door. “Jess, did you hear me say yes? Or did you hear Tag say yes? Did anyone say yes?”
Lips pressed together, I yank open the door and shout, “YES.”
“That’s Torment,” Tag says, coming up behind me. “Looks like you got a new studio. To be honest, although I don’t like you coming to Ghost Town, you’ll be safer here than you were in the Lower Haight ’cause I’ll make sure everyone knows to keep an eye out for you. Just make sure you stay away from Ray.”
“No problem.” And I mean it.
Chapter 8
It was what it was, and that’s all that it was
“Ohmigod. Ohmigod. I think I’m in heaven.” First thing Monday morning, Rose plasters herself against the glass door to our new studio and stares out at the man candy on display. Torment has gathered the key members of his team in the hallway for a pep talk, and Rose is now physically unable to peel herself off the door.
“It’s Redemption, not heaven,” I say.
“It’s heaven with you wearing that little black skirt and those fuck-me boots.” Christos gives me a wink as he takes in my attire. “We’ll have fighters lined up into the parking lot once they get a look at you.”
I heave a sigh, but secretly I’m pleased. I love these boots. Soft, supple black leather, all straps and laces, with a stiletto heel. They set me back a month in savings last year, but every time I wear them, I feel like nothing can hold me back. And I needed a little confidence boost today.
“I’ve spent my weekends trawling bars and clubs looking for a replacement for my ex,” Rose says, still staring out the door. “And now I discover all the hot guys have been hiding out here.”
“Your ex was scum.” Christos unpacks the new supplies Torment miraculously procured overnight: tattoo kits, paint, ink, tattoo machines, sketch pads, even an autoclave for the staff room. “Shouldn’t be hard to replace him.”
An affronted Rose sniffs. “He was the love of my life.”
“He was the love of your bed.”
Duncan and I share a glance. Christos and Rose have been fighting their attraction for years. Although he’s never said anything to her, Christos confided in me that he was relieved when Rose’s ex broke it off. He’d seen the bruises on her face beneath the makeup and he was finding it hard not to get involved.
“Do we have a name?” Duncan eases himself into his high-end titanium hydraulic client chair, the likes of which I have never seen before. With two headrests and two armrests, it allows clients to sit, straddle, or lay in multiple positions in padded leather comfort.
“Torment’s Tattoos,” Rose says. “To honor our benefactor.”
Christos sticks his finger down his throat and pretends to heave.
“How about we stick with our old name?” I hand Christos a knife to cut open the next box, then settle into my new, cushy artist’s chair. “I mean, this is temporary digs until Slim gets back on his feet and gets the studio fixed up.”
Rose sighs. “How will we go back after this? I’m already ruined for tat studios for life.”
“Because we’re a team and we’re loyal.” I spin around in my chair, marveling at the lumbar support and padding where padding is needed. Maybe we can convince Slim to upgrade the furniture when he’s done the renos.
The door opens—no tinkly bells in Torment’s studio—and we go into full client alert.
“Hey, Sia.” Rampage waves as he walks in. “Hope you’re prepared to be busy. Torment spread the word that you’re here now, and everyone’s planning to come by to check you guys out. You’re part of Redemption, and we look after our own.”
Rampage does not lie. We have the busiest day we’ve ever had in the history of Rabid Ink. Fighters line up outside to book appointments weeks in advance after Rose tells them we’ve already filled our walk-ins for the day. I ink the Redemption logo at least six times on various body parts, including one ass, and accept four commissions for custom designs.
At seven p.m., Christos finally calls it quits to head out to a gig. Rose leaves with him, and I go to the café to grab some snacks to keep Duncan and me going for the next few hours.
By the time I return, we have three fighters in the fancy glass-and-leather waiting area and Ray is standing beside my chair.
I scowl at Duncan, who is making an appointment for Homicide Hank, and he shrugs. “He said he had you booked for the rest of the evening.”
“He doesn’t,” I murmur through gritted teeth. “And I don’t want to see him.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Look at him. I wasn’t about to tell a guy like that to get lost. I’m an artist. I need my fingers unbroken.”
With a huff, I hand him his food, and brace myself for more humiliation. But as I near the chair, humiliation is not what I feel. Instead, my body heats, my knees tremble, and my mind flies back to the moment we kissed in the alley and the searing pleasure of his touch.
Hot and intense, his eyes bore into me as I make my way to my station. But this time, I know where he stands, and it isn’t anywhere near me.
“Hi.” I fold my arms and lean against the counter, feigning a nonchalance I don’t feel in the least. “Long time no see.”
He draws in a deep breath and stares at me, drinking me in as if I quenched a thirst in his soul. “Sia.” My name is a soft whisper on his sensual lips. “Jesus. Those boots—”
“Are made for walking. Which is what I was about to do. I didn’t think you’d be back.”
“Neither did I.”
After waiting a few fruitless moments for him to elaborate, I say, “I heard you missed your fight yesterday. Didn’t think it would ever happen.”
“Had to clean up a mess. Sort myself out.”
Puzzled, I frown. “Cryptic. My favorite type of explanation.”
“It was what it was.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Even more cryptic. But then, that’s you.”
Ray laughs, easing the tension between us, and then his smile fades. “You weren’t at the fight.” A statement, not a question.
I give a casual shrug although I am already falling under his spell. Arousal floods through my veins, and my voice drops to an unintentional breathy whisper. “I had stuff to do.”
He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers leaving a delicious prickle behind, awakening the memory of his hand in my hair, the caress of his fingers, the pressure of his hand around my neck. Pleasure ripples down my spine. If this isn’t sexual chemistry, I don’t know what is. But how can I be so attracted to the kind of man I’ve been so careful to avoid? And why is he touching me after he walked away?
“You never missed a fight
before.” His voice, deep, dark, and smooth, rumbles over me even as nausea grips my stomach. He noticed me at the fights. Does he know I was there to see him?
My hands clench and unclench by my sides. We stare at each other for so long, tension crackles between us, and I fully expect my cheeks to burst into flame. Finally, coward that I am, I break.
“Duncan said you wanted your ink. I won’t have time to do the whole piece, but I could do the outline.”
He nods and drops his hand. “Unless you got any other artists here who’ve been targeted by a street gang. Not keen on being interrupted again.”
Although he doesn’t smile when he speaks, his dry humor makes me laugh. “You think a street gang would dare set foot in Redemption? You guys would tear them to shreds.”
Ray grunts in assent and slides into the chair. “Damn right we would.”
He grips the bottom of his shirt to tug it off, and I beat a hasty retreat to the staff room, decorated in warm beiges and browns, with the excuse of needing to collect my equipment from the autoclave, but more to calm my nerves. For the last week, I’d resigned myself to never seeing him again, decided it was for the best. But now he’s back, and as hot as ever, and I’m just as ready to throw myself at him as I was before he left me in the alley. I have no shame. How can I still want him after he made it clear he’s not interested? How do normal people handle this kind of rejection? But, of course, they don’t have to handle it because slightly kinky sex doesn’t make them scream in panic and chase men away.
Ray is stripped to the waist when I return. Ignoring Duncan’s appreciative raised eyebrow at the hunk of manly perfection in my chair, I go through the process of washing and sterilizing his chest and shoulder, and applying the stencil. Then I prepare the tattoo machine, placing ink in the ink caps and removing the needles and tubes from the sterile pouches. This time, I manage to keep cool. He’s just an ordinary client. I’ll do his ink, he’ll pay his money, and then maybe I’ll see him once or twice around the gym before we return to Slim’s shop. There are no unintended squirts with the disinfectant, no imagined electricity between us. I am the epitome of a professional artist.
At least, on the outside.
Duncan plays an eclectic mix of indie pop and rock, and I manage to put aside all lustful thoughts of Ray and concentrate on the line work. My first day on the job, Slim told me art is sex. I wondered, if that were true, what it meant when I locked my real art away.
After Duncan finishes up with his last client and leaves for the night, I steel myself to look up, and almost burn under the heat of Ray’s gaze. “You want me to change the music? Not everyone likes Duncan’s indie pop mix.”
“I’m good.”
When I turn to switch cartridges, Ray shifts in the chair. “You don’t talk while you work?”
“Clients talk. I listen. I’m not really one for spilling all the details of my life to strangers. Rose, on the other hand, usually has them in the back room in less than five minutes to show off her tit tats.”
Ray snorts a laugh, and I wait until he’s still again so I can continue my work. “Feel free to talk, though. It won’t bother me. I’m used to it.”
“Not a big talker. But you can ask me a question.”
“You want me to ask you a question?”
Ray nods. “I got nothing to hide. Ask me anything.”
I return to inking his outline. “Okay. What do you drive?”
“Harley-Davidson Softail.”
“Biker.” I shake my head. “I should have known. I wanted to get a bike, but Tag helped me finance my vehicle, and I wound up with a Volvo instead. Not quite the same.”
His eyes sparkle, amused. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a Volvo girl.”
I pause and check my cartridge. “True. I’m more of a Nissan 370Z girl, or maybe an Audi TT. A sports car, but not a screamer. I don’t want an eat-my-dust kind of sports car, but something more refined. Not that I have the money to buy one, but a girl can always dream.”
“Ask me another one.”
“Where do you live?”
“Loft apartment in a converted warehouse off Temescal Alley.”
“Wrong side of the bridge,” I say, half joking. Wrong because he’s so far away from me. “I’m in the Upper Haight. Coming out here is one hell of a commute, but since it’s only for a short time, I can manage.”
He licks his lips, as if my answers are a tasty treat. “More.”
“Favorite band?”
“Forest Rangers.”
My head falls back and I groan. “Sons of Anarchy wannabe. Was that before or after you got your motorcycle?”
A half smile tugs at his lips. “Always had a bike.”
“Of course. I’m sure you were born on a bike, like all bikers.” I turn off the machine for a moment to give my hand a break. “Where did you grow up?”
“Army brat.” His jaw clenches, almost imperceptibly, but I’m watching him so closely I see his corded neck tighten when he swallows. “Both parents. We moved so many times, I can’t remember every place we were stationed. Also can’t remember how many times we were all together, because they took turns going on tour. Both very strict. Very disciplined. Very focused on duty.”
“Sounds tough for a kid.” I give his arm a sympathetic stroke.
“Kids adapt. And when I turned eighteen, I did what was expected. Followed the family tradition. Enlisted as soon as I could.”
“But you’re not in the service anymore?”
His muscles tighten under my palm. “What about your parents?”
Puzzled by his reluctance to answer but not willing to pry, I shrug. “Mom is a florist. Very uptight. She came from a wealthy family, but she fell in love with my dad and her parents weren’t happy about it so we never see them. Dad’s a cab driver. Pretty laid-back except when it comes to me. Then he’s overprotective to a fault. Small house in the suburbs. Never moved. Pretty normal until a few weeks ago when Mom lost her job, and then Tag and I found out they’d been living from paycheck to paycheck. We’re helping them out with the mortgage so they don’t lose the house, which is why I work the long hours and take on any client I can get.”
“Nothing normal about you, Sia.” He rubs his knuckles over my cheek and I melt beneath his touch. “More questions,” he says, his voice gruff.
“Biggest vice?”
“You.”
A hot wave sweeps into my belly, but I can’t believe he’s being serious. Me? After he told me the other night was a mistake?
I turn on the tattoo machine to finish the line work, and the fresh scent of ink mixed with musky male makes me shiver. “I meant it as a serious question. My vice is potato chips. Put a bag in front of me, and it will be gone in five minutes. I can’t keep them in my house. The minute I see a bag of chips within reach, I lose all control. That’s what I mean by a vice.”
“Definitely you then.”
His words do strange melty things to my stomach, and my voice flattens as I roll my artist’s chair closer to his soft, black leather seat. “I’m nobody’s vice. Arm on my lap, please. I’ve finished the outline and I just need to sterilize and bandage.”
Ray drops his arm to my lap, but this time his fist doesn’t clench on my hip. Instead, his fingers stroke my thigh, sending zings of sensation straight to my clit. The temperature rises and the air between us sparks, like the calm before a storm. But I’m not letting it get to me. Maybe it’s just a casual brush of his hand as he settles it in my lap. Or a nervous twitch.
The bandaging takes forever, especially since my concentration is focused on the soft stroke of his fingers on my thigh. Good thing women are good at multitasking. Finally, I’m done. I give the bandage a last check and force a smile. “Okay. All finished.”
Ray doesn’t move.
“Usually when I say ‘all finished,’ my clients leap up from the chair, determined to rush home and rip off the bandage to see what’s underneath.”
Ray raises his hand from my lap and
cups my jaw, brushing his thumb over my cheek as he tilts my head up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“What’s wrong?”
My cheeks flame and I try to pull away. “Nothing. I’m done. That’s all. You can go. I have to clean up and lock up the shop.”
He tightens his grip. “Is this about what happened in the alley?”
“There’s nothing to say about what happened in the alley. Adrenaline was running high. We had a moment. It was what it was, and that’s all that it was.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Sure I do.” My heart pounds as the lie slides off my tongue, and I pray he’ll just go and leave me to wallow in my misery. He is everything I have been running from. The ultimate temptation. The ultimate danger.
His jaw tightens and his body stills, like a predator about to spring. Then he leans so close I can feel his breath on my cheek.
“Tell me again that’s all that it was. Tell me I shoulda stayed away.”
I open my mouth to say just that, but before I get the words out, he leans down and kisses me. Shock, then heat, run through me, straight to the juncture of my thighs. He tastes of whiskey and coffee, sex and sin. All the tension of the evening, my confusion and indecision, coalesce into a red-hot ball of need. I thread my fingers through his soft hair and pull him down hard, deepening the kiss.
“Jesus,” Ray murmurs against my mouth. “Don’t know what I was thinking.” And then he breaks our kiss and slides his arms under my shoulders, tugging me out of my seat. “Up on my lap. I wanna have you up close and personal like.”
“I’m wearing a skirt.”
“Oh, I know.” His voice drops to a husky growl. “Been thinking about that tiny skirt and those fuck-me boots since the second I walked in the door.”
“I might lose my job or, at the very least, a whole lot of professional respect if someone walks in and sees me on your lap.”
He pulls me closer. “I’ll deal with them.”
“What if it’s Torment? Or Rampage?”
Ray frowns. “You doubting my fight skills?”
“I’m doubting your sanity.”
He turns in the chair and pulls me between his legs, his hands tight on my hips. “Man like me meets a woman like you, throws him for a loop. He’s gotta take a step back. Get things straight in his head.”
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