Good, Bad…Better

by Cindi Myers

  “Zach, dig out one of Sandra’s cards for me, okay?” she called across the room.

  Zach responded with a grunt, and began rummaging through a drawer beneath the cash register. Jen took the opportunity to study him some more. His tough-guy image didn’t mesh with the sensitive artist who had produced the beautiful work that filled the shop walls. There was definitely a lot more to Zach than his leather and tattoos implied. The idea intrigued her.

  And there was his perceptive assessment of her. He’d said she looked innocent, but had a highly sensual quality. Could it be that, maybe for the first time ever, someone had looked past her “good girl” image and seen the real woman who was trying to assert herself? A bubble of hope swelled in her chest. If Zach could see that in her, maybe she could find a way to make others see it, as well.

  ZACH JACOBS DIDN’T NEED some gorgeous innocent messing with his head. For one thing, she absolutely wasn’t his type. He went for busty, brazen women who could give as good as they got, not some delicate, timid girl who looked as if a strong wind might carry her away.

  Not that she was exactly timid. She looked that way at first, mainly because she was so small, with all that blond hair falling around her shoulders like an angel in a Botticelli painting. But when you really paid attention, you could see the fire in her eyes, hear it in her voice.

  That was what got to him most—not her looks, but that fire. That…wanting.

  Her response to him had been so obvious. Where some women tried to be coy, her desire was out there in the open. And his own reaction had surprised him in its intensity. When he’d brushed against her nipple, an electric shock had passed through him. His hand had started shaking so badly he knew he’d mess up the tat if he’d tried to finish.

  He’d responded not just to her body, but to her obvious need. Talk about ready to explode….

  He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the sketchpad in front of him. But he was too aware of her, only steps across the room. Through slitted eyes, he let himself take a longer look. Theresa had pulled the shirt down even farther, and the curve of the woman’s breast swelled above the white lace of the bra, which itself barely covered her nipple. His groin tightened as he thought of running his tongue along that satin skin, flicking it across that taut peak….

  She winced, and he winced for her. “Take a deep breath,” he said. “Pick out something in the room to look at and focus all your attention on that. It’ll take your mind off the pain.”

  Most people chose to look at one of the flashes on the wall, but she turned her eyes to him. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She had unusual eyes, gray and slightly almond shaped, luminous against her pale skin and hair. “Tell me about your art,” she said.

  He gave her the general spiel he’d uttered hundreds of times before. “Tattooing has been around since ancient Egypt. People decorated their bodies with images for religious, ethnic or simply aesthetic reasons. At times, it’s been considered a rite of passage, or something that marked you as part of a particular group. Sailors and travelers brought the idea of tattooing to Europe and America from the East. Today, it’s as much a matter of fashion as anything, though for some it’s still a sign of rebellion.” His eyes met hers. Was she rebelling against something? Or someone? What was going on in that gorgeous head of hers? “We specialize in custom designs,” he concluded. “We can do just about anything a customer wants.”

  “You’re obviously very talented. Some of your work reminds me of Alex Katz.”

  Her mention of the New York artist surprised him. “You’re familiar with Katz?”

  “Not especially, but my father has some of his work. He collects modern art.” She flinched again as Theresa began work in a new area of the tat.

  “Breathe deep,” he reminded her.

  She nodded and did so. “Why did you decide to become a tattoo artist and not a painter or maybe a commercial artist?” she asked when she’d regained her composure.

  As if etching a design on flesh didn’t take as much—or more—talent as rendering it on paper or in a computer file. “I prefer the human body to more traditional canvases.” It was a stock answer, but not entirely true. “I like to play by my own rules,” he added. “Doing tats lets me do that.”

  Her gaze flickered over him, taking in the long hair, the leather. Some women really got off on the whole rebel image; maybe she was one of them. Just like some dudes really went for the innocent-virgin type. But he wasn’t one of them. At least, not before now.

  “I imagine you meet some interesting people in this line of work.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bikers and college students made up the majority of his clientele, but he got his fair share of businessmen and even the occasional bored housewife. Then there were ones like her, who were harder to classify. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a dancer.”

  Surprise jolted him. Exotic dancers were also frequent customers, but she didn’t look the type. He took in her trim figure and killer legs, and hazarded a guess. “Since when do ballerinas get tats?”

  She smiled and looked pleased. “I do some ballet, but mostly modern dance. Jazz. Hip-hop. Even Latin dance.”

  He thought of her dancer’s body. Fluid and graceful. Flexible and strong. The kind of body a man could get lost in….

  Don’t go there, Zach. “You must be pretty good if you make a living at it.”

  “Right now, I teach at the Austin Academy of Dance. But I have a chance at getting on with a dance company in Chicago. They’re doing a new stage production that combines hip-hop and jazz dance with urban and pop music. Sort of Riverdance meets Stomp. It’s called Razzin’!” Her eyes took on a new light as she spoke, like a student anticipating recess. “They don’t take very many new dancers each year, so to get on with them would really make my career.”

  “What do you have to do? Try out, or something?”

  “I’ve already had a tryout. Now I have to make it through a three-month internship in Chicago. If I do a good job with that, I can be accepted as an official member of the company.”

  It figured she was moving away. Further proof he wasn’t meant to have anything to do with a chick like her. “So is this tat a way of psyching yourself up to ace the internship?”

  Little worry lines creased her perfect brow. “Something like that. I’m not worried so much about the internship as getting to Chicago in the first place. My father doesn’t want me to go. In fact, he’s forbidden it.”

  The art-collecting father was apparently a bit over-protective. “But you’re twenty-three and can do what you want, right?”

  She nodded, though not with any assurance. “I can, but I’d really rather leave home on good terms.”

  “Maybe your old man will change his mind.”

  “I don’t know. He can be pretty stubborn. And he thinks by saying no he’s protecting me.” She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “It’s my own fault, really. I’ve always lived at home. I’ve let him take care of me. I figure it’s time I stepped out on my own and did what I wanted for a change.”

  “Like getting a tattoo.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. I guess I just wanted to make a statement, you know?”

  “Well this ought to do it.” Theresa shut off the tattoo machine and leaned back to study her work. She gave a satisfied smile and nodded. “Looks good.” She cleaned the new tattoo and applied ointment, then plucked a dressing from a sterile container on the cart. “When you get home, take this dressing off and follow the instructions I’m going to give you. How good this looks depends on the care you give it now.” She taped the dressing in place, then stood. “How do you feel?”

  The blonde cautiously rolled her shoulders. “Okay.” She stood. “Thank you.”

  “No swimming for two weeks. If you see any kind of blistering or unusual swelling, see a doctor. It’s rare, but sometimes people are allergic to the ink.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She reached for her purse. “What do I owe you?�
��

  Theresa’s smile broadened. “Oh, you can pay Zach over there.” She nodded toward the counter.

  He shot Theresa a go-to-hell look, but her smile only broadened. That was the problem with working with your kid sister—you couldn’t intimidate her for anything.

  The blonde made her way over to him, carefully avoiding his gaze, which let him know she was definitely aware of him. The way he was aware of her. “You doing okay?” he asked when she stopped in front of him. She looked pale.

  She nodded and handed him a credit card. He took it, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. He didn’t want to risk the kind of reaction he’d had last time they’d made contact.

  He wrote up a ticket and slid the card through the reader, then glanced at it before handing it back to her. Jennifer Truitt.

  Did she go by Jennifer or Jenny or Jen? Then the last name registered in his brain. He stared at her. “Who did you say your father was?”

  She stiffened. “I didn’t.”

  He leaned toward her. “Who is he?”

  She flushed and stared down at the countertop. “Grant Truitt.”

  “As in, Police Chief Grant Truitt?”

  She nodded.

  He gripped the edge of the counter and groaned.

  “What’s wrong?” She looked alarmed.

  He could hardly speak around the knot of anger in his throat. “Your father is the police chief and I’m betting he doesn’t want you here.”

  She stuck her chin in the air. On anyone else, the gesture might have looked fierce. She looked like a girl facing down a firing squad. “I’m old enough to do as I please. Besides, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Right. And you think he won’t find out?” Just what Zach needed—another excuse for the cops to hassle him and his customers.

  “What’s wrong?” She leaned toward him, her fingers almost—but not quite—touching his wrist.

  “Congratulations,” he said, turning to her. “You’ve just given your old man one more reason to hate me.”

  2

  ZACH FELT A MEASURE OF relief at the blatant confusion in her eyes. At least he could be fairly sure she wasn’t part of some plot to trick him into giving the cops a reason to shut him down. Grant Truitt was buddies with the mayor. Between the two of them, they were delivering on a campaign pledge to rid Austin’s Sixth Street entertainment district of any business the mayor deemed “not friendly to families.” He’d specifically mentioned Austin Body Art as the kind of place he’d like to see closed down.

  Never mind that the majority of citizens cared more about getting potholes patched than whether or not the tattoo parlors and “gentlemen’s clubs” were run out of business. The mayor and the police chief had zealously harassed anyone and everyone who didn’t fit their definition of a respectable businessman.

  “What do you mean, my father hates you?” she asked. “He doesn’t even know you.”

  “Oh, we’ve met. Right after the election, he and the mayor made a point of stopping by here, with the press in tow, to point out that I’m the type of person they wanted to run out of town so they could make everything squeaky-clean and bland.” That little publicity stunt hadn’t gone over well, ending with Zach threatening to throw both of them out of the shop. Though he hadn’t seen Grant Truitt in person since, he was sure the police chief hadn’t forgotten him.

  Zach had dealt with a barrage of health, fire and building inspectors looking for violations, and nosy cops who had accused him of everything from selling dope to working on underage kids. When they couldn’t find anything to pin on him, they’d laid off him for a while. Having the chief’s daughter added to the mix was just what he needed to stir things up again.

  “Why would my father hate you?” Jennifer asked.

  “Why does the sun shine? Play-by-the-rules pricks like him can’t stand people like me who don’t color in the lines.”

  She looked thoughtful. “I guess you’re not the type of person my father approves of. I’m sorry.”

  The words sent an uncomfortable quiver through his stomach. As though she really was sorry, not mouthing words. “Oh, hell, it’s not your fault.”

  “Thank you…Zach.” She smiled, a shy, sweet look that made him want to reach across the counter and pull her down behind it. Who would have thought sweetness and light would be such a turn-on?

  She signed the charge slip and left, pausing at the door to lift her hand in a wave. Before he realized what he was doing, he waved back. By the time he jerked his hand down, she was gone.

  Theresa’s laughter was loud in the sudden silence. “I can’t believe this! She got to you, didn’t she?”

  He opened the cash drawer and shoved the charge slip beneath the stacks of bills and checks. “Miss Mary Sunshine? As if.” He shook his head, though he avoided looking at his sister. She could always tell when he was lying.

  “Maybe that’s exactly what shook you up.” She busied herself disassembling the tattoo machine and disposing of the needles into the red plastic biohazard container. “She’s very pretty.”

  “Yeah, if you like white bread and sugar.”

  “I don’t know.” When he glanced up, Theresa had her head tilted to one side, studying him. “I think there’s more to her than that.”

  He shook his head. “You’re imagining things.”

  “You mean you aren’t interested in seeing her again?”

  He gave her a dark look. “If I never see Grant Truitt’s daughter again, I’ll die a happy man.” Maybe that wasn’t exactly true, but close enough. He didn’t need the kind of trouble a woman like Jennifer Truitt could bring into his life.

  THOUGH SHE LIVED AT HOME, Jen tried to retain as much independence as possible. With her hectic practice schedule and her teaching job, she often went days without having a real conversation with her parents. But that evening she made it a point to stop by the living room and visit with them.

  “Hey, Mama. Daddy.” She kissed her father on the cheek, then settled on the sofa next to her mother and pretended to study the abstract painting of swirls of gray and blue that hung over her father’s chair. He was quite proud of this newest acquisition, painted by some up-and-coming new artist. What would he think of Zach’s work? she wondered.

  “Hello, Jennifer. To what do we owe—” Her father looked up from his paper, and his mouth dropped open as he stared at the tattoo peeking above the neckline of her dance leotard.

  “What is it, dear?” Her mother frowned at her father.

  “Exactly what I want to know.” He stood and crossed the room, looming over Jen.

  She set her jaw and forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s a calla lily.” She thought again of what Zach had said about the flower, and about her—innocent, yet sensuous—and felt a flush of pleasure.

  “It’s a tattoo!” Her father spat the word like a curse. “Who did that to you?”

  She’d expected him to be annoyed, but the strength of his anger surprised her. Honestly, did he think someone had attacked her and forced her to do this? “I paid to have it done.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I just decided to do it, and did it.”

  “I don’t know,” her mother said. “Aren’t you afraid you might catch some disease?”

  “Your mother’s right. Some of those places are filthy and—”

  “This was a very clean place. I’ve been in doctors’ offices that weren’t as clean as this place.”

  “Tell me the name and I’ll check the health department records.”

  She didn’t want to tell him, but if he pushed, he could probably find out anyway. “It’s called Austin Body Art. And I checked—it has a great reputation.”

  His normally ruddy complexion darkened to the shade of an old bruise. “That’s Zach Jacobs’s place.” He looked at the tattoo again, like someone studying a mortal wound. “He did this?”

  She clenched her hands in her lap, struggling not to fidget
beneath his angry glare. “Actually, his sister Theresa did the tattoo, but the artwork is Zach’s.”

  “So you’re on a first-name basis? You stay away from that thug.”

  Honestly, if her father could only see how ridiculous he looked, making this kind of a fuss. The thought gave her courage, and she sat up straighter. “He’s not a thug. He’s an artist.”

  “How do you know so much about him? Have you been seeing him before now? Is that why you suddenly decided to do something so totally out of character for you?”

  “Maybe this is in character for me. More so than anything I’ve done in years.”

  “I don’t believe it. It has to be Jacobs’s doing.” He turned and stalked back to his chair. “I know him and his kind. They do everything they can to flout authority.”

  “Zach isn’t flouting authority.” Unless you called having long hair and dressing in leather “flouting authority.” Which her father probably would. Still, despite his appearance, Zach hadn’t looked like a hardened criminal. “He even has a No Smoking sign in his shop.”

  “That sign is required by city ordinance. You stay away from him.”

  She blew out a sharp breath. “I can’t believe you’re getting this upset over a tattoo.”

  “It looks ridiculous!” he said. “How many dancers do you see in pink leotards and tattoos?”

  She looked down at her own rose-colored leotard. Okay, so maybe it didn’t have the same cachet as a leather vest. But her new tat would look right at home with the hip-hop threads she’d be wearing as a member of Razzin’!. “Maybe I’ll buy a new wardrobe to go with the tattoo,” she said.

  “I suppose the next thing I know, you’ll come in dressed like one of those half-naked pop stars I see on TV.”

  “What difference does it make to you how I dress?”

  Her mother stepped between them as they glared at each other. “Both of you need to calm down.” She looked at her husband. “You know Jen’s always been very responsible.” Then she patted Jen’s shoulder. “And you know your father’s only looking out for your best interests.”