Katelyn turned her attention away from the carpet samples she’d laid out on the coffee table. She reached out and ran a hand gently down Missy’s back. The fur wasn’t supple or youthful. Neither the dark chocolate brown points or the creamy beige had any luster. No matter how much brushing that coat received, it was always lank and oily, almost shaggy. Missy had once been a beautiful cat, in her prime. She still was, to Katelyn, even though her back was a little saggy, her hip bones too prominent, her dark nose dotted liberally with gray. She needed special food and kidney medication administered orally twice a night, but the two hundred dollars a month was a small price to pay for companionship.
Siamese cats were known to be talkers. Missy was no exception. She usually held up her end of the conversation.
A deep rumble started under Katelyn’s fingers. Missy’s body heat warmed her hand and her lonely soul. Though she worked with people all day, she often felt alone. She’d never been that way before John Robertson. She hated to admit her sister, Dinah, had been right. A whirlwind courtship, a fast marriage and a move across the Atlantic hadn’t been the best decision. Katelyn was married and divorced after two years. She’d always said she’d never turn into her mother. Old enough to know better, but unable to help herself. Bouncing from man to man. Divorced three times.
She closed her eyes and let Missy’s soft purr take her away. Back to London, back to the small house she shared with her sister and her brand new niece. It was incredible that Isabella was now three. She’d been just a newborn when Katelyn left. How her sister managed to do it on her own was beyond her. She had all she could do to take care of Missy and her cat was pretty damn independent.
“So, Missy. Do you want your tuna now or in an hour when it’s time?”
Missy’s head perked up at the word. Katelyn smiled. She couldn’t even get the can opener out of the drawer without Missy running into the kitchen and rubbing all over her legs. Her feline best friend was often mighty disappointed to find it wasn’t tuna at all being opened, but a can of soup, or worse, vegetables.
The old Siamese let out a meow that anyone else would classify as a horrible noise. It sounded like a deep squeal with a squawk at the end. She blinked her large blue eyes, her interest fully tuned into Katelyn.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Wish you’d been that helpful with the carpet choice.”
Katelyn stood and headed towards the kitchen. Her condo wasn’t large, but it was nice. It was a fairly new construction, the building only five years old.
Missy stood on the blue leather couch. It was sleek and hard, completely uncomfortable. It had wooden legs, mid-century style even though it was new. Katelyn found it on a classifieds site when she moved. She didn’t see the point of spending a fortune on new furniture when she could find things that were still in good shape at a bargain. She knew from experience what a throw-away society it was. She’d designed enough places to understand that perfectly good things were often donated or worse, pitched in the dumpster. She’d always had a flare for design and after years of schooling and even more experience, it was easy for her to put together a classy space, even on a budget with second hand items.
The sofa was now dotted with claw marks, thanks to Missy’s desire to use it as a scratching post instead of the two hundred dollar cat tree that sat untouched in the corner, but Katelyn didn’t truly mind. She loved Missy, not the couch.
“Okay. We’ll see what we can find.”
Missy sat attentively on the gray laminate flooring in the kitchen. It ran throughout the whole condo. It wasn’t overly expensive, Katelyn knew just by looking at it, but it was distressed in an attempt at the ever popular rustic look. It was functional and hid scratches and dirt. She liked that. She liked that she didn’t have to sweep and mop six times a day. With Missy’s shedding, dark flooring would have been an impossibility to keep clean. The gray worked well for them.
Katelyn opened up the small pantry cupboard and produced a can of tuna. She used a little tuna to hide Missy’s medicine in. A can generally lasted a few days. The rest of the time, she spoiled Missy with soft food from the vet, specially for cats with kidney disease. It was lucky Missy liked it. She wasn’t a fussy eater except when it came to the stuff she had to eat, then she usually turned her nose up at it.
The roar of a motorcycle split the quiet of the kitchen. Katelyn started, nearly dropping the can.
“Oh, that damn bike,” she swore under her breath. She set the can down on the counter and stalked to the window.
She loved her condo. She was happy with just about everything except for the fact that the attached unit was owned by some guy she was pretty sure was in some kind of gang. She’d never introduced herself, but she’d seen him often enough, in the parking lot, coming or going on that damn loud bike. The thing was so noisy it literally rattled the window panes in her unit when he pulled up. Her neighbor was the kind of human who instantly instilled fear in just about everyone, young and old and all those in between just by his appearance.
From the window she watched the guy park the bike in the stall right next to her small, lime green sedan. He popped off an all-black helmet, revealing long, nearly shoulder length black hair. It was wild and free flowing, the kind of hair that most women would want to bury their fingers in just to feel if it was as soft as it looked. The guy’s black leather jacket, faded jeans covered in leather chaps and black riding boots looked suited to someone who belonged in a bike gang.
Worse of all, the guy’s neck was tattooed. Katelyn hadn’t ever been close enough to figure out what it actually was of, but she could see the dark black ink sprawling all over the man’s throat like a dark stain. She wondered, with a shiver that was half fear, half thrill, how much ink was hidden below that leather jacket.
The man wasn’t young and he wasn’t old. Probably late thirties. He had the broad shoulders, height and muscular build of a man who took care of himself. Either he worked out or he’d been born with an impeccable set of genetics. His face, even at a distance, was quite handsome. He had a strong brow, deep set eyes, straight nose, tough lips and, she imagined, a granite jawline, though it was hard to tell given that a thick black beard, the kind that was long enough to actually braid, obscured the bottom part of his face. Her neighbor had the kind of features that were carved by nature rather than created by two parents. The kind that women drooled all over. He might have been attractive if it wasn’t for the chilling vibe he set off.
As far as she knew, no one in the complex even knew the guy’s name or what he did for a living. No one went near his house. She was unfortunate enough not to have known he lived there when she bought the unit. His bike hadn’t been parked in front when she’d viewed the unit. It was a small wonder it was cheaper than all the rest and had been on the market the longest. She thought she was getting a steal of a deal and hadn’t hesitated.
Behind her, Missy mewed instantly, pulling Katelyn out of her own creepy vigil at the window. She shook herself and turned away. Missy took off in the direction of the kitchen and Katelyn followed, can opener still in hand.
She didn’t want to admit that she was gripping the handle just a little too tightly or that she had a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach or that the shiver that traveled up her spine wasn’t quite all fear when it came to her neighbor.
Then again, she might as well acknowledge the fact she found the guy’s bad boy aura mysterious and that drew her attention which in turn became interest which had morphed into awareness which turned into a reluctant attraction.
It made sense, given that she’d always fallen for the worst type of men.
Chapter 2
Pain for a Living
Kian
“Are we just about done? I don’t know how much more of this I can live through.”
Through a herculean effort of self-control, Kian Boychuck managed, at the last second, to stop himself from rolling his eyes. If he had a damn dollar for every single time someone walked into his shop thinking t
attoos would be painless, he’d have enough money to fill up every inch of the two thousand square foot shop. He tried to find an ounce of compassion in his dead heart, but what did the guy expect from a man who handed out pain for a living?
“Not nearly. We still have a couple hours left. Do you want a glass of juice? Get the blood sugar up?”
Kian swore that the guy, some skinny, twenty year old, preppy dude who actually rolled in wearing a polo and square toed leather shoes, paled even further if it was possible.
“Hours?” The guy’s mouth opened and closed, opened again, but no sound came out. “Alright, some juice would be great.”
Annoyed, Kian set aside his machine. He stripped off his black latex gloves and left his room. Around the shop, the hum of conversation and the buzz of tattoo machines filled the air. There were four private rooms, two of them his, as well as six stations out front, right behind the reception desk and waiting area.
He currently employed six artists, four men and two women, but they didn’t all work at the same time or on the same days. He only employed the best. His artists were already well established by the time they came to the shop seeking employment or a booth rental. It had to be that way. He sure as hell didn’t have the patience to apprentice anyone, though he’d been asked.
Kian made his way towards the stainless steel water cooler located right behind the reception desk. Heather, the shop’s secretary, for lack of a better word, flashed him a bright red grin. She had her laptop set out where everyone could see it, shamelessly browsing her social media sites.
“How’s it going this morning?” She popped a wad of pink bubble gum in her dainty mouth. Heather, at barely five feet tall, was pretty much what anyone would consider a firecracker. She had a lot of personality packed into her tiny frame. Her waist length dark black hair was piled neatly on top of her head. She had dainty features, almost like a little fairy. She was heavily tattooed, all in visible areas. Her neck, her shoulders, collarbones, chest, arms. She wore a tank top and a pair of pasted on blue jeans that showed off not only her petite figure, but a good portion of her ink as well.
“Not bad. Morning’s alright so far.”
Heather lowered her voice and arched a drawn on black brow. “Really? I thought your client would be wailing down the place by now.”
Kian managed to keep a straight face. Years of cop training sometimes still came in handy. “Yah, well, who knows? I expect a tap out within the hour. Because, you know, six hours on the bicep is too long.”
Heather rolled her eyes. “On the outer arm yet. I could see the inside…”
“The guy asked if we had numbing cream.”
“It’s not the worst idea in the world. I actually tried some and it was great. The last sitting I had was almost painless. It felt a little like cheating. Until it wore off at any rate. Then it was pain city. I’ve done some research though and artists say their clients sit for the right amount of time, to the end most of the time and the muscle spasms are quite a bit less. Maybe it’s not the worst idea in the world? Getting people through it?” Heather’s eyes roved over his face. “I know what you’re thinking, but not everyone can be as tough as you. If they were, it would be a bleak world indeed.”
“Hmm.” Kian made a sound of disgust. The problem was, many of the shop’s clients came to get tattoos for the sake of art itself. For him, it was all about the experience. He craved the physical bite of pain. It was therapeutic in a way that nothing else had ever been. Numbing cream indeed. “Yah, order some then. We’ll give it a try for those that want it. For an extra charge of course.”
“Of course. They’re not cheap. We can carry some in stock at the front of the shop if people want to buy it ahead of time. Maybe some products for after care too.”
“Yah.” Kian frowned. He hated all that gimmicky shit. “Alright. Just be sure to put up signs saying we don’t advocate for or against the use of it. I don’t want people fucking up their art and blaming us.”
“For sure.” Heather gave him a firm nod, turned back to her laptop and went right on browsing through her social media feed.
Kian would have given her hell had it really mattered to him. The fact was, Heather was a damn good receptionist. She was efficient. Clients loved her and the shop was clean and ran smoothly. He couldn’t ask for anything more. She was highly intelligent, Kian knew. She did the work of ten people. If she wanted to fill her free time with mind numbing nonsense, then she very well could.
He walked on, to the small staff room that was theirs alone. He pushed open the black, solid door and entered their domain. The place was nothing more than a small kitchen on the left and a few leather couches on the right. Two coffee tables were set up in the middle, the couches arranged in a square.
He couldn’t recall how many times guys had crashed in there or how many times he’d walked back to find his artists drawing up this sketch or that. His eyes roved the room and landed on an open sketchbook. The image of a gypsy stared back at him. It was probably Mike’s. The guy was incredible. The best artist Kian had ever seen. There wasn’t a medium the guy couldn’t make look amazing. That included things that normally didn’t count as art like clothing, sculpture, hell, the guy even made cleaning his work station look like an artistic process.
Kian reached in the cupboard above the sink and produced a packet of juice crystals. He added a hefty amount to the cup in his hand and watched the water change color. It turned a dark purple. The stuff was so strong he could probably stick a fork upright in it.
He entered his private room much more hopeful than when he’d left. He handed off the glass to his client, who actually did look a little better after he drank it.
“Let me guess. You didn’t eat before this.” The guy slowly shook his head as Kian washed his hands and grabbed a fresh set of gloves. “That’s a mistake. Doesn’t our website say come with a full belly?”
“Yah, I tried. I just couldn’t. I was too nervous.”
“You said this wasn’t your first tattoo.”
Kian grabbed up his machine, dipped it in black ink and resumed the outline. The guy’s skin was raised and puffy, red around the edges, but no more than normal. He hoped he’d able to at least finish the outline before the guy quit on him. He actually liked the design. A ship with a kraken breaking it apart, smoke and fire everywhere. It was a bad ass, traditional design. He’d actually been a little proud of his client for asking for it.
Even if he couldn’t sit through it and had to break up the sitting. Kian didn’t care. He was paid for his time in advance and he’d keep the guy’s money. There was no carrying it forward.
He wished he could be nicer, but life had taught him that being nice was no way to run a business. Or it was, if you wanted to get walked all over.
“It isn’t, but the first one I got was only half hour long.”
Ten to one it was a butterfly. Oh wait, wrong client. “Just hang in there. We’ll get the outline done and it’s all smooth sailing after that.”
“You sure?”
“Yah.” Kian lied convincingly. He always was a good liar, able to talk people down. That’s what made him a good cop. Or at least, it had.
He sighed, thinking he was off the hook with annoying complaints, at least for the next hour or so before the guy got all shaky and edgy again under his hands.
He was wrong.
A light knock at the door brought his head around. His hand paused, the machine hovering an inch above his client’s arm.
Savannah Fiacco stood in the doorway. Kian could have groaned. He wished he could have told her to leave, to stop distracting him, to go bother Mike, to do a thousand other things, but he knew he damn well couldn’t. He had to keep his mouth shut when it came to her, annoying, spoiled, infatuated brat that she was, or her father was sure to hear about it and that meant trouble and trouble to him just wasn’t worth it, at least not where his investments were concerned.
“Kian,” Savannah crooned in a sugary, obnoxious
tone. Pink, lacquered plump lips turned up in a wide smile revealing teeth that were just a little too straight and a little too white. Like everything else about Savannah, that smile was almost completely fake, manufactured through thousands of her father’s dollars. She batted long, fake eyelashes. Her eyes were brown, but she had in green contacts. Her blonde hair hung to her waist, but it was straight out of a bottle. The roots were jet black. “I just wanted to say hi.”
“Where’s Mike?” Kian asked roughly. He’d warned the guy against Savannah, but Mike couldn’t help himself. She’d come to the shop six months ago on an errand for her father, to give Kian this or that, and Mike had been instantly smitten. It wasn’t long until Savannah was always around, either before or after hours and all too often, during. She was a distraction to everyone and Kian hated that most of all. He also hated that she was only with Mike because it meant one more chance to see him.
Oh to be twenty again. Wait, who the hell would want that? There was only one night of his life he’d want to go back to, solely to erase it. To keep it from ever happening. It was a damn pity that the past never could be changed. A pity that fucked with his entire life.
“Out having a smoke.” Savannah glanced at the guy in the chair and offered a dazzling smile. She thrust out her pink, too tight, cut too low, cropped too high, top in an effort to parade her ample breasts. They were all natural, as was the rest of her curvy figure. Her jeans matched her shirt in the fact that they were too sizes too small, painted on and probably uncomfortable as hell. Her heels were at least six inches tall, bringing her up to model like heights.
“Okay.” Kian turned back to his client, finishing up the line he’d started.
“I just wanted to say hi.”
I’m sure.
“Hello,” Kian ground out. “How’s your father?”
“Good. You know daddy, always up to something.”
Yes. Always. Savannah didn’t know the half of what her father did. The club that he was joint owner of with Kian was perfectly legal. The shit that went on there often was not. Unfortunately it was a product of owning a business that made a whole bunch of cash most nights of the week. The only night the place wasn’t open for debauchery was Wednesday.
Tattooed Hearts_A Secret Baby Second Chance Romance Page 13