MidnightInk-epub

by MI

  “Oh, kiss my ass. I’ll do my job, you do yours. Just don’t move.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m here to stay.”

  About PG Forte

  PG Forte inhabits a world only slightly less strange than the ones she creates. Filled with serendipity, coincidence, love at first sight and dreams come true…it also bears an uncanny resemblance to Berkeley, California.

  She wrote her first serialized story when she was still in her teens. The sexy, ongoing adventure tales were very popular at her oh-so-proper, all girls, Catholic High School, where they helped to liven up otherwise dull classes. Even if her teachers didn’t always think so.

  Originally a Jersey girl, PG now resides on the extreme left coast where she writes rule bending, genre blending erotic romance and paranormal stories.

  When she's not pestering her husband to help her research scenes for upcoming books, she can usually be found serving the needs and whims of her characters....or her dog. It's a difficult job, but someone's got to do it.

  Links to reach PG Forte:

  www.PGForte.com

  Rhymes With Foreplay

  Nine Naughty Novelists

  Facebook.com/AuthorPGForte

  To The Bone

  Copyright 2013 R.G. Alexander

  Cover Art by Scott Carpenter

  Edited by D.S. Editing

  In that book which is my memory,

  On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you

  Appear the words, “Here begins a new life.”

  ~Dante Alighieri

  La Vita Nuova

  Chapter One

  “Ever had a moment when you look up and know your life is about to change forever?”

  Christie spoke softly to the old man who sat beside him on the wrought iron bench. “When you see a girl and every damn love song you know starts playing in your head?”

  When I saw her standing there…

  “If I did, I’m far too old and ornery to remember.” The surprisingly melodic voice drew his attention. Well, some of his attention. The small percentage that wasn’t mesmerized by the unknown beauty. “Seen it happen once or twice though. Are you by chance referring to that tall young woman pacing outside your uncle’s place—excuse me, your place—like she’s trying to wear out the sidewalk? The one I lost your attention to as soon as she arrived? She is pretty.”

  “She’s something,” Christie murmured. And she’d walked past the door to Midnight Ink no less than four times in the last ten minutes. He’d almost gotten up to follow her the first time, but when she’d turned around at the corner and walked back, demonstrating the same curious behavior at the other end, he’d settled down to enjoy the show.

  It was riveting.

  His friend chuckled, reaching up with one hand to scratch his white beard thoughtfully. “Ask and you shall receive, they say. Before we got to talkin’ about building codes and ghosts, you mentioned one of the reasons you’d come home was to be inspired again. To search for your muse. From the look on your face, maybe she found you, eh?”

  “Yeah.” Christie stood and slid his guitar strap over his shoulder. “Maybe. I should go and find out. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  “You’ll see me again Christopher Ryder.”

  Christie nodded absently, unable to tear his gaze from the woman across the street. The old stranger had been fascinating to talk to. It was starting to become a habit, finding him on that bench and watching the city wake up or—like today—waiting until they could witness the lunchtime throng while he listened to the man’s philosophical musings. He probably knew more about the history of New Orleans and the problems currently plaguing it than anyone Christie had ever met…but he was wrong about one thing. Pretty wasn’t the word.

  Pretty made your heart skip a beat or two, not stop in shock before pounding hard enough to heat your blood. Pretty made you smile in spite of yourself; it didn’t clench your jaw, harden your cock and make you forget everything else all in the space of a single moment.

  She did.

  He watched as she turned her back on the shop, her lips moving as if she were talking to someone other than herself, and he couldn’t stop his smile. It didn’t matter what those lips were saying. They were perfect. Lushly curved and designed for slow, thorough kisses. For biting.

  He forced his gaze away from her mouth and noticed a pair of deep-set, thickly lashed that he was dying to know the color of. Her golden brown skin seemed to glow in the early afternoon light, and her hair was like a halo of sun-kissed, sandy-colored curls held back from her face by a simple black band. He wanted to sink his fingers into those curls. Wanted her skin beneath his hands.

  She wasn’t pretty. She was mouthwatering. Stunning.

  And still talking to herself. Something was wrong. Was she lost? Practicing a conversation with someone she was meeting, or just working up the courage to go inside and get a tattoo?

  And was it just wishful thinking on his part that made her seem so familiar?

  She took a breath and turned again, and he couldn’t deny his reaction to the way her body moved. Sensual. Maybe she was a dancer. She was slender enough. Graceful enough. The loose fabric of her black pants swirled around her legs like a skirt swaying in the breeze.

  Her hands clenched and she shoved them into the pockets of her lavender jacket then took them out again, squaring her shoulders with one more deep breath. This time she didn’t walk away. Instead she opened the door and disappeared inside abruptly, stealing his view.

  He couldn’t have that.

  Christie was aware he wasn’t exactly thinking straight as he strode across the street to follow her, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to see more. Had to get closer.

  Get a grip, man. Intense isn’t your speed.

  It wasn’t anymore. Not for years, but particularly not since he’d come home. After living most of his life on the road, he prided himself on the serenity he’d cultivated in the last five months, on being Zen and going with the flow. On trying like hell to “nest” and yes, waiting to be inspired.

  No more hard all-night bus rides to make it to the next show, or foreign tours where nightclubs and music festivals were the only sights he’d had time to see. No more women running after him because of what they thought he was—the bad boy rock star their daddies warned them about. The rebel who just needed to be loved…by as many women as possible.

  His band had worn those personas with an enthusiasm he admittedly shared for the first year or two. Until he realized that wasn’t what he was about. He’d wanted to be known for his music, not the number of women in his bed.

  The underground success of Midnight Ryder was satisfying to him—but not for every member of the group. When he’d told them he was done, he knew one or two of them were relieved. They didn’t want to be the best but least-known band around—they just wanted to be rock stars.

  Christie honestly wished them well.

  He was a simple business owner now. He still had a foot in the door of the industry, but it was on his terms. He wrote the songs he wanted to for the musicians he wanted to work with.

  It was a good life. He’d been blessed with security and success in a business that held no guarantees. But he couldn’t deny what drew him home. He was missing something. Needing something. And he knew he would find it in New Orleans. He’d been so sure, he’d had his cousin Rosie give him a tattoo with the words La Vita Nuova across his shoulders as soon as he got back to mark the occasion.

  She’d teased him about it of course, but she knew what it meant to him. He’d had a lot of time to read on the road and Dante had been a classic favorite, but it wasn’t about the author. It was about his new path. The next verse, the next chapter of his new life.

  Christie reached for the shop’s door, thinking this chapter had taken nearly a year to get interesting. But today’s page was making up for lost time.

  ***

  Today was her birthday.

  Any other
year, it would just be a nothing-special-about-it-Friday, since as soon as Etta Santos was old enough to blow out her own candles, she’d realized that January was the most inconvenient month to be born. People were usually too broke or hung-over after the triple whammy of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s to work up the extra excitement required for cake and party hats.

  It didn’t bother her as much as it used to. There were even a few years when she had forgotten it entirely. But then that was a whole period of her life—three and a half years’ worth of days—that she had no desire to look back on.

  Her chest tightened. It wasn’t the piercing pain it used to be, but it was still there.

  Etta walked slowly down the sidewalk, slipping her hands into the pockets of her thin jacket as she forced herself to think about today. This January third was already different. She actually wanted to mark the occasion. She was out of school, almost done with the first rotation of her PT residency and determined to make the last year of her twenties the best.

  Twenty-nine would be her rebirth. The true start of a new life. A better life. And the present she was receiving today from her old friend Rosie Gallagher was going to go a long way toward making that happen.

  She was going to be courageous. Put the last reminders of her past behind her and replace them with a better memory. A memory that she was going to make here in New Orleans. One that would, unfortunately, include needles. The single hiccup in an otherwise brilliant plan.

  Etta reached the end of the block, and looked down the narrow cobbled street before turning around for the third time with an exasperated breath.

  This was ridiculous. The streets of the French Quarter were busy, but eventually someone would notice the odd woman pacing up and down Canal Street, pretending to study the buildings.

  Not that she couldn’t spend all day doing that. In fact, since she’d been home, she was having the strangest desire to join the tourist groups and visit places she hadn’t seen in years.

  Despite all this city had been through, some things never changed. No one—not even Etta—could resist the lure of the Big Easy. The old but still undeniably beautiful buildings…the music…the defiant majesty you could make out just beneath the decay.

  History lived in every brick, on every street. Stories were told in every cemetery and beside each statue or corner café. Her history had been written here as well. This was where she’d been born and raised, and though she lived a few states away in North Carolina, in her heart she still considered it home.

  She was surprised this past week at how much she’d missed it. Suddenly the two weeks she had left here didn’t seem like enough time to spend with her family and friends.

  She reached her destination again and paused. Speaking of friends… Rosie was probably in there waiting for her. Damn. She might need one more practice run before it was time to face her fears and replace her old mistakes with beautiful tattoos. It was a good thing she’d come early.

  Oh God, she might pass out before she got into the shop.

  A male voice somehow got through the buzzing in her ears. “Thought I might see you here.”

  She spun on her heel, startled. “Manny?”

  He held out his arms as if to catch her in case she fell, concern in his bright blue eyes. “Whoa, now. You okay? I was just on my way to meet a friend for lunch. You turned a little green this morning when you mentioned coming here today, so I thought I’d check in when I saw you. Still determined to blow out this particular birthday candle?”

  “Yes.” She was lying, but he didn’t have to know that. The black spots faded and her new friend came into focus. She subtly stepped away from his touch and crossed her arms. “Yes, that’s me. I’m very determined.”

  The morning after she arrived in New Orleans, she’d bumped into Manny during an early morning run. Her first instinct—one any normal single woman would have—should have been to go back to her aunt’s house where it was safe. He was tall, broad, covered in lean muscles and stitch-like tattoos down his arms and neck that were eerily reminiscent of the marks on a voodoo doll. Or Frankenstein’s monster.

  But there was something about him that made it easy to agree to share the sidewalk when he asked if she’d keep him company. Manny was…nice. Harmless, really, which was a strange adjective for someone that good-looking. But since she’d spent years around the not-so-nice variety of the species, harmless was a pleasant change.

  It had only taken a few minutes for him to mention Angelique. After five more Etta realized that the good friend he was talking about was her youngest Rousseau cousin.

  Small world.

  They’d been running together every day since. He was surprisingly introverted for someone who knew her vivacious cousin so well, but there was no doubt that he did. He’d been more than willing to bend her ear with tales of Angelique’s whirlwind romance and the wedding that Etta had been too busy with finals to attend.

  Manny had been good company this week, and he’d never done anything to make her feel threatened or uncomfortable. If anything, she worried about him as if she were his older sister. He was too nice a guy to be so obviously lonely. She could see why Angelique liked him. She liked him.

  When he wasn’t snapping his fingers in front of her face. “What?”

  His gaze narrowed. “You really don’t like needles, do you? Does your friend know about this phobia?”

  “Rosie knows.” Etta focused on breathing. “I went over to her house to work on the design and show her where I wanted them to go, and I apologized in advance in case I embarrassed myself.”

  It wasn’t just the needles she was afraid of, but that wasn’t something she would share with him. With anyone. There was no way around it—she was afraid of being tattooed again. Logically, she knew this experience would be different. Rosie was a professional and her friend. But fear and logic never played well together.

  She started walking toward the shop again and Manny followed.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I promise. I have an appointment to keep and you have a lunch to get to. This first one is going on my left calf, and then I have two sessions scheduled for my back, so our morning runs might be over. Maybe you can come over to Tia Theresa’s while I’m recovering. If I recover.”

  She was wheezing as she rambled. Any minute now she’d start hyperventilating.

  “Etta, stop.”

  She turned and walked back toward him, her hands bunched into fists in her pocket. “What?”

  Manny bent his head and looked into her eyes. “Just breathe. Let’s think about something else for a minute, okay? What did you do this morning after our run? The usual? A chocolate caramel roll at Café Bwe?”

  “Two, actually.” She nodded gratefully. “I had to fortify myself for my full schedule of fun. Which reminds me, has Angelique ever mentioned her mother-in-law, the voodoo priestess?”

  Manny snorted. “Mambo Toussaint? I know her well. Both of the Mamas, in fact. Why?”

  Etta’s lips twitched. “I love how everyone calls them that.”

  “They do too, believe me.”

  She was sure. “They’re stopping by my aunt’s house to meet me this afternoon and make party plans. Do I need to worry about them summoning voodoo spirits or sacrificing chickens? Or will they trick me into making three wishes?”

  “That last one is definitely about genies, not voodoo practitioners,” Manny corrected her. “But no, the Mamas are unique. And an odd pair—the priestess and the southern belle—but they’ve been inseparable for years. They are also far too well-mannered to perform summoning rituals before you’ve been properly introduced. I think,” he added at the end with a teasing twinkle in his eye.

  “Glad to hear it.” The way Etta’s cousin Patricia talked before she came here, she’d have trouble prying Tia Theresa out of the evil clutches of ‘The Mama Cult’.

  Patricia was a bit of a prude.

  She looked at her watch and sighed. “Okay, I guess it’s time.” />
  “Just take a few more deep breaths and you’ll be fine.” Manny gripped her shoulders and turned her around to face the neon sign for Midnight Ink. “Go forth, Etta Santos, and get inked.”

  “I’m going. I am. Here I go.”

  She swallowed nervously and reached for the door’s handle.

  Here I go.

  Chapter Two

  Christie opened the door—it must have only been minutes after his mystery lady had come into the shop—to find a room full of people that weren’t her. Customers were lined up against the wall, each waiting to make or keep an appointment with the tattoo artist of their choice.

  Where was she?

  It was nice to see the place this busy. The New Beginnings special was good for morale, and for the charities they’d chosen to donate to.

  And that New Year’s party that he’d dropped in on for all of ten minutes had seemed to be a hit as well.

  He hadn’t stayed. He’d rung out the old with the other musicians busking on the street corner. It was more comfortable than being the hovering boss figure at Midnight Ink. That wasn’t a suit he was sure he’d ever fit well.

  During his last phone call to Bali, Henry Lee had disagreed. He’d expressed his approval for the special that was donating to The Wounded Warriors Project, as well as cancer research in his honor. Every customer who requested a survivor or memorial tattoo added to that charity’s haul.

  “Not that you need my approval anymore, boy,” Henry Lee had laughed. “My collection may belong to Rosie, but the shop is yours. As long as it stays open and the talent is happy, I’ll be satisfied.”

  But Midnight Ink was Henry Lee’s baby, his legacy, and Christie had no desire to make changes. This place should never change. It had always been so much like a second home to him, it even inspired the name of his band.

  That was why he’d taken it off the market before Henry Lee had the chance to sell it to someone else. Some of his fondest memories were of his uncle telling him stories of far-off places while Rosie honed her skills on his now fully sleeved forearms.