0.6-The Asylum Interviews: Trixie

by Jocelynn Drake

  THE ASYLUM INTERVIEWS: TRIXIE

  An Asylum Tales Short Story

  JOCELYNN DRAKE

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  An Excerpt from Angel’s Ink

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  About the Author

  By Jocelynn Drake

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  This woman could kiss. Her lips were lush pillows and the things she could do with her tongue made my toes curl. Even the nip of her fangs made the blood roar in my ears. I would have paid anything at that moment to be in a bedroom rather than a cramped, stuffy coat closet.

  I reluctantly pulled away from Jo after I hit my head on the closet rod for the fourth time. Her lean body was molded against mine as I pressed her against the back wall. She shifted, rubbing her pelvis against my groin. My eyes rolled back into my head as a fresh wave of pleasure/pain swept through my body, briefly wiping away the thought that had me pulling away from her in the first place.

  “Don’t stop, Gage,” she murmured. Her hand slipped up from my shoulder to cup the back of my head. As she tried to pull me back down, I released her ass and slammed my right hand against the wall beside her head, bracing myself so that she couldn’t recapture my mouth.

  “If we keep going, you’re going to find your pants around your ankles in another minute,” I threatened through clenched teeth. On second thought, it wouldn’t take as long as another minute.

  “Mmmm . . . a quickie.” Her voice was a delicious purr as she ground her body against mine.

  “Jo, sweetheart, there’s no such thing as a quickie between us.”

  Why the hell did we stop dating? With her sweet body pressed against me, her hands trailing over my chest and down to my ass, I really couldn’t think of the answer to that question. Sex with Jo had always been surface-of-the-sun hot and we rarely argued. She also didn’t ask a lot of questions, which was perfect with me. So she was a blood-sucking predator. I was a former warlock-in-training. No one was perfect.

  Jo’s hands stopped their roaming and I could feel her sigh. “True. And we’re going on soon. The guys wouldn’t appreciate it if I held them up.”

  The guys. That would be the reason why we split. The band—Dead Playthings—had gotten popular and they started traveling farther and farther away for gigs. Jo and I had started seeing less of each other and neither one of us had been so enamored that we felt the need to try to make a long-distance relationship work. So with a hug and a wish of good luck, we had gone our separate ways roughly two years ago.

  “Besides, I thought this was just a quick ‘hello.’ Nothing complicated,” I said.

  Jo gave a little snort. “Since when has sex between us been complicated?”

  “True.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  I leered at her, knowing she could see it despite the fact that it was pitch-black in that tiny closet. Her excellent night vision had come in handy on more than one occasion. I felt her hand creep down my chest to slide between where our groins were pressed together. Her long fingers slipped along my rock-hard dick, squeezing a groan from my throat.

  “Well, I don’t mind a few hard feelings,” she said with a chuckle.

  “You’ve got them.” I leaned forward to capture her mouth again, when someone knocked on the door. I tensed, waiting for the door to be jerked open and bright light to wash over us, but it never happened.

  “Jo, we go on in ten,” announced a deep voice. I thought it was Royce, the lead singer, but I couldn’t be sure. I hadn’t talked to the man in more than two years, but if it was him, I had a fresh reason not to like him.

  “Fuck,” we grumbled in unison.

  “Jinx! You owe me a pint,” Jo giggled.

  “Ha. Ha. We better get going.”

  Jo grabbed my shirt, keeping me from pulling away from her. “Are you sticking around for the show? We could talk afterward.”

  I grinned, grabbing her ass again. “I’m all for that.”

  “No, I mean talk-talk, not talk-fuck.”

  I stiffened, squinting in the darkness as I tried to see her face. “Is something wrong?”

  “No! Why does something have to be wrong for me to want to talk to you? We talked while we were dating. Besides, we’ve hardly talked in two years. I thought we could catch up.”

  I stared at her for a couple seconds, wishing I could see her expression but it was lost in the blackness of the closet. “That’s fine. I’ve got a friend here with me. I’ll introduce you.”

  “Sounds good. Now, get out of here. I’ve got to fix my makeup,” she said, pushing me away from her and toward the door.

  I stepped out of the closet, squinting against the bright light. Her band mates glanced up at me for only a second before returning their attention elsewhere. I turned and gave her one last kiss before heading out of the backstage area to the front of the venue. Pausing before a mirror for a second, I wiped off the last remnants of her lipstick and straightened my clothes. Luckily, my current hairstyle was already short and messy. There wasn’t much I could do about the bulge in my pants, but that would pass.

  Bronx was still sitting at the high-top table we had procured before someone had come out to fetch me. The troll gave a knowing little smirk and raised his glass to me as I approached like some conquering hero. I shook my head at my coworker and friend, but I couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face to save my soul. But then, Jo always had had a way of putting the grin on my face.

  “I’m guessing it went well,” Bronx asked as I slid into the chair next to him and took a drink of the beer I had ordered before disappearing backstage.

  “Fine.”

  “She missed you?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” I had no delusions about my former relationship with Jo. When we had been dating, we were little more than fuck buddies. We would attend parties and concerts together, go out drinking, and screw like it was our last day on Earth. But there had never been a deep emotional attachment. We didn’t talk about our pasts and we really didn’t introduce each other to many of our other friends. Sometimes we would get together and just watch some bad movies on TV, but she never slept over. In short, no drama and no complications. There had been a couple times when I thought we could have pushed forward into something more, but neither one of us had ever shown an inclination to do so.

  I fought back a relieved sigh that had nothing to do with Jo and everything to do with being away from the shop and no needle in my hand. With fall settling around us and nights sinking in earlier, I was able to close the shop a little early so that Bronx could accompany me to the Dead Playthings show. I was more than happy to see my old girlfriend, but I had also wanted backup in case things didn’t go so well. Bronx didn’t mind attending the concert since we both needed a break.

  Bronx had started at Asylum more than eighteen months ago and business had exploded at the shop. Not only was I now opening up the parlor earlier in the day, but we were both taking appointments on Sundays and Mondays when the shop was usually closed just so that we could keep up with the demand. When Jo emailed me about the concert, I quickly announced that we would be closing early this Saturday. After a year of constant busy insanity, we needed a break.

  The opening band had already played and their equipment was being replaced with the instruments for the Dead Playthings. The audience milled around an open floor directly in front of the stage, while the sides and back of the room were lined
with high-top tables. Jo was nice enough to have a table saved for us as well as tickets reserved at the front box office. Located on the north side of Low Town, Boggart’s offered mostly rock bands and some other eclectic sounds. The place was extremely popular, drawing a lot of big-name bands. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Boggart’s sat just a few blocks from the local university.

  Sitting there, nursing my beer, I waved to a few familiar faces while we waited for Jo’s band to come on. I was even pleased to see a couple people recognize and wave to Bronx. Some of my regulars were a little surprised when they saw the announcement that I had hired a troll as a tattoo artist, but for the most part, he had been welcomed with open arms by my friends and acquaintances. Bronx appeared to be at ease with the motley crew. My life was settling into a nice routine, other than the hectic demand for potions and tattoos.

  The lights dimmed while the spotlights on the stage flared to life as the band walked out and picked up their instruments. The members of the band hadn’t changed since I had last seen them, their bickering hadn’t broken them apart as I had expected. I had always thought Royce would eventually stalk off to do some solo thing—apparently there was a little common sense in the man’s seemingly hollow head.

  “The guitarist or the drummer?” Bronx demanded, leaning close to me so he could be heard over the scream of the opening guitar riff and the pounding beat of the drums. Dead Playthings danced between punk rock and Goth with an industrial edge. They didn’t play quiet music and didn’t believe in ballads without at least a little screaming.

  My eyes skimmed over the drummer, her hair flying through the air as she moved her head in time with the music. I had never talked much to Daisy. She was always such a fierce, intense person, which I guess made drums a great outlet for her.

  My attention then moved to Jo. She was a few inches shorter than me with short black hair streaked with dark red. Her pale skin almost glowed under the bright lights, accentuating her dark eye make-up and dark red lips. She wore ripped skin-tight jeans and a black leather vest. Her delicate hands danced over the red Gibson SG that was strapped to her body. It wasn’t her favorite guitar. That was a pale blue Ibanez hollowbody. On the few times I had watched movies over at her place, she would lounge on the couch, cradling it against her body, mindlessly plucking at it while watching TV. The Ibanez wasn’t worth as much as the Gibson but I got the impression that it held some kind of sentimental value.

  “I gather that it’s the guitarist,” Bronx drawled, snapping my gaze back to him. “You’ve been staring at her for the past several minutes.”

  “Sorry,” I said with a sheepish grin. “Jo’s the lead guitarist and Daisy is the drummer.”

  “You . . . you dated a vampire?”

  “Yes, and I hired a troll. Apparently I like living life on the edge.” Bronx narrowed his eyes on me and I laughed. “It’s not as dangerous as people like to think. Jo has never been much of a free-range feeder, not since they enacted all those laws and set up blood banks.”

  Bronx frowned. “But accidents happen.”

  “True, but I never put myself in a position for those so-called accidents. You don’t have a problem with blood suckers, do you?”

  “Absolutely not!” Bronx snapped, straightening in his chair. For the first time since I had met him, he looked offended and pissed.

  “It’s just that . . .” I prompted, waiting for him to continue.

  “Sorry,” Bronx said, deflating in his chair. “Who you date is your business. I just haven’t had many encounters with vampires, only those at TAPSS.”

  “Yeah, well they aren’t a good representation. I’ve yet to have an enjoyable conversation with someone from TAPSS. Jo is much cooler.”

  I couldn’t blame him for his distaste for vampires if the only time he talked to them was in relation to TAPSS. The Tattoo Artists and Potion Stirrers Society was a total pain in the ass under the best of circumstances and a nightmare under the worst. And for some bizarre reason, it seemed that most of the TAPSS employees were vampires despite the fact that they were nearly impossible to tattoo. I thought it had something to do with their meticulous, obsessive-compulsive nature.

  Our conversation died off as the music increased in volume, making it harder to hear each other. I was content to sip on a beer and watch Jo play her guitar. She was beautiful and intense, her focus entirely on the song she was playing. She almost never looked at the audience jumping and cheering in front of her. Jo didn’t sing, leaving that job up to Royce, with Kevin, the bass player, supplying backup vocals.

  Dead Playthings performed for roughly ninety minutes, including one encore set of three songs. As the house lights came up, I drained the last of my second beer and pulled out my cell phone to check the time. We still had several hours until sunrise, plenty of time to get Bronx back to the shop so he could pick up his car. The troll had to be safely ensconced in his house and away from the sunlight or risk being turned to stone.

  “You mind if we hang back for a little while? Jo wanted to talk,” I asked, as Bronx started to rise from his chair.

  The troll pushed to his feet and stretched, twisting his back as if to get the kinks out of his spine. “No problem. You want me to wait out in the main bar area?”

  “No. I’d like to introduce you.”

  “And keeping me here means that you’ve got someone to watch your back in case it gets serious.” Bronx was far too astute for my liking.

  “Actually, I think that if you’re here I’ll be less likely to make a bad decision. Maybe.”

  Bronx smiled at me as he settled back on his seat. “I’d be happy to meet her.”

  “I guess I should have warned you that a job at Asylum would include occasional wingman duties.”

  “This is my first wingman job in eighteen months. Either you don’t need a wingman, or you have a pretty sad social life.”

  “Like yours is any better.”

  Jo exited the door near the stage and was approaching our table with a wide grin, saving me from Bronx’s retort. I slid off of my seat and met her halfway to our table with a hug. She squeezed me back with a giggle and then returned to my table with me, her arm wrapped around my waist as she pressed close.

  “Bronx, this is an old friend of mine, Josephina,” I introduced, the stupid grin magically returning to my face.

  Jo gave me a playful shove as she reached for the troll’s extended hand. “Just call me Jo. Gage is being an asshole.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jo. Would you join us?” Bronx greeted smoothly with a small smile.

  Jo nodded and slid into the chair next to Bronx while I returned to my previous chair. It put her out of arm’s reach unless I wanted to stretch across the table, and I liked to think that I wasn’t that desperate to touch the vampire.

  “How did you meet Gage?” Jo immediately demanded when she was settled.

  “I met him coming out of a ladies’ bathroom in a bar,” Bronx replied, but I could see the mischievous glee lighting his eyes. Jo’s pale face immediately lit up and she opened her mouth to comment but I quickly jumped in.

  “It’s not as interesting as he makes it sound. Suffice to say, it was an unusual meeting, but all the same, he agreed to come work for me at Asylum.”

  Jo narrowed her gaze on me as she leaned on the table. “Somehow I doubt that. You always knew how to get into trouble. But I’ll drop it . . . for now. I’m just excited to hear that Asylum is doing well, at least well enough to support two artists. That’s great!”

  “Fantastic,” I grumbled.

  Jo looked from Bronx to me to Bronx again as she took in my sour expression and the troll’s lack of enthusiasm. “What’s wrong? It has to be working out if you’re both here.”

  “No, we’re getting along fine.”

  “This is the first night we’ve had off in months. Business has gotten a little too good. We’re too busy,” Bronx explained.

  I shoved a hand through my hair in frustration. You never com
plained about business being good. If the fates were listening, that was the exact moment when everything went completely sour and your business failed. But what Bronx had said was correct. We were drowning in work. “I’ve been thinking about putting up an ad for a new artist, but I just haven’t had the time.”

  Jo clapped her hands and bounced in her seat a moment. “That’s wonderful!”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got a friend who has moved to the area,” she announced, still beaming at us. “She’s a tattoo artist. I was going to ask if you had any openings or if you knew anyone that had an opening.”

  My stomach twisted and I could feel my blood running cold in my veins. All night—hell, for days—I had thought that she had contacted me because she actually wanted to see me. Now it was beginning to sound like she had called me in hopes of finding a job for her friend.

  “Is this why you invited me here?” I demanded, the question coming out hard and flat.

  Jo jerked, looking as if I had just hit her. Her own expression chilled as she gazed at me. “Don’t be a fucking asshole, Gage. I wanted to see you. The fact that Trixie is a tattoo artist, needs a job, and you’re hiring is just a bit of serendipity.”

  “What’s the lady’s name?” Bronx asked, drawing Jo’s dark look from me in an attempt to save me from myself. Yeah, Bronx was making an excellent wingman.

  “Her name is Trixie Ravenwood, human, and she does the most beautiful work. We met while the band was touring on the West Coast over the summer. We kept in contact after I headed back this way and she emailed me about a month ago saying that she was leaving the West Coast. I told her to try out Low Town, so she came here.”

  “You’ve seen her work?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve sat around the shop where she worked and watched her. I’ve seen her do some really delicate line work and some amazing shading. She’s an artist, Gage. Not like some of the hacks I’ve seen. She knows her shit.”

  “Does she move around a lot?” Bronx asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Jo sat back, her face clouding in thought. “I got the impression that she’s lived in several places.”