“Great, thanks,” I said, hurrying back out into the street.
“But seriously,” one of the women called after me. “Turd?”
I let the door close after me and hoped the kid could explain. Or not. I didn’t care if she thought I was running around town with a bag of shit.
The cat was still racing away, so I ran after it. It turned down a street. A quick glance at the sign told me this was Red Delicious Road.
About halfway down the block, the cat disappeared.
“What the hell?” I muttered. And there was the sign—Forbidden Fangs Tattoo. I hurried over and shoved open the front door.
The inside smelled faintly of blood, but threaded in with that was a truly delectable scent signature, better than any coffee. It was like walking through a field of lilies at midnight. I searched the room for the source, pushing aside my previous need to reclaim my credit card.
A man was lying on a low padded table, but the scent I was picking up was distinctly feminine. It had to be coming from the tattoo artist sitting next to him and holding a buzzing gun. She had long blond hair which she’d pulled into a ponytail, although a couple of shorter strands had escaped and hung next to her ears. A ring glinted in one of her blond eyebrows, and there was a half-sleeve tattoo on her upper arm.
She was gorgeous.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice melodic, like a minor key.
Then I remembered why I was here. “Your cat stole something of mine. My credit card.”
She peered under the padded table and said, “Your Lordship King Snugglebumpkins, you didn’t do anything like that, did you?”
I couldn’t believe the string of nonsense she’d called that wolf-sized mop of fur and thievery. This woman wasn’t just gorgeous. She was crazy.
“I know he stole it,” I say.
“I believe it,” the guy on the table said.
The woman rolled her eyes and adjusted the hem of her red dress up over her knee. That dress was sexy as fuck, but I couldn’t let myself get distracted.
“That cat just tried to murder me,” the guy said, hooking his fingers in air quotes as he said ‘cat.’
As he spoke, I squinted to see what kind of ink the artist was putting into his skin.
“Hold on,” I said. “You can’t write that on your client! Dude, do you know what she’s putting on your back?”
“I’m fixing it, asshole,” the woman said sweetly. “Now if you’re done insulting my cat and throwing around false accusations, I’d appreciate it if you went along on your way.”
I set down my bag and coffee and pulled my phone from my pocket. “I’m calling the police.”
“What? On my cat?” the woman said.
“It’s a thief!”
“It’s a cat.”
I peered under the table. Glowing yellow eyes met my gaze, and the animal hissed. I said, “It’s the devil.”
“Look,” the woman said, “I don’t see your card anywhere, and really, where’s he going to hide it? It’s not like His Lordship has any pockets.”
“He’s got about five metric tons of matted fur,” I said. “It could be anywhere on his person.”
The buzzing of the tattoo gun went quiet and the guy on the table looked up. “Does this count against my three hours?”
“Nope,” the woman said. “Let’s take just a quick break and I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, putting his head down on his arms.
The woman brushed past me on her way to the front of the shop. I inhaled that delicious yet perplexing scent once more. She wasn’t a shifter—the only animals in this place were the guy on the table and the monster underneath it. Maybe she was a witch. There was definitely something supernatural about her, I just couldn’t figure out what.
I grabbed my coffee and gift bag, then followed her to the low counter where she stood with her arms folded in front of her.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” she said, grinning at me. A dimple showed in her cheek, and her teeth looked white and sharp.
“True,” I said, mesmerized. She smelled good and she was beautiful. I was a simple man. This woman did things for me.
“Maybe you could call your credit card company and report a lost card.”
“Stolen,” I said. “The card was stolen.”
“Can a cat really steal?” she said, almost as if musing to herself. “From a cat’s point of view, everything belongs to them, you know? There’s no ownership, just possession…”
I stared at her.
“What?” she said.
“Just waiting for you to tell me what you’re giving me if I don’t press charges against your cat.”
Her blond eyebrows rose, along with the silver eyebrow ring. “Well, I thought that was obvious. We’re going out for a drink tonight.”
“A drink?” I said.
She grinned again, and lightly bit her lower lip. My dick twitched in interest.
“Yes,” she said, her voice pitching a little lower. “A drink.”
“Okay, I can call the company, fine,” I said.
“Good.” She held out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Marla Sloane.”
“Grayson Tatum,” I said. A spark lit in my chest at the contact of our palms touching. I didn’t understand it, but I liked it. I even liked that her hand was slightly cool, instead of warm like I expected.
She smiled again. “See you tonight. At The Watering Hole. Nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
It had been strangely difficult to make myself walk out of Marla’s tattoo parlor. Her scent clung to my jacket, which was a small comfort, as was knowing I would get to see her again tonight.
The drive to the Forbidden Bed and Breakfast was picturesque. Despite my irritation over the lost credit card, I found myself in a good mood. I still needed to track down the alpha of the Forbidden pack, but I was putting it off in my haste to check out the B&B and decide if it was actually worth sticking around this town.
Marla was worth it.
I shook off the thought. She was hot, she was intriguing, she smelled good. That wasn’t a reason to settle down.
Was it?
Damn, my inner wolf was howling for her.
I called the credit card company through my car’s system as I drove. After a couple of minutes, the card was canceled and they were already mailing me a replacement. I was still mad at that stupid cat, though.
The B&B was on Gravenstein Road. It reminded me of Red Delicious, where the tattoo parlor was located, and The Watering Hole, which I’d looked up to see was located on Honeycrisp Street. So all the streets were named after apples. I wondered if it was a play on the forbidden fruit in Eden.
When I pulled up to the B&B, I was impressed that it looked just as quaint and tidy as it had in the framed photo I’d seen in the cafe. Even though it was January, the lawn was trimmed and tidy. Despite the cloudy sky, the building itself looked like a bright beacon of happiness.
I parked and got out of the car, pulled my jacket on again, and checked my watch. It was a little early for check-in, but most B&B hosts were accommodating. And if they were rude? Well, then I didn’t want to work with them, anyway.
The scents of other shifters reached my nose when I stepped onto the porch. Lots of other shifters. One even smelled familiar, which was odd because I didn’t know anyone in Kentucky.
I sniffed again. Wolves, mostly. A couple of big cats. A bear of some kind. And...a badger? The scents were old, but well-established, like they hung out on this porch often but hadn’t in a while because the weather was cooler. I pulled in the scents once more, trying to isolate the one that was familiar. One of the wolves, I decided.
Hoping I’d get my answers once I met Daphne Forsythe, the owner of this B&B, I pulled open the door.
Something chimed from farther inside the building, and footsteps sounded. I leaned against a little counter in the entryway and soaked in the ambiance of a well-run establis
hment. The decor was quaint but modern. Someone with an excellent eye had designed it—that much had been evident from the website photos. It was even better to experience it in person, though.
“Hi there, we aren’t checking in new guests yet,” a male voice said.
I looked up, and I saw a big guy with brown hair approaching. He stopped walking, and we faced each other, two predators suddenly in each other’s territory. He squinted at me, and I saw the flash of recognition in his green eyes, too. This was the scent I knew.
And then it hit me. “Declan O’Malley?”
Declan O’Malley had been one of my cabin mates at a shifter summer camp, back when we were teenagers. We’d terrorized the counselors, kissed more than our fair share of girls, and generally wreaked havoc and broken hearts. He looked the same as he had then, only bulkier and less mischievous. He looked...settled. Content.
“What the fuck!” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “Grayson Tatum. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m here on business,” I said. “You own this place?”
“My mate does, yeah.”
I wondered if that would complicate things, or make my goal easier to achieve.
“That’s awesome,” I said. “It’s a fantastic set-up. I saw a photo of this place at the cafe downtown—this place was a pile of shi—”
“Potential,” a woman’s voice said as her footsteps sounded down the hall. “It was a pile of potential.”
She came into view, wearing a loose button-up blouse and a pair of jeans. Her blond hair reminded me of Marla’s, although it was a bit darker.
She shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Daphne Forsythe.”
“Grayson Tatum,” I said.
“He went to summer camp with me,” Declan said. “He’s a wolf shifter, too.”
“Oh, hi,” Daphne said. “Summer camp, huh? I don’t even want to know what kind of shenanigans you two got into.”
“Daphne and I are mates,” Declan said proudly.
“Congratulations,” I said, my mind flicking back to Marla at the tattoo shop. “So it’s good you’re here, Declan. You can tell me who the alpha of the Forbidden Pack is. I need to give them a call and tell them I’m staying in town for a bit.”
“You just told him,” Declan said with a grin.
“Wow, you’re the alpha?” I said. “That’s awesome, man. So, uh. I’m here in your territory to conduct some business, and I’ll be gone as soon as it’s over. I can supply you with whatever reassurances you need that my intentions are—”
“No need to be so formal, man,” Declan said with a laugh. “You’re fine. Do you have a reservation here?”
“Yeah,” I said, my tension melting away. “Yeah, I do.”
He held out a hand. “Welcome to Forbidden, old friend.”
3
Marla
I had three rules in my tattoo parlor. One—the customer was always right, so long as he agreed with me. Two—don’t fuck with His Lordship King Snugglebumpkins. Three—no drinking on the job.
The last was probably a rule in most businesses, but given my supernatural state of being and the bloody nature of my work, it was the most important of the three. Every client who walked through the door was a temptation. It was like trying to cut out caffeine while working in a coffee bar, or embracing sobriety while working as a bartender, or being a shark on a vegan diet. Ignoring bloodlust went against everything it was to be a vampire, and it was necessary.
But sitting on one of the stools at The Watering Hole, I didn’t have to hold back any longer. I was famished, and the dive was bustling with tasty morsels. And I had a date with a delectable drink of a man.
He was a prick, breaking rule number two, but that made him the perfect mark.
Along with my superhuman tattoo prowess, the transformation into the undead had granted me another particularly useful gift. Back in the dungeon, the other prisoners had named me Manipulative Marla due to my unique ability to bend others to my will. So far, I’d only practiced on the half-dead dinner humans my sire had thrown in for us to feed on, and a nightmare creature that only kind of counted. Plus one banker. I couldn’t control other vampires, and I had never tried my power on a shifter. Better not to take the risk.
This was a lowkey operation, in shifter territory. It was the perfect town to hide out in, with its convergence of magical energy. That meant I needed to be more careful and operate quietly to avoid the shifters’ notice, because the last thing I wanted was to get kicked out.
My skin prickled like it did when a shifter was near, but given this was Forbidden, half of the people here probably harbored a secret animal side.
Someone slipped onto the stool beside me. “You’re early.”
I turned to see Grayson. He’d ditched the suit jacket and tie from earlier, and he’d left the top buttons of his collar open, offering me an unobstructed view of his tanned neck. I peeled my gaze from his jugular and forced myself to look him in the eye.
It wasn’t just the heat inside of him that appealed to me. He was pleasant to look at with a full head of ashy brown hair, enough of a beard to give him a touch of ruggedness even in a suit, and kind gray eyes that didn’t seem to match up with his otherwise hard features.
“I make a point of being at every appointment early,” I said, watching the little movement he made with his lips.
“Choosing your vantage point,” he said.
And for a moment, I considered that maybe I had pegged him wrong. I’d thought stuffy, holier-than-thou prick. Entitled human, blowing into the small town looking to buy the place, put in some kind of fancy shopping center no one wanted.
But his words were those of a different kind of predator.
I considered him carefully. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t my next meal. Maybe he was a threat, sent by the Collector to end my brief spate of freedom.
“Just kidding,” he said with a wide and genuine smile. “Showing up early just means you’re punctual. Responsible.”
And with that stupid line, and that charming smile, I was lulled back into contentment. This man wasn’t a threat. He was a smitten fool, captivated by my eternally youthful lady charm. That played right into my plan, given my manipulative powers required flirtation to activate. Under different circumstances, it could get awkward.
The bartender, a man who had more beard than face, took our orders and poured our drinks. It was quick service, given how busy the bar was. After he moved on to help the next patron, I returned my attention to Grayson, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off of me.
“So, tell me about you.” I leaned in closer, flashing Grayson a grin and brushing a finger over his forearm.
His eyes shot to my hand, his pupils dilated, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He smiled right back at me, with a hopeful glint in his eye.
This was going to be even easier than I’d thought.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
I shrugged. Nothing, really. “What brings you to Forbidden?”
“Work.”
“What kind of work?”
“I’m an investor,” he said. “I travel to small towns looking for promising little vacation spots to help bolster business owners.”
I knew it. “You’re a boutique man, aren’t you?”
“Boutique?”
“Fancy little shops where everything costs four times what it should,” I said, before remembering that criticizing the guy was not usually part of my seduction MO.
“Nothing like that,” he said. “Bed and breakfasts. Places with good bones, good management, and only in need of a little extra cash.”
“Oh,” I said, “so you’re a money launderer?”
“What?” He seemed generally shocked, and pulled his arm away. “No. I’m a good guy. As honest as they come. It’s not easy to start up a new business, and most end up failing before they can attract enough customers to get the ball rolling.”
I knew that firsthand. It hadn
’t exactly been easy to start in Forbidden with nothing but a giant cat and a pocket full of charms to my name. I’d had to sell some of the stolen goods from my sire’s house, and I’d manipulated a banker to get a decent loan. I was going to pay the loan back—I wasn’t a thief (except when it came to my sire, the Collector, because he’d stolen me, so relieving him of a few magical items seemed fair).
“My dad had a B&B when I was a kid. He nearly lost his place after my birth mom died, but then my mom, the one I grew up with, stepped in and helped. It saved us. And I just want to offer that same chance to others.”
Oh. Shit. Now who was the asshole? Me. It was me.
“That’s actually really sweet,” I said.
“Thank you.”
I looked him in the eye. His irises weren’t just flat gray, but more like a stormy sky with dark and light clashing. Maybe Grayson was like that storm. Maybe he was a genuinely good guy with a touch of wild asshattery. No question he was wrong about His Lordship. Anyone who threatened to call the police on a cat couldn’t be all good.
I looked away and pushed all these silly thoughts aside. Good or bad, this guy was going to be my dinner. And we’d both walk away satisfied.
“How long are you in town for?” I asked, putting on the full charm.
“Not sure yet,” he said. “What about you? I heard that Forbidden Fangs is your shop?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I own and operate.”
“Do you get a lot of people looking to get tattoos in such a small town?”
“Enough,” I said. “What about you? Do you have any ink?”
“No,” he said.
“You’re missing out.”
“Is that so?”
I pulled my coat down to show him the ink on my shoulder. “It’s not just about marking your body outwardly with what you feel and who you are. It’s an experience, one that stays with you. One you crave, over and over again.”
His eyes moved over my ink, across my collarbone, and settled on my breasts. His breathing changed, and so did his position on his seat.
I smiled at him, knowing that if I didn’t have him yet, I was close.
Billionaires and Bodybags: Forbidden Fangs, Book 1 Page 2