Inked by an Angel

by Allen, Shauna

  He settled his weight onto one hip. “You here for a tattoo, sweetheart?”

  Her lips parted then she snapped them closed. Noble stifled a laugh behind him and her eyes darted nervously over his shoulder then back to his face. He knew his appearance must intimidate her; it did most people. Tall guys with shaved heads, tats, and piercings had that effect on folks. But what did she expect, coming into a place like this?

  “Well? If not a tattoo then a piercing?” He smiled and toyed with the stud under his lip with the tip of his tongue.

  The tips of her ears flushed to match her cheeks. “Most certainly not!”

  He grinned. “No?”

  “No!” She looked ready to bolt back to her tuffet.

  “You’re sure?”

  She backed up a step.

  Yup, ready to bolt. He was doing her a favor.

  “Yes. I’m quite sure. But thank you,” she added half-heartedly.

  He caught a hint of her perfume. Something sweet with a hint of sex. “You’re welcome. Come back if you change your mind.” He pivoted back toward his workstation, but not before he’d seen the way her pulse was pounding against the pearls circling the pale white column of her throat.

  “Wait,” she called in a quiet, defeated voice.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Are you Michael?”

  Something in the way she said the big guy’s name made him nervous. “No. I’m Jed Gentry. This is my place. Why?”

  “Oh.” She glanced down then back up like she’d renewed her resolve to stand toe-to-toe with him. “Would you please let him know I’m here?”

  “If you don’t have an appointment for a tat, you’ll have to come back.”

  She sighed and shoved her glasses up with a little more force than necessary. “But, we do have an appointment. He’s hired me to be his accountant.”

  He sat back down next to Carl and slapped on new gloves without looking at her. “Sorry. He’s not here.” He picked up his needle, turning it on and letting the familiar vibration buzz up his arm. “Why don’t you leave a card or something?”

  He saw her pace a few steps out of the corner of his eye. “That’s okay. I’ll wait.”

  Shit. Michael practically lived at the studio. Guess he could be seeing a lot more of Little Miss Muffet’s tuffet.

  Kyle couldn’t believe his arrogance. The big, bald Jed Gentry began tattooing the man’s back again as though she wasn’t there. Jerk. She sighed. A jerk with the most amazing blue eyes and piercings she’d ever seen! She averted her gaze and studied the shop.

  Breathe. Act casual.

  An even bigger man, with coal black eyes who could’ve been conjured straight out of a Cowboy and Indian dime store novel, caught her gaze. All he needed was war paint and a feather in his long black hair to make him more intimidating. She swallowed and he looked away.

  She hugged her purse closer and took the seat nearest the front door to wait. Who was this Michael Smith anyway that he would have her meet him here? She’d been hopeful when she drove up and saw the Italian pizzeria, but quickly realized the address was wrong. Strangely enough, this place was bracketed by a Little Angels Daycare on the other side. Was that even legal? But, no, it wasn’t a position with children either. Oh, no. She was led straight into a place where people permanently scarred their bodies. And she’d never even known anyone with a tattoo.

  Her eyes unconsciously drifted to the man lounging in the chair adjacent hers. Both of his arms were literally covered in tattoos—skulls, demon heads, naked women. He glanced at her just as she noticed the ring that resembled something a bull would have through his nose and the gigantic tubular plugs in his earlobes. He grinned, seeming to relish her discomfort. Oh, God!

  She wanted to jump up and run as fast as her four-inch Louboutin’s would carry her, but she stayed rooted where she was and returned a small, forced smile. A client was a client and she needed her first one. The wolves were at the door and she couldn’t tuck tail and run now. They would expect that. She glanced down with a wry half-grin. If she ever hoped to afford another pair of Louboutin’s—her one and only shot of pure feminine confidence—she had to suck it up. It’s just for now, she reminded herself. Just for now.

  She tried to relax and melt into the crimson velvet chair. The place wasn’t all that bad really. There weren’t garish pictures of tattoo art on the walls or ear-splitting thrash metal pouring out of a boom box. Instead, some sort of soothing, meditative music played sedately in the background and the walls were painted a nice, surprisingly proper shade of golden yellow with beautiful Asian artwork tastefully displayed. And was that incense? It was unlike any other tattoo place she’d ever been . . . wait, scratch that. Who was she kidding? She’d never been in any tattoo places.

  A small cough shifted her attention to her left. The woman behind the front counter studied her, making no attempt to hide her curiosity.

  “Hello.” Kyle finally spoke, having had enough of being examined like a specimen.

  The woman rose and leaned on the countertop, exposing heavily tattooed arms, milky white cleavage, and confidence in spades. “You’ve got the most beautiful nose for piercing. Like Angelina Jolie. Perfect.”

  Unconsciously, Kyle reached up and touched her nose. “Uh, thank you . . .?”

  The woman sat back down, picked up a magazine, and began flipping through the pages. Kyle was amazed. She’d never had such a unique compliment. Especially from someone as stunning as the Ms. Kat Von D look-alike over there. She touched her nose again. Angelina Jolie? Huh.

  She turned back to the owner, still bent over tattooing his customer. Soon, she was just as engrossed in his work as he was. The man’s back was his canvas as a dragon was beginning to breathe fire in vivid oranges and fiery reds with scales that seemed to slither when he moved.

  The door next to her crashed opened, breaking her concentration. She jumped in her seat and turned to look death in the eye as three-hundred-plus pounds of hell-bent-for-leather biker hitman strolled in like he owned the joint. A Harley Davidson bandana covered his bowling-ball-sized head and a thick metal chain hung from his front pocket to the back of his black leather pants. His thick black boots made heavy clomp, clomp, clomping sounds as he shrugged out of his massive leather jacket and slung it behind the counter near Ms. Sexy-I-Wanna-Pierce-Your-Angelina-Jolie-Nose.

  “Hey, Kierstan,” the big biker guy said, his voice strangely friendly as he smiled at Kyle.

  The girl glanced up from her magazine. “You’ve been gone long enough, Michael. Where’s the pizza?”

  Michael? Sweet Baby Jesus in His manger! Kyle felt the pulse behind her right eye and wished the decadent crimson velvet chair would swallow her whole as her heart wanted to beat a frantic rhythm straight out of her ribcage.

  Jed glanced up from his dragon masterpiece and set his buzzing needle aside. “Yeah, Mike. Pizza?”

  The big guy actually flushed. “Aw, guys. I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll run next door and grab it.”

  “You better.” Kierstan stood and sauntered over to inspect Jed’s work. Even Kyle felt the heat from his irritated glare when she got too close.

  Then, just before Michael walked out, Jed looked over in Kyle’s direction, seeming to remember that she was still there. Damn. She was hoping she’d disappeared. His piercing blue eyes pinned her to her seat and she felt like a mosquito forever frozen in prehistoric amber.

  “Oh, Mike?” he called.

  Michael stopped, his thick chain thumping against his leg, rattling Kyle’s ears. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t forget the extra cheese.” He turned away, breaking the contact. He inclined his head in Kyle’s general vicinity. “And your accountant’s here.”

  Chapter 2

  “What the hell do you need an accountant for anyway?�
� Jed asked after Ms. Goody Two Shoes left the studio.

  Michael looked up at him, his brows furrowed. “What? You don’t have someone do your books for you?”

  “Well, yeah . . . , but—”

  “But, what? It’s gettin’ on tax time and I need her. Besides, what’s wrong with Miz O’Neill? She seems like a fine CPA. Smart. Attractive.” He smiled.

  “Smart, maybe. A little uptight, don’t you think?” Seriously, the girl looked fresh from the convent.

  Michael didn’t look at him as he finished putting away his ink and cleaning up his workstation. “Maybe. But, Jed, she’s an accountant. She does numbers. What would you expect?” He looked over with a mischievous wink. “You never know what’s underneath that uptight façade. Probably an undercover freak. Tats. Pierced out the wazoo. Whips. Chains. She’d probably rock your little world.”

  Jed laughed. “Yeah, right. My lily white ass.”

  “Yeah, but it’s fun to think about.” He locked up his cabinet. “She’s a very sweet lady, though. Be nice to her.”

  “I’m always nice.”

  “My lily white ass.”

  Jed’s footsteps echoed in the silent studio. As he locked up and turned down the lights, his thoughts turned back to his conversation with Michael. He hated to admit he was curious about the bookish Ms. O’Neill. It wasn’t often he ran across someone like her. Outside of his mother’s country club anyway, and he wasn’t a regular at that particular establishment. He’d learned early on that his mother was about the only person there capable of seeing beyond his appearance and he only went occasionally to please her. Just thinking about their dress code made him want to choke.

  He stepped outside and took a deep breath of the crisp night air scented with the tang of Italian spices from next door. Gabriella, Papa Turoni’s daughter, and Jed’s future bride-to-be if Papa had his way, waved as she hauled out a sack of trash. Jed waved back. She was nice. She could cook. But she was built like a linebacker and wasn’t interested in her daddy’s matchmaking attempts because she batted for the home team. She just hadn’t told poor Papa yet. Unfortunately, everyone else in town knew.

  Jed’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t had anything to eat except a slice of the pizza Mike brought in earlier. He palmed his keys with indecision, until Gabby opened the door to go back inside and the spicy fragrance hit his nose again.

  It was late. Maybe Papa was gone. He sighed and started walking. He pushed open the door and his mouth immediately began to water.

  The small, wiry old man behind the counter perked up the minute he saw him. “Gentry! Is good to see you!” He flicked a not-so-subtle glance toward Gabriella who was now wiping down the counter behind him. “What can we do for you? The pasta is very good tonight.”

  Jed studied the guy and the romantic hope shining in the chocolate brown eyes behind the thick lenses of his ancient glasses. Poor dude. He smiled, noticing that Gabriella had skirted away to the stock room. Her dad did a piss poor job of containing his irritation.

  “That girl. She’s never going to get married if she keeps hiding herself away.” He leaned in, his Italian accent thickening. “I know she’s no supermodel, my Gabby, but she’s a good Catholic girl with a kind heart. She’d make a good wife to a nice boy.”

  Like you. He didn’t have to say it. Funny thing was, Jed had no idea why Papa Turnoni thought he was such a catch. Most daddies would tell their daughters to steer clear of the likes of him. Hell, he’d probably tell her the same thing. He was damaged goods with a rebellious spirit. His body was a testament to that. He lived and breathed it every day and he’d embraced that part of himself the first day a tattoo needle hit his arm.

  Rather than give Papa false hope, he nodded benignly and made a show of studying the menu. “She is a nice girl.” He checked his watch. “So, listen, I’ve had a late night. Can I get a couple Stromboli to go?”

  Disappointment clouded Papa’s eyes, but he nodded. “Sure, sure. Coming right up.”

  Finally, Jed was able to make his escape with his meatball Stromboli and duck out without having to propose to Gabby. As he crossed the parking lot, the little light-up angel sign next to his shop caught his eye and he frowned. A friggin’ day care. Were they out of their mind putting that there? He’d tried to talk them out of it, but the owners were insistent it was the best spot available. Whatever.

  Not affording it another thought, Jed unlocked his baby, a fully restored ‘67 Shelby Mustang, settled into the custom leather seat and let the engine purr her sweet magic. He turned down the AC, popped in his Foo Fighters CD, and cranked up the volume. He’d just backed up and entered traffic when his cell phone rang.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, man, what’s up?” Noble’s deep and stoic voice greeted him.

  “Just leaving the shop.”

  “Wanna stop by for a couple beers? Maybe meet my new accountant?”

  “That a joke, Tonto?”

  There was no smile in the big man’s voice. “Why don’t you come over and find out, my pasty white brother.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “See ya in a few.” Noble laughed and hung up.

  Jed stopped to pick up a six pack and a box of Twinkies, the dessert of champions, and headed over to Noble’s house, having decided he would be charitable and share his Stromboli sandwiches. He pulled in behind Noble’s big black truck, parked, then made his way up to the door and knocked. He tucked the beer beneath his arm and gave the door a swift kick to hurry Noble along as he glanced to his right at the vacant house next door. It had been for sale for several months and the yard was now overgrown to a small jungle.

  Noble swung open the door and grabbed the beer with a smirk. “Not that fancy foreign shit again?”

  “Whatever. I buy it. You drink it, asshole.”

  Jed stepped inside and shut the door. “So, where’s your accountant? Setting up your sex swing in the bedroom?”

  Noble shot him a confused frown from the kitchen as he shoved the beer in the fridge after grabbing one for himself and leaving one for Jed on the counter. “What?”

  Jed popped the top and took a big swig. “Nothin’. Just something Mike said earlier. He thinks Miss Uptight Accountant might be an undercover sex freak or something.”

  Noble grabbed the bag and pulled the sandwiches out. “Hmmm.”

  “What do you mean ‘hmmm?’”

  Jed waited while Noble unwrapped his sandwich and swallowed his first mouthful before asking again. “Well? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘still waters run deep?’” He wiggled his brows suggestively.

  “Yeah, I guess you’d know,” Jed murmured to himself. “But, there’s no way those waters run nearly deep enough. Did you get a good look at her granny get-up? Jezus. Even my grandma dressed better than that. I just don’t know if I trust waters quite that still and . . .” He glanced over with a smirk. “Boring.”

  Noble quirked a smartass brow. “And, what, you’re so great with the alternative?”

  Jed knew he’d better let that one go. Noble knew too much and he wasn’t in the mood to rehash his shitty love life.

  “Besides,” Noble continued after another large mouthful. “I happen to know the true measure of a woman is not her clothes. It’s her shoes. And that one was wearing ‘fuck-me’ heels.” He grinned. “Hoo, doggy.”

  Jed shot him a glare. “What the hell? You been reading Kierstan’s Cosmos or something? Jeez, dude. You goin’ soft on me?”

  “Nope. Just observant. So,” Noble said, effectively changing the subject and bringing them both back to the meatball Stromboli and beer. “How’s your mom?”

  Jed sat down at the kitchen table and decided he’d give his friend a pass on the whole high-heel issue. “She’s good.�
�

  “You still going over there every few days?”

  The two men exchanged a look. In the years they’d been best friends, they’d perfected the wordless conversation. In the days and weeks and months after Jed’s father died, they’d both been worried about his mother. Hell, she’d practically been Noble’s mother, too, during their teen years. So, Jed had checked on her daily at first. Sometimes more than once a day. Now, over a year later, she’d found some semblance of emotional balance and he’d been able to back off.

  He shook his head. “Nah. Just once a week usually unless she needs something.”

  Noble nodded and brought his beer to his lips for a long pull.

  It didn’t need to be said that he could do all the household chores and visit a thousand times . . . he could never give her what she truly needed. Her heart back. And it killed him that his father had done that to her.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Kyle stared down into Charles’s eager face and felt . . . nothing. Absolutely friggin’ nothing. Shouldn’t a girl feel something when her boyfriend of seventeen and a half months proposes to her with a—she looked closer—two-carat princess-cut diamond?

  In the middle of the hoity-toitiest country club in town, no less?

  Her mother sighed happily and she could practically feel her father’s proud beam. Over Charles’s shoulder, she caught sight of her brother and he gave her a saucy wink.

  Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Wasn’t this what she wanted? What she wouldn’t give right now for a crystal ball to tell her future. She needed to know if she could be happy as Charles’s wife.

  “Kyle?” he whispered. “Are you gonna make me beg? I’m on my knees here.” He looked around at everyone out of the corner of his eye like he was suddenly nervous for the first time that she might actually say no. He shifted uncomfortably and sweat began to bead on his upper lip. “Kyle?”

  She swallowed and looked back down at the ring, willing herself to feel something. Anything.