EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2019 Elyzabeth M. VaLey
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0065-6
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To the Evernight Team, thank you for believing in me!
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Lust, Love, and Darkness ,2
Elyzabeth M. VaLey
Copyright © 2019
Chapter One
Betty threw her keys in the teal ceramic bowl on the table next to her front door. She rushed to her bedroom and changed out of her work clothes, which she left on a pile on the floor. Comfortably dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, she returned to the main living area. Grabbing some cereal from the cupboard in the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of milk and sat in front of her desk.
Hands trembling, she put on her headphones and opened the music app on her phone. The loud rock riffs surrounded her, obliterating every sound from the exterior but still incapable of shutting down the turmoil in her brain. She grabbed a handful of cereal and stuffed it into her mouth. The crunch mingled with the melody, but still she couldn’t keep him at bay.
Antonio.
His name flashed in her subconscious. Loud. Bold. Present when he should be gone. Her stomach clenched, and she belched, acid bile rising to the back of her throat.
“Fuck.”
She took a sip of the milk and made for the package of gum she’d bought earlier in the week and had purposely placed at the lamp’s base. She tore at it and stuck two pieces in her mouth. She knew this would happen. Every year for the last eight years, she’d gone through the same. Three days before Antonio’s death-versary she sank into an all-consuming darkness that threatened to destroy her. The doctors said it was PTSD. She thought that was bullshit. How could someone still affect her so strongly after so many years? Someone who wasn’t even alive any more. His world had crumbled. Vanished. Everyone she’d known from back then was either dead or had a new life just as she did. She was no longer Becky Turner. Her name was Betty Miller, and she was a twenty-six-year-old Millennial like any other. Except, she had no parents or family, and her past was tainted by blood and drugs, and a man who had made her his slave, but no one knew that.
“Betty,” she murmured. “I’m Betty. Not Becky, and I’m free.”
You’re mine, whore.
Antonio’s slightly accented voice spoke in her ear, louder than the music she struggled to pay attention to. He haunted her. After almost eight years, she could still feel his presence looming over her, obliterating everything she’d accomplished and bringing back the memories she pretended not to have. He hovered over her, tightening his grip until she could no longer breathe, feel, live. She became a shadow of who she was. A hollow soul living within a body that wasn’t hers. His property. A being with no rights, no powers to do anything except what he ordained. She went from drink to drink, to weed and coke, stuck in a permanent numbness. When she was aware of her surroundings, she panicked, so he fed her more happy pills. All she wanted to do was forget. Erase the pain, the wounds, the emptiness carved in blood within her very soul.
The scars on her body throbbed, fueling the walk down memory lane. The time she’d banged her head against the mirror and ended up drenched in blood. At least, that’s what he’d said had happened. She didn’t remember. All she remembered was waking up with a major headache and screaming at the sight of all the blood. A tear slipped down her cheek.
“Snap out of it, Betty,” she said firmly. “It’s all in the past. Antonio is dead.”
Grabbing a pencil and a blank sheet of paper, she began to doodle. She’d start with something small, silly, then work her way up. Betty focused her gaze on the picture. She’d started drawing at rehab where they’d told her art helped calm the mind. It had worked up to a point. On days like today, where the memories danced at the edge of her consciousness, waiting to cut in, it only distracted her for short periods of time.
“But at least it keeps you from self-harm,” she said, recalling the words of one of her doctors.
True, but on days like today, more than hurting herself, she wanted to drink to oblivion. She could almost taste the alcohol. She remembered with clear clarity the last drink she’d had. Vodka. Straight out of the bottle. The expensive kind, too. It was sweet, dangling on her tongue, burning a path down her esophagus to her stomach where it mingled and exploded with the coke she’d snorted ten minutes earlier. She didn’t recall anything after.
When she woke up, she was in the hospital. Alone. Bruised. Police hovered nearby. Someone had tried to explain the situation. Perhaps, a doctor. She wasn’t sure.
He’s dead. You’re free.
Dead. Dead. Dead. The words rang in her head like a migraine after a night of binge drinking. Freedom? She didn’t want it. She wanted Antonio. He was the only one who could provide for her. The only one who got her. He was her Master. And he was dead.
There was only one solution to it all. She’d asked for a drink. When they ignored her, she started screaming. She tried harming herself to get their attention. She needed a drink. Or coke. Or weed. Anything to make her forget. To make her escape.
The change of texture brought her out of her reverie, and she glanced at the piece of paper in front of her. She’d bored a hole through it. Crumpling it up, she threw it into the wastebasket and glanced at the clock.
At least, she had something to look forward to today other than Antonio’s lingering ghost.
“Maybe it’ll be cathartic.”
The scar on her breast pulsed in mock sympathy.
“Yes, today we part ways, old friend.”
The damn pink puckered line of flesh would—if everything went right—disappear beneath ink and color. Her past mistakes would be buried beneath the wings of a bird taking flight, all etched onto her body by the talented hands of Rayden Williams, tattoo artist extraordinaire. When it came to cover-ups, he was the best there was on this side of the country. She’d had to schedule her appointment months earlier even though she was desperate to see him as soon as possible, but they’d explained that what she wanted would take a few hours of work, and he didn’t have such a large time slot until today. She hadn’t realized the date until it was too late.
Becky stuck a new piece of gum in her mouth, freshening the flavor. She glanced at the binder at the edge of the table, her name neatly printed on the cover. It taunted her as it had done for the past five months.
Almost four years ago, after ages of mindlessly drifting, she’d decided what she wanted to do: become a tattoo artist. She’d taken courses, improved her art, prepared a portfolio and saved enough money to be able to pay for an apprenticeship. She’d started networking, attending a few conferences and events, getting in touch with some of the artists who’d worked on her skin and asking for advice, and then, she’d bumped into Rayden’s online profile. His work had astounded her, spoken to her in a way no other had. It was art brought to life on skin. She’d learned as much as possible about him and had been pleased to discover he’d just opened shop in her city. Then to boot, she’d found out his area of expertise was scar cover-ups.
Right then and there, she’d decided she would apprentice with him. The only issue was he didn’t know yet.
“
But he will in a few hours, and he’s going to say yes,” she murmured. “Even if he hasn’t had any apprentices in the last seven years.”
Chapter Two
Rayden lifted his head from the art piece he was trying to work around. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it filtered into his work space. Sugary sweet with a melodic cadence that appealed to him. The kind of voice that elicited erotic fantasies. Curious, he pushed back his chair and peered into the reception area.
She was a doll. He couldn’t see her face from this angle, but what he saw was enough to make his dick twitch in approval. Dressed in dark blue denim shorts and a red striped halter top, she flaunted a full figure, and though, she wasn’t too tall, the cute peep-toes she wore made her legs appear miles long. His mouth watered, and he forced his gaze upwards again. Her hair was ebony black with electric blue highlights, and she had it tied back into a ponytail, making him wonder how long it really was and how it would feel in his hands. The image of it wrapped around his hand as he plundered into her had his erection growing. The icing on the cake were her tattoos. He could only see a part of them, but he liked what he saw. Traditional red Americana flowers bloomed from her shoulder to elbow, and seamlessly flowed into a greyscale skull and graveyard. She had good taste, and he appreciated that in a woman. He could picture her bent over, legs spread out with a bar, displaying everything to his view. His cock throbbed.
“The art is magnificent, Betty, but don’t be disappointed if Rayden refuses. I’ve been working with him for more than five years, and we’ve had people come in to ask for an apprenticeship before. He’s always refused,” Vivienne, his receptionist said.
Rayden took a step back and focused on the woman’s conversation. He glanced between them and realized they had been poring over a book laid out on the counter.
“I understand,” Betty said. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll try anyway.”
Vivienne snapped the book shut and handed it to Betty.
“You do you, girl,” Vivienne said. “In any case, you had an appointment for a tattoo, and I assume you want it.”
“I most certainly do. That’s one thing I want to leave with today.”
“Well, give me a minute. I’ll let Rayden know you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
Rayden scrambled back inside and practically threw himself back into his chair. He combed back his hair and picked up a pencil. His receptionist’s sneakers squeaked on the floor.
“Rayden,” she said. “Your six o’clock appointment is here.”
“What does she want tattooed?” he asked without looking up, aiming to appear nonchalant.
“A bird. It’s an interesting design, to say the least.”
Rayden glanced at Vivienne. She never gave anyone any praise.
“So it’s good.”
Vivienne sighed dramatically.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s the kind of design I would get.”
Rayden let out a low whistle.
“She must be really good.”
Vivienne grinned.
“Who told you it was a woman?”
“Didn’t you?”
She shook her head, laughing.
“Nope, and you’re holding your pencil upside down.”
Rayden cursed.
“All right. You caught me. Her voice—”
“The sultry, sexy kind you want to hear whispered in your ear when you’re in bed,” Vivienne said.
“Yeah.”
They stared at each other for a moment, silent communication passing between them. It was the reason he’d hired Vivienne. From the moment she’d walked in for the interview, they’d clicked. The spiky green haired woman knew what he needed even when he was unsure.
“I saw you looking at a book.”
Vivienne grinned.
“Busybody. She showed me her art. As so many others before her, she wants an apprenticeship.”
“You think she’s good, though.”
“I do.”
“Worth spending my time on?”
She shrugged. “That’s for you to decide, boss. Will you be able to keep it in your pants for at least a year?”
Fuck. Vivienne knew him too well. Rayden leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“Anything else I need to know?”
“She wants the tattoo on her right breast, over scar tissue.”
“Mastectomy?”
“No, she’s got her breast. She said it was from an accident eight years ago. Doesn’t hurt and the skin is healed, but I’d check if I were you.”
Rayden pursed his lips. How was it possible for him to be in this conundrum in less than ten minutes? And how could he be so uncertain? He hadn’t had an apprentice in years, and in all honesty, he didn’t have the time nor the desire to act as a teacher. Unless, it was in bed. In those cases, he’d be more than happy to teach any woman what he liked. All right, there wasn’t really much of a question here, was there? He would give Betty her tattoo and send her on her way.
“Well, bring her in here.”
Vivienne turned on her heels and went to fetch his customer. It was all she was, a customer. Then why was he combing back his hair as if he were about to embark on a first date? He stood up and organized the stacks of papers on his desk. Footsteps. Vivienne cleared her throat.
“Rayden.”
He turned.
He was royally fucked. If he’d liked her earlier, now that he was getting a complete picture of her, his whole body had gone into overdrive. There was nothing he didn’t like about Betty. From the intense blue eyes to the impressive rack, down to her belly, across her hips and over her legs. He wanted her. All of her. On her back, on her knees, below and over him.
“Rayden, this is Betty. She’s your six o’ clock appointment,” Vivienne introduced Betty and gave him a pointed glance. She placed her hand beneath her chin, a gesture for him to close his mouth. He snapped it shut, and she left, smirking.
“Nice to meet you, Betty,” Rayden said, offering his hand.
She took a step forward, and placed her hand into his. Her gaze dropped and lifted, and a shy smile tilted her lips. Her grip, however, was surprisingly strong, and he realized her coyness was a façade. He stood in front of a woman who knew what she wanted and was set out to get it. Rayden grinned. He enjoyed a woman who had guts. It made the chase all the more exciting.
“A pleasure to meet you, Rayden,” she said.
Dear Lord, the way she said his name made him want to hear it again and again, possibly forever. Even more so if she was moaning it in the throes of passion.
“Like wise, Betty.” Baby doll. The nickname tickled his tongue, and he swallowed hard to keep from saying it.
“I’m stoked to be here. I’ve been following you online,” she said.
“Have you?” He quirked an eyebrow.
“Your work, that is.”
“Of course. I can see you have some experience with ink.”
Her smile bloomed, her ruby lips spreading and her rosy cheeks brightening.
“I do. I’m kind of hoping to become a tattooist myself.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you’ve brought your little book there?”
She nodded, clutching the blue binder more tightly, unable to hide the slight tremble of her limbs. Warmth washed over him, and something in his chest fluttered. She was afraid. Of him, his rejection, or both, he didn’t know, but it was time to find out.
“Well, why don’t you have a seat, Betty?” He patted the empty spot at his side next to the computer. “Vivienne says you have brought a design.”
“Yes, I have it on paper and on a pen drive. I designed it myself.”
She handed him the USB, and he inserted it into the computer.
“That one,” she said. “Breast Bird.”
“Original name.” He chuckled.
She didn’t comment, no doubt too nervous at this point to say much. The first time he’d shown anyone h
is art he’d also been scared shitless. The file loaded and opened. His eyes widened. The shading, the contours, the bird had a vividness to it he wasn’t sure he’d be able to reproduce in ink. Vivienne was right. Betty was talented.
“You want that on your breast?” he asked, still trying to take in the detail of the picture and envision it on flesh.
“Yes.” Her answer was adamant, and he glanced at her. “To cover a scar,” she said softly. “It will never completely disappear, but the tattoo could blend with it, become one and make me forget how it happened. I know if anyone can do it, you can.”
Ray stared at her, toying with the piercing on his bottom lip. Questions he shouldn’t have crowded his mind. What had happened? Why did she regret it so badly? Why would she never be able to forget?
“Can I see more of your designs?” he asked instead.
She handed him the blue binder. “Any advice you have, I mean, to be honest—”
He lifted his hand, and she immediately lapsed into silence. He ignored the tingling on the nape of his neck, which always showed up when a woman was even mildly submissive.
“Give me a second,” he murmured, thumbing through the pages and taking in her art.
She’d done a bit of everything. From traditional hearts and pawprints to intricate tribals. Her traditional Americana was good, but her surrealism was out of this world. Fuck his libido. He couldn’t let an artist like her go to waste.
“Do you want to apprentice for me?”
Chapter Three
Betty blinked. Had Rayden Williams just asked her if she wanted to apprentice for him?
“What?” she whispered cautiously, uncertain if she’d lapsed into a daydream or this was actually happening. “Are you seriously asking me?”
He nodded. “This was part of the reason why you’d come, wasn’t it?”
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