Inked. Anne Marsh

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      “You better tell me what you want. Not sure the front desk got the memo.” Gia’s a sweetheart but she’s not the most organized person. Probably should get around to firing her but that would require finding a new receptionist. Plus, she’s got a great smile and never gives me shit. Wouldn’t be easy for her to find another job, either, since she’s got a two-year-old and never-ending day care issues.

      “A tattoo.” She drums the pretty nails that match her toes, foot tapping like she’s Queen of Sheba. I’d like to say that imperiousness makes her not my type, but who am I kidding? I fuck anyone who smiles my way. I don’t like alone time, commitments or longevity.

      “Put my ink right here.” She reaches around, pointing to the top of her ass.

      I grab my sketchpad from my rolling table. “You got a design in mind? Special occasion to commemorate?”

      I ask more to keep her talking. Women like her—ironed, pressed and slumming in East Las Vegas—usually request rainbows or flowers. They demand teeny, tiny piece-of-crap tattoos rather than living large. Sometimes, they ask for the name of a lover or a boyfriend. Dead people and dead relationships are also popular—because if you’re not celebrating the hell out of the living, you’re mourning their loss. Not that I have a problem tattooing Property Of on a woman’s ass. Fuck no. The problem comes when she busts back in a week or a month later, demanding I cover the words up with “something pretty.” There’s nothing pretty about sex when it’s mistaken for love, and love is as likely as a unicorn and a dodo bird getting it on.

      “The douche,” Blondie slurs.

      Awesome. Tonight we’re celebrating a death and the douchebag who’s blown his chance fatally.

      I drop onto my rolling chair, scooting closer. While Blondie smells as if she’s rolled around in a gigantic strawberry margarita, my face almost brushes my girl’s shoulder before I catch a hint of scent from her. Something subtle and discreet, the kind of thing the club girls try on at Macy’s because no way can they afford it for real. Beauty’s skin smells like vanilla and coconut, a warm, sweet invitation to eat her for dessert.

      Sitting behind her on my stool, I glimpse her face in the storefront window. I deliberately brush my shoulder against hers as I offer her my hand. “Vik. Pleased to meet you, Harper.”

      My hands are large, battered and scarred, the knuckles inked with Cyrillic symbols until there’s not an inch of bare skin. I was born here, but my old man came over from Russia when he was twenty. He pulled plenty of shit before and after he patched into his club, and he made a few introductions on my behalf after my Navy stint. Those connections left a mark.

      “So you wanna give me more words about what you want?”

      “Not flowers and hearts,” she says decisively. “Fuck that shit. Today’s been a bad day.”

      “Tell Doctor Vik all about it,” I purr.

      “I came home from work,” she says. “Seems like no big deal, right? Kick off my heels, heat something up, fall into the tub and then bed.”

      The barest hint of a liquid slur to her words warns me she’s not quite sober. I nod, filling in the blanks. Another woman in her bed, a we-need-to-talk moment, a fight. A, B, C, or D—all of the above. Beauty doesn’t seem like a screamer, but she also doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who gets ink. I grab the Sharpie from my back pocket and uncap it.

      “He’d kicked me out.”

      He being the dead-to-her douchebag.

      “Fucker,” I say agreeably, tucking her ponytail over her shoulder.

      “Absolutely,” she agrees. “He had a service pack up my stuff and leave it in the garage for me. I didn’t even get to pick and choose which parts of our life I kept. He pointed and strangers put my pieces in boxes. He kept my cat.”

      “I could go over there and kick his ass. Pull a little repo action for you.”

      A smile ghosts over her mouth. “You have no idea how tempting that is.”

      “Offer stands.” When I smooth my hand over her skin, she jumps. “Touching you is part of my job, babe. Your job is to tell me what you want.”

      In bed, out of bed, up against the wall—I’m at her command.

      “Give me something to celebrate getting free of him even if it wasn’t on my terms,” she demands.

      “How much have you had to drink tonight, sweetheart?”

      Her brow puckers as she holds her hands out in front of her. She’s wearing a bracelet, a pretty little toy with a heart and key on it. Had that fucker given it to her or had she bought it for herself? “Four. No—five drinks.”

      “You trust me?”

      “Absolutely not,” she says, proving she’s as smart as she looks. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

      “Firebird.” I drag the Sharpie over her skin, bringing to life the image I see in my head. Maybe she won’t appreciate wearing a Russian fairy tale on her skin, but she’s not timid; and bold black, orange and red lines tracing the equally strong lines of her back feel right.

      “You’re a man of few words, Vik.” Her lashes drift down as she exhales.

      “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

      She shakes her head. “Then don’t bore me.”

      “Bitch,” I say tenderly. “Firebird’s a thief and hard to catch. She almost gets busted stealing the king’s apples when the king sets his sons to catch whoever’s been trespassing on his shit. Ivan gets a hand on her, but all he’s left with is a single feather. She leaves and he spends fucking forever chasing after her.”

      “That’s the entire story?” She yawns, turning her face into the leather.

      “Only part I’m inking here. Yeah?”

      “Okay.”

      I embrace the familiar adrenaline rush as I draw on her lower back, sketching the outline of a bird, wings outstretched to take flight to freedom. Her tail curls down, teasing, flirting, broadcasting a fuck you to the man she’s leaving behind in the king’s orchard. This is my skin, my piece of her to ink, to own, to give back to her filled up with the story she’s shared with me. Right now, I own her and she’s mine. She relaxes into my touch, my calloused fingers scraping gently, carefully over her skin, preparing her. Fuck playing by the rules.

      I grab my needle and brush my mouth over her ear. “This is gonna hurt so good.”

       CHAPTER TWO

      Harper

      VIK DOESN’T REMEMBER ME.

      The hottest man I’ve ever touched—and thank You, Jesus, I’ve touched this man—introduces himself as if I’m a stranger. As if he’s СКАЧАТЬ