A fleeting, defiant expression moved across her features so fast I almost missed it.
“No, sir. I wasn’t lying. We’re on the way to Rosie’s right now,” she said with a bite in her words.
Kitten clearly didn’t like being touched.
I let go of her jaw, sliding my fingers down her neck ever so slightly. As I did, she dropped her head to a subservient position, but I watched as goosebumps blossomed across her body. Was her delicate skin sensitive along the column of her neck?
“Then I will reboot the scanner, and I will bring it to you tonight. So you don’t have to sit here and wait, of course.” I said, watching as she continued chewing her lip, thinking about how to respond. “Unless you want to sit here and wait. I’d be more than happy to have some company. This rotation is sooooo boring. You can sit on my lap while we wait for it to reboot,” I offered, patting my thigh and grinning widely.
“No, sir, that’s okay! We have to set up for our set!” she blurted out, panic threading through her voice.
She was desperate to get away, clearly, but I wasn’t ready to let her go just yet. I enjoyed watching her squirm, flushed and fidgeting, all that pale skin turning red under my gaze.
“Billy says your band is quite good. The band at The Rusty Tap always sucks. Plus, their lead singer has a dick, and I prefer pretty women,” I said, winking at her. She gasped again. I liked this game. “I’ll scan your ID after you finish your set. Don’t think about taking off until I scan it! Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I won't.”
She was still fiddling with the stupid string.
I wanted her big blue eyes on me though.
I pulled my knife from the holster on my thigh and in one smooth motion grabbed the hem of her shirt and sliced the long frayed string off. That seemed to do the trick. I had her full attention. Wide blue eyes, framed by soft lashes and a sharp flick of eyeliner, found mine. Her lips parted in an “O” as she let out that gasp I’d already come to like far too much.
“You’re free to leave, Rowan,” I said, winking again and wiggling the string in front of her before tucking it into the front pocket of my tactical vest.
Quickly as she could, as though I might change my mind, she turned and slipped back into the car. I watched as she took a deep breath, tension draining from her, and leaned against the guy in the backseat, burying her cheek in his chest.
Wait a second!
Who the fuck is he?!
Ishethe boyfriend she was talking about?
A surge of jealousy coursed through me, and I was about to open the door and tear her out of the car, but the engine turned over and the tires slowly started moving down the road as No-Name pushed the barricade aside.
I pulled out my phone and texted Talon.
Change of plans. Meet me at Rosie’s Bar tonight.
Chapter 4: Talon
My tattoo artist held the mirror in front of me so that I could check out the recent progress on my back. I turned to see my reflection between two mirrors, the one behind me and the one he was holding.
An enormous snake curled across my lower back, twisted and bleeding as the hawk spanning my upper back held the snake in its claws. They were two predators competing for dominance over one another.
I was well aware of the irony of my chosen artwork.
Our session today was long. We were blacking out the background of the elaborate backpiece and covering some of the old tattoos that crept into my hairline. My skin was fairly pale, and now that the artist had tattooed so much of it with solid black ink, I enjoyed how it contrasted so boldly. I stretchedmy limbs and back, twisting from side to side, and cracked my knuckles. I was sore from lying on my stomach for so long.
My body was more ink than not, tattoos covering my throat, hands, knuckles, torso, arms, and legs. I even had my ass tattooed. That had hurt, but who was I kidding? I enjoyed the pain.
I also enjoyed inflicting pain. In fact, all pain, inflicted or felt, had a way of making me horny. I loved the feeling of getting tattooed, the relentless scrape of so many little needles going in and out of my skin as the machine vibrated, and little beads of blood and ink seeped to the surface.
I was normally calm and calculated, but my recent long and particularly painful tattoo session had me buzzing, and my careful demeanor was thinner than usual. The mask was slipping, and the thing inside me was dying to get out. I stamped down the feeling, telling it, “Soon, be patient.”
The artist spread Vaseline across the freshly tattooed areas of my back and neck. He then wrapped the skin in a layer of Saran Wrap. I was all too familiar with the aftercare process for new ink, so he didn’t bother with any of that.
Unfolding and pulling a simple black T-shirt over my head, I dressed quickly before booking my next appointment, paying for the session, and tipping the artist generously for a job well done. His efficiency, professionalism, and quiet demeanor impressed me.
