Twisted ink, p.1
Twisted Ink, page 1
twisted ink
Table of Contents
Title Page
Twisted Ink
Secrets and Sins
Guarding Her Body
Bachelor Auction
Lick
WAGS
The Sweetest Taboo
Blackout Billionaires
Billionaires of Boston
Rose Bend
Fairy Tales Unleashed
twisted ink | Naima Simone
Acknowledgments
Other Titles by Naima Simone
Secrets and Sins
Gabriel
Malachim
Raphael
Chayot
Guarding Her Body
Witness to Passion
Killer Curves
Bachelor Auction
Beauty and the Bachelor
The Millionaire Makeover
The Bachelor’s Promise
A Millionaire at Midnight
Lick
Only for a Night
Only for Your Touch
Only for You
WAGS
Scoring with the Wrong Twin
Scoring Off the Field
Scoring the Player’s Baby
The Sweetest Taboo
Sin and Ink
Passion and Ink
Blackout Billionaires
The Billionaire’s Bargain
Black Tie Billionaire
Blame It on the Billionaire
Ruthless Pride
Trust Fund Fiancé
Billionaires of Boston
Vows in Name Only
Secrets of a One Night Stand
The Perfect Fake Date
Back in the Texan’s Bed
Broody Brit
Rose Bend
Slow Dance at Rose Bend
The Road to Rose Bend
A Kiss to Remember
Christmas in Rose Bend
The Love List
With Love from Rose Bend
Fairy Tales Unleashed
Bargain with the Beast
A Perfect Fit
Grading Curves
Sweet Surrender
Flirting with Sin
twisted ink
Naima Simone
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2022 by Naima Simone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by CrownDesigns
Edited by Fedora Chen
Printed in the United States of America
To Gary. 143.
To Connie Marie Butts. I will miss you forever and will love you even longer.
Chapter One
Eurydice
Many women have fallen in love with the wrong men. I’m not the first. Hell, history is full of them.
Helen of Troy.
Anne Boleyn.
Bonnie Parker.
Elizabeth Kendall.
Oh, I’m far from alone. Now, I didn’t fall for one of America’s most notorious serial killers but still... Being in love with my mother’s ex-boyfriend has doom written all over it.
Eat your heart out, Juliet Capulet.
I force a smile to my lips and hope it at least appears real as my client rumbles in pleasure, studying the new art covering his left pectoral. It’s damn good, and I’m usually my harshest critic.
The Argo, a strong ship built with the help of the gods, sailed by Jason and the Argonauts in Greek mythology. Rolling waves lift the dark brown vessel up even as oars dip into the water, steering it back toward Iolcus with the Golden Fleece proudly draped across its bow.
Yeah, I have a thing for Greek mythology. Considering my name, maybe that fascination was coded in my DNA. Either way, it’s now those pieces, along with my black and gray portraits, that I’m most known for.
Like this one.
“This is fucking amazing.” The older, grizzled guy, who could’ve ridden into small town Wellington, New Hampshire, directly from the famous Sturgis motorcycle rally, rasped the praise, awe thickening his voice.
This time, my smile is a little more real. It’s more than seeing my art—art that took seed and germinated in my head—on someone’s skin. It’s finding that perfect piece for someone. It’s seeing their pleasure, their joy in having it permanently inked on their body. It’s a...connection. Knowing that in a way, unassuming, overlooked Eurydice Ellis, daughter of the town drunk and sister to the town fuck up, is immortalized in beauty.
Most intoxicating of all?
Slivers of me, of my soul—because that’s what my art is for me—travel beyond the town limits of Wellington. Here, I’ll only ever be Desiree Ellis’s daughter and Jai’s sister. Here, it’s only a matter of time before I follow in either or both of their footsteps.
But with my clients...with my ink on their skin, I can be anyone and anything.
I fly.
Even now I’m wondering where Wyatt, the biker who doesn’t speak much but wears a thousand stories in the lines and grooves in his face, in the wind-weathered skin, the nicks and scars on his chest and arms, will head out. What places we’ll travel together. The people I’ll meet living vicariously through him...
A dreamer. That’s what Jericho calls me. And not with the frustrated exasperation of my mother or my brother’s sneer. When he says it, there’s affection, as if encouraging me not to change.
But at seventeen and twenty, maybe being a dreamer wasn’t a bad thing. At twenty-four, though, I can’t afford to remain in a world where I imagine things might be different.
Where we might be different.
If life here in Wellington has taught me anything, it’s that fairy tales are for books in the public library, not for kids south of the train tracks.
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it,” I say and nod to the black tattoo chair that looks more like an OBGYN exam table. Sans stirrups. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll wrap it up and get you out of here.”
“You got it, lil’ bit.” He moves his bulk back over to the chair and settles on the cushioned seat. With most people, the moniker would send a flash of irritation spiking through me. At five-foot-two, height-challenged jokes get old. Real fucking quick. But from Wyatt’s towering height that ascends way over six feet, and the mass of muscle packed into his wall of shoulders and the barrel of his chest, damn near everyone would be “lil’ bits.” “Jericho told me you were one of his best artists. But damn.” He shakes his head, his gaze still glued to the mirror across from him. “I’ll be coming back through here in a couple of months. Schedule me in for another piece?”
“I’ll give you my card. Just give me a call,” I murmur, turning and reaching for the Saniderm wrap.
It’s not a lie; it’s an evasion. And a good one.
“Careful. I could take that to mean you didn’t believe me about how good my girl is.”
The deep rumble of a voice rolls through my cubicle, reminding me of thunder tumbling across a dark, velvet sky. I force back an electrified shiver, even as part of me longs to curl up under that growl and let it wrap around me. By sheer will, I keep my attention focused on the task of covering Wyatt’s tattoo with the Saniderm instead of turning to look at Jericho Fox.
Jericho.
My employer.
My mentor.
The only father figure I’ve ever known.
My mother’s ex-man.
My dirty secret and guilty shame.
The only man I’ve loved.
If I believed in fairy tales, my life wouldn’t be the pretty Disney versions. Mine would be the twisted, darker Grimm stories.
Just as I smooth down the last piece of wrap and snap off my gloves, a heavy arm, tatted from shoulder to fingertips, circles my shoulders and squeezes. The scent of cloves and Rosarios, his favorite hand-rolled Dominican cigars, envelopes me in a fragrant embrace that I quietly inhale and hold in my lungs. Savor.
It’s the only thing of him I’ll ever have inside my body.
“Did I imply that?” Wyatt smirks. “Yeah, I doubted it. Sorry, lil’ bit. No offense. I’ll make up for that bullshit in my tip.”
“No offense taken—if the tip’s big enough.” I arch an eyebrow, sliding out from under Jericho’s arm on the pretense of tossing the gloves in the trash can and replacing the Saniderm back on my station.
His rough burst of laughter seems to rattle in his cavernous chest then spill out into the cubicle.
“I got you.” He shifts off the chair and stretches to his full, impressive height. “Thanks again, and I’ll talk to you in a few weeks.”
“Look forward to it.”
“C’mon,” Jericho says. “I’ll walk you to the front. How long are you in town?”
“A few days. We need to get together...”
Only as the two men head toward the cubicle opening and momentarily pause there do I allow myself to glance at them. Well, him.
Jericho.
It’s safer this way. For me. He’s like an eclipse. Captivating, a rarity, but staring directly at him will burn and cause irreparable damage. But here, I can pretend that all my focus, my attention isn’t consumed by him.
I’ve become a consummate actress through the years.
My role is Indifferent Employe e, my costume an aloof mask of apathy. But inside?
Inside I’m the Desperate Woman, and I have no mask, nothing to hide behind. My hunger for a man that’s completely taboo and forbidden to me is naked and right there for anyone to see.
I turn from them and start to strip the tattoo chair of the Saniderm I’d wrapped around the headrest and upper back cushions. But that’s just visual geography, a futile attempt at diversion. My mind insists on reminding me of what my body aches for, who my blood thrums for.
Closing my eyes, I momentarily still, allowing his dark, quiet thunderous voice to stroke over my skin like an electrified breeze. That’s how I imagine his touch would be—charged heat. Razing me to ash even as it quickens me to life.
If I had to cast Jericho in Greek mythology, I’d tattoo him as Hephaestus, god of fire and blacksmiths, metal and artists. He’s earthy, rough, elemental. There’s nothing classically handsome about him—no, he’s too big, too muscled, his facial features too bold, strong, and severe for “handsome” or “pretty.” But God... He’s compelling. He’s stunning. Thick eyebrows emphasize deep set, light green eyes. Cheekbones, a nose and jaw that could’ve been forged from the metal the god is known for bending and shaping. A wide, full, hard mouth that inspires lust and love, sin and worship, promises and threats. And I want them all. Want him to unleash them all on me.
With a thick beard, long caramel and gold-streaked shoulder-length hair that he usually binds in a bun at the back of his head and a tall, powerful frame, he’s power and strength wrapped in mortal flesh. Hands damn near twice the size of mine and nicked with scars on the back should be intimidating but experience has shown me they’re capable of tremendous gentleness. They’re the creator of art so beautiful, I could weep.
It’s unnatural, this need that crawls through me like a virus that’s resistant to any cure or inoculation. Jericho has been in my life since I was sixteen and my mother brought him home, introducing him to me and Jai as the new man in her life. He wasn’t the first man she dated and damn sure wasn’t the last after they broke up a year later, but he was the only one to take an interest in me as something other than a possible plaything when my mother either wasn’t around or too drunk to give a fuck. Even after he ended things with Mom, he recognized my love for drawing when no one else ever had, encouraged it and took me on as an apprentice in his tattoo shop. He actually cared about Jai and me. Still does.
So yeah, that makes me twisted, maybe damaged to take his paternal-like affection and corrupt it into something dark, filthy.
Ravenous.
Maybe I truly am my mother’s daughter.
“Hey, Eurydice.” His voice coiled around my name is an unfair assault.
“Yeah,” I say, not bothering to glance up but continue with cleaning my chair and space.
“When you finish up here, meet me in the back. I got something to talk over with you.”
“Okay.”
His stare settles on my back like a sun-warmed weight. I fight not to shiver under its touch. It’s sad that I know the intimate fingerprint of his gaze. But there’s nothing about him I’m not familiar with. And familiar just sounds a helluva lot better than obsessed.
After a moment, he and Wyatt move away from my cubicle, and I release the breath that had been burning my lungs. The air that seemed to disappear, sucked into the vortex of him, rushes back into my space, and I can breathe.
And think.
Frowning, I spray and wipe down the chair. What does he want to talk to me about? Honestly, it could be anything. My mother and brother. Returning to college and obtaining my bachelor’s degree. Becoming more social and letting my guard down. Which never fails to irritate me. He, of all people, should know how difficult it is for me to let people in, to trust. With a family like mine, hell, it’s a miracle I’m not locked up in a cabin on an isolated island with only wildlife for company. But Nicole, Dean, Hero, and Shawn? The shop receptionist and other tattoo artists are more like my family than my own.
Sighing, I shake my head. There’s no use in worrying about it. He’s going to have his say and I’m going to do what I want—which is either argue or nod and ignore his advice. That’s our relationship. He takes his role of mentor seriously and gets in my shit, and I—sometimes with the help of a few four-letter words—escort him out of it.
Minutes later, I finish cleaning up and storing my ink and tattoo machine. A knotted snarl of anticipation, anxiety, and excitement tangles in my stomach as I move out of my cubicle and head toward the hallway that leads toward the back of the shop and Jericho’s office.
My cell vibrates against my ass, and I pause, removing it. One glance at the 310 area code clues me in to who sent the text message, and my grip on the phone tightens. Nerves flutter against my belly and I stare at the notification, my thumb hovering over the bar that will open up the text.
“So you really think he’s going to propose tonight?” Nicole Miller’s voice carries from the breakroom directly across from me.
When Shayla Grant, Jericho’s girlfriend, answers, I don’t need elaboration on the “he” Twisted Ink’s receptionist is referring to.
“I don’t think, I know,” the other woman says.
And like the worse kind of masochist, I inch over a step just in time to catch Shayla flipping her fall of sleek, thick black hair over her slender shoulder, wearing a cat-ate-the-whole-damn-aria-of-canaries smile. She’s beautiful, as have been all the women Jericho has dated through the years. In an uptight college town like Wellington, you’d think the big, inked-to-hell-and-back tattoo shop owner would frighten most of the women off. Or they’d just take him for a little test run as their joy ride on the wild side before settling down with their button down, khaki wearing, church-two-times-a-week men.
But no.
Jericho’s not only a Wellington success story, he’s a gentleman. And women, of all ages—seriously, even crotchety Mrs. Grimes at the Stop ’n’ Shop blushes when he comes through her line—adore him. Since I’m secretly one of them, I get the appeal. Yes, he’s gorgeous, has manners that would shame a Southern gentleman into deportment classes and yet, tempts a person into believing they can tame the wildness that damn near hums beneath the surface of his inked, taut, golden skin. It’s more. He’s more.
A protector. A defender. A safe port in the most vicious of storms.
That’s who he is.
Oh, and not mine. Never mine.
That’s also who he is. It’s probably the most important thing about him.
“Okay.” Nicole crosses her arms, tilting her head. “How do you know? Not that I’m doubting you, Shay, but I’ve been working here for four years and know Jericho pretty well. And not once has he come close to popping the question to any woman.”
“None of them have been me,” Shayla says in a tone that has me struggling not to roll my eyes.
Nicole doesn’t even fight that battle. I’m almost concerned for her as one of my mother’s few pieces of advice echo in my head. Careful they don’t stay that way. I swallow back a snort as Nicole cups her hand and curls her fingers in a “gimme” motion.
“Just the facts, ma’am.”
Shayla huffs out a sigh and reaches into her purse, removing a slip of white paper. Thrusting it toward Nicole, she lowers her voice—awesome of her to consider who might be passing by and listening now—but not enough that I can’t hear.
Even over the thunder of my pulse in my ears.
“I found this in his bedside dresser,” Shayla practically purrs. “Will that do as facts?”
Nicole’s eyes widen as she scans the paper, her bright red-painted lips popping open. “Are you shitting me?” she whisper-yells. “A diamond ring? Is this seriously a receipt for an engagement ring?”
I don’t stay in that doorway to hear Shayla’s reply. Not that I could anyway. No, the roaring has risen to deafening levels and my pounding heart adds a bass rhythm that successfully drowns out everything but my silent voice screaming above the madness.
