by Nicole James
Brothers Ink. His shop. Liam O’Rourke.
Velvet remembered him. How could she forget?
She had decided to work for her brother, even though it put her back in her family’s clutches, because she’d be near Liam. Try as she may, now that she’d seen him in LA, she couldn’t stay away. She had become obsessed. She’d walked by the place at least once a week since she’d come back.
Liam had made her want more—to remember how she was before she’d become so jaded.
She stared at the storefront window, longing for the missed opportunity and what she could never have. They’d spent one incredible night together in LA. The sex had been great, but that wasn’t the first time his hands had run over her skin. She remembered the first time he’d put his hands on her and how sweet he’d seemed, and then later how devastated he’d been.
Everything about that day was burned into her brain—the good and the bad…
The bell above the door tinkled as Velvet entered the shop—the one her mother and brother had picked out. They had said it was ripe for the picking. It was a new shop, just getting started in the business and therefore its reputation was on shaky ground. Her mother said they would pay dearly to protect that fledgling reputation, making them the perfect mark.
Velvet’s eyes strayed nervously to the art on the wall. Photos of tattoos they had done and drawings of art they could do stretched from the plate glass window to the counter. Their work was good—better than most shops her mother and brother sent her to.
Boots scuffed across the wooden floor, and she turned. Her mouth parted at the man who moved behind the reception counter.
He was tall, muscular, and gruff looking, with brows that slashed deep over brown eyes. Ink ran up both arms, disappearing into the flannel shirt he wore with the sleeves cut off.
Peeking out from the open plackets of his shirt were words scrawled in ink across his collarbone. I can’t change the past and I can’t predict the future.
Wasn’t that the truth?
“Can I help you?” he asked in a voice so low it rumbled. The question drew her eyes from his skin.
“I want a tattoo, but I don’t have an appointment.”
His eyes roved over her body slowly before returning to her face. “You gotta be eighteen to get ink, sweetheart.”
“I am,” she lied.
His brow lifted. “You got some ID?”
She reached in her bag and took out her wallet. Taking out the fake ID, she passed it to the man.
His gaze shifted from it to her. Apparently satisfied, he held it out. “You know what you want?”
She nodded.
He glanced at the clock. “I’ve got some time before my next appointment. If it’s not too involved, I could probably knock it out.”
She pulled a piece of folded paper from her pocket. It wasn’t what her mother told her to get, but she didn’t care. This one time she was getting what she wanted.
She handed it across the counter to him.
His eyes met hers as he took it. He glanced down and nodded. “Okay. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He grabbed a clipboard from under the counter and slid it toward her. There was a release form clipped to it. He held out a pen and pointed to several areas. “Read this and initial each section, then sign the bottom.”
She did as he asked, feeling his eyes on her the whole time. She pretended to read each section and scribbled her initials and then her name at the bottom. When she held it out to him, their eyes met, and she felt some emotion zing through her. It affected her so much that she dropped her gaze and sucked her lips into her mouth.
The clipboard slipped from her hand as he took it, and she glanced up. Just a quick dart of her eyes, but she caught the motion as he jerked his head. “Come on back to my station.”
Following him around the corner, she took in the two stations on each side of the narrow shop. He stopped at the first one on the left and patted his hand on the bottom of the adjustable chair. “Have a seat, sweetheart.”
As she did, he studied the scrap of paper. It was a hand drawn sketch of a bunch of wildflowers and a butterfly.
“Where did you want this?”
She lifted her arm and pointed at the tender flesh on the inside of her bicep.
“Okay. Did you want it with some color?”
She bit her lip indecisively. “Umm….”
He cocked his head. “You mind if I suggest something to you?”
“No.”
“Let me sketch something out.” He turned to the low counter under a mirror on the wall and began drawing, his big hand moving with quick, strong sweeps. Everything about the way he mastered the pen in his hand indicated he was a man confident in his abilities. She began to relax. A few moments later he twisted back and turned the paper to face her. “How about this?”
It was like the design she’d given him but a hundred times better. She smiled. “Yes. Do that. I love it.”
“You want color?”
She shook her head.
“It’s a simple design. I can draw it freehand, unless you want me to take the time to do up a transfer.”
She met his warm brown eyes. His appearance was intimidating, but the look in his eyes was soft, almost tender.
“You’ll do a good job? You won’t mess it up? This tattoo…it’s important to me.”
“I won’t mess it up.”
“You promise?”
He made an X over his heart. “Cross my heart.”
She found that endearing, as was his smile, and she knew she could trust him to do this tattoo with all the care as if it were a major piece that cost hundreds of dollars. “Okay.”
“How big do you want it?”
She gestured toward the paper. “That size.”
He held it against her skin. “Like this?”
She glanced down and shook her head. “I want it running vertically.”
He turned the paper. “This way?”
“Yes, right there.”
He pulled it away, and as he snapped on some gloves, his eyes met hers. “This your first tattoo, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” she murmured the lie, knowing her other tattoos were well covered.
He cleaned the area and then held the paper back up. “Here, right?”
She nodded, and he made a couple of marks on her skin to make sure he got it exactly where she wanted it, then set the paper on his work tray.
“How’s your pain threshold?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Then why do you look so nervous?” When she didn’t reply, he patted her knee. “Don’t worry. This shouldn’t be too bad.”
When he was finished and had cleaned the area, he held a mirror up for her to see the ink marked into her skin.
He hadn’t lied. The tattoo hadn’t been bad at all. He’d treated her gently, joking with her and keeping her talking to distract from the discomfort. As she’d watched him work, she’d soon realized she was in skilled hands.
She couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at her mouth as she examined his work.
“Are you happy with it?”
She looked up to see his eyes on her and could tell he was sincere in his question. He truly wanted her to be pleased with the work he’d done. “Yes. It’s perfect. I love it.”
“Good, darlin’. Glad to hear it.” He gave her a cocky grin, took the mirror from her, and quickly salved and bandaged her arm. When he was through, he pulled his gloves off with a snap, tossed them in the trash, and held his hand out to help her down.
She slipped her hand into his warm palm. He’d touched her plenty in the process of tattooing her, but there was something intimate about holding a man’s hand. The feel of hers in his much larger one, the way his closed around her fingers, how he lingered a bit longer than necessary before almost reluctantly dropping away as he gazed down at her from his towering height.
He settled his palm on the small of her back as he guided her back to the front, making her feel pro
tected, as crazy as that sounded.
Unbidden, the thought floated through her mind of what it would be like to have a man like him someday.
Now that the work was done, the high from getting the tattoo was beginning to wear off and the fear of what was to come when her mother saw it took hold. And even worse… the humiliation she would endure when her mother dragged her back in here and pretended to be outraged that this shop had “put a hideous tattoo” on her underaged daughter.
It was a scam her mother had used over and over since the time Velvet had come home with her first ink. Her mother had dragged her to the shop and berated the owner, threatening to sue him for every penny he had. After all, everyone knew gypsy girls didn’t get tattoos, and especially not of English boy’s names. It was an affront that had infuriated her mother. That is, until the man had offered her five hundred dollars to sign the consent form and go away. Her mother had signed and left with the cash in hand, but she’d done so with a new plan in mind, a new way for the family to make money. A new con, and it was one that would make them thousands.
Suddenly her daughter’s marketability on the marriage front took a backseat to her greed. She no longer cared that her daughter’s skin would be tattooed, as long as there was a payoff in it for her.
Velvet nodded politely as Liam went over after care instructions with her and handed her a printout with it all spelled out. She’d heard them enough times in the last few months.
She paid and glanced at him one last time as he stood there with his hands on the counter, his gorgeous arms on display and a smile on his face.
She took a moment to take in that warm expression, because she wouldn’t see it again when she returned later, her mother hauling her in by her arm to play out their con.
As Velvet stood on the sidewalk and stared at the shop across the street, she knew how special that memory was to her, every moment crystal clear.
Velvet had had a secret crush on Liam ever since, and she’d felt incredibly guilty over what happened.
Over the years, she had all the other tattoos covered with better, beautiful ink, trying to erase the reminders from her skin, but try as she might, and as stunning as her new ink was, she could never erase the guilt and shame she still carried. She’d covered every tattoo; that is, all but one—all but his. She could never bring herself to have Liam’s covered over. He’d been the only one to show her any care. And even when her mother’s scam was apparent, Liam had seen the shame on Velvet’s face. He’d recognized that her mother was using her.
She’d had tears in her eyes when she’d whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He wanted to have her mother brought up on charges, but his brother, Jameson, apparently knew what kind of people he was dealing with. “It’d be a waste of time, Liam. They’ll be gone by morning.”
CHAPTER SIX
A week later—
“Brothers Ink,” Liam answered the phone. The rumble of a Harley pulling up at the curb drew his gaze toward the storefront window. A man and young girl climbed off the bike. He immediately recognized the man. Ryder, the President of a local MC had been getting all his ink from Jameson for years. Liam didn’t recognize the girl, but she looked like she couldn’t be more than sixteen.
The voice on the other end of the line drew his attention back. “Yes, ma’am. We’re open until nine. I’ve got that product in stock if you want to stop by and pick it up tonight. Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
The bell over the door tinkled and the two strode inside. It was obvious before Ryder reached the counter that he was pissed.
“Can I help you?” Liam asked, hanging the phone up.
Ryder glared at the girl with him. “Show him.”
The teen rolled her eyes, but held out her arm. Liam took in the red angry tattoo that wasn’t healing well.
“Can you fix it?” Ryder growled.
Liam took the girl’s wrist gently in his hand and dipped his head to study the tattoo, turning her arm to see the full ink. Two Koi fish entwined scrolled around her arm. Not only was it not healing well, the shading was horrid, and the line-work was complete shit. He whistled softly, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “Let me guess. House of Ink?”
She frowned, her bewildered expression moving to her father, then back to Liam. “H-how did you know?”
“Around here we call it House of Crap. We get about three or four of their customers a week wanting us to fix their shit work. Had two girls in here yesterday with some really bad ink; one of theirs was badly infected.”
The biker huffed out a breath and shoved away from the counter. “Christ, Molly! You wanted ink, you shoulda told me. I would’ve brought you here in the first place.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t know. Ronnie said they were cool and—”
Her father finished the sentence for her. “And they’d tattoo you even though you were underage.”
She nodded.
“I woulda signed the consent and gotten Jameson to do the work.”
“Mom said you wouldn’t let me.”
“You’re mom doesn’t know everything, Mol. You want something, you come to me and we talk about it. Maybe you get it, maybe you don’t.”
“Okay, sorry.”
He looked at Liam. “Can you fix it?”
“Yeah, I’m sure we can once the infection heals.”
“Infection? Goddamn it!” Ryder growled and glared at Molly. “I shoulda busted that guy in the mouth.”
Liam frowned. “What guy?”
“I took her down there to show ‘em what shit they did to my baby-girl, but the guy who did the work wasn’t around. Just some smart-mouthed guy at one of the chairs and—”
“Dad!”
Liam nodded, completely understanding this guy’s rage. “Yeah, I’d love nothing more than to see them shut down. I hate to say that about another shop, but they’ve got no business being in this industry. They’re the kind that give the profession a bad name.”
Ryder huffed. “Yeah, they do. Anyway, the chick working there apologized. It threw me for a minute because I recognized her from the magazines. Thought it was weird someone like her was there.”
“They’ve got a chick working down there now?”
“Yeah. You know the famous one in all the pictures?”
Liam frowned, not sure he did.
“Shit. What’s her name?” He snapped his fingers a couple of times. “Fuck, I can’t remember—Wait, it was her. The one in that picture.” He pointed toward Liam’s workstation.
Liam twisted to look over his shoulder, his eyes landing on the calendar. No way. It couldn’t be. “Velvet?”
“Yeah, Velvet. That’s her name.”
Liam’s brows shot up. “You’re saying Velvet Jones is down at House of Crap Ink? What the hell would she be doing down at that shithole?”
Ryder shrugged. “Fuck if I know. But I’m tellin’ you, it was her, sure as shit. Nice chick, too. Apologized profusely about the work that asshole did on Molly. Gave all the money back plus a hundred bucks.”
Liam barely heard what the man said. All he could think about was that Velvet—his Velvet—was here in Grand Junction. Hell, she was just a couple of blocks away. His eyes strayed to the window.
“So what about fixing Molly’s tattoo?”
Liam mumbled, “Yeah, I’ll put her down for a session at the end of the month. But you should have a doctor look at her arm. The infection needs to be treated.”
“Yeah, more money this is gonna cost me,” the biker grumbled. “Thanks, man. Come on, Mol.”
Liam stood, his palms on the counter, one thumb tapping rapidly as his mind reeled.
The tinkling of the bell over the door as Ryder and his daughter left broke him from his trance, and he twisted to look over his shoulder. “Hey, Max, I need to step out for a couple minutes. You good?”
The buzzing of the tattoo machine paused as Max glanced up from the customer he was working on. “Everything okay?”
Liam straight
ened. “Yeah, man. I’ve just got something important I need to check on.”
“All right. But be quick. You’ve got that guy comin’ in to finish that dragon at four.”
Liam glanced at the clock. It gave him forty minutes. “I’ll be back.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Liam walked into House of Ink, and his eyes traveled around the shop, taking in the grungy floors, the lack of sketches on the wall, and no trace of disinfectant.
All the warning signs and red flags that should scream to a customer to turn around and walk out were there: dirt, gross smells, the needles they’d probably reused. An artist—and he used the term loosely—was talking with a client. The man was making some excuse to avoid showing the kid his portfolios. Liam’s eyes hit the price list on the wall. They offered crazy cheap tattoos. The place, if it were cleaned regularly should smell like disinfectant. Instead it smelled like unwashed bodies.
He knew practices varied based on the studio, but ultimately it should be evident that needles are being sterilized or are single-use. The artists should always open the tools and tubes in front of the client before putting needle to skin.
As Liam watched for a while, that was not the case here.
The guy at the counter continued to rush the client toward a design and push him into getting the tattoo. In the business it was called tattoo bullying.
House of Ink was the definition of everything bad in the tattoo world. While Brothers Ink was everything that bespoke of the art of tattooing—it was clean, organized, and with a sleek and contemporary interior, and artists who were extremely talented, with work so far above the slipshod crap the men working here put out.
Liam observed one of the artists, a young punk of a kid who couldn’t be old enough to have much experience, begin to clean a young girl’s skin without first putting on gloves. When he reached for his tattoo machine, still without gloves and, from the looks of it, without changing the needle for a new one, Liam had to intervene. There was no way he was going to stand by and let that girl be infected with a dirty needle in unsterilized conditions right in front of his eyes.
