Thirds: Inked 2

by SE Jakes

  Thirds

  An INKED Novella

  Stephanie Tyler

  Contents

  THIRDS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Out Now: HOLD THE LINE

  BOUND BY HONOR

  Don’t Miss: BOUND BY LAW

  About the Author

  Newsletter

  Also by Stephanie Tyler

  Writing as SE Jakes

  Writing as Sydney Croft

  Copyright © 2016 Stephanie Tyler

  Published by Stephanie Tyler, LLC

  Edited by Julia Ganis, JuliaEdits.com

  Cover Art Design © Croco Designs

  Book Formatting by Croco Designs

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental or has been used in a fictional manner.

  THIRDS

  Inked #2

  For Aleks, the third time wasn’t the charm…and fighting for survival was only the beginning…

  Aleks is a tattoo artist at Inked. He’s also a man with a troubled history and a future bent on vengeance. But his plans for revenge are derailed when he meets a man with ties to his past. A man who also holds a promise of the future.

  Brogan is dangerous for Aleks in more ways than one. He’s former military, a successful businessman and a strong hand in the bedroom—everything Aleks wants, under the worst possible circumstances. It’s up to Aleks to figure out what—and who—is worth fighting for.

  Prologue

  Eight years earlier

  Whoever said fucking and fighting were two sides of the same coin must've been a motherfucking virgin.

  Last night, I fought the man in front of me, cursing right back at him in Russian in between punishing blows from my fists, the same way I punched the plaster walls in my cells daily, for hours at a time, to numb them, to toughen them up. My fingers had been broken and healed slightly off-center, like the path my life had taken.

  I'd take fucking over fighting any day, and yeah, I was damned good at both.

  The latter had been exploited for the past twenty-three months, but the end was finally in sight. I'd reached the final stage, the famed deathmatches—and yes, they were exactly what they sounded like. Which was why I strangled the man I'd been punching into unconsciousness, dropped him to the mat as the crowd roared before I was escorted back to my cage.

  During my time in this hellhole, I'd been moved from cage to cage to cage. The one I slept in was smaller than the one I trained in, but the one I fought in made me the most claustrophobic.

  And the smells—I'd never forget the fucking smells from this place. It was blood and sweat, fear and death combined, and the metallic taste would never leave my mouth. I was sure of it. Still, I'd swish the cold water in my mouth, spit it out between my front teeth in a futile attempt to get rid of it.

  But the taste of dread on my tongue lingered, a taunt. A promise. A prayer.

  "We're doing this, Aleks," Vann would murmur to me through the bars to keep me going. "No matter what, we're out."

  We'd been cellmates for since we'd been voluntarily locked inside this hellhole. No one would rescue us because no one knew we needed rescuing.

  That was both a blessing and a curse.

  Now, for the third night in a row I was escorted out of my sleeping cell and put into a holding one to watch the third round of deathmatches before mine. I pretended I didn't give a shit that I was watching Vann fight someone to the death, like I wouldn't care one way or another if he died. But inside, my gut twisted, brain screamed at him to fucking kill the bastard in front of him.

  And he did, dropped the man's lifeless body to the mat and turned to face the crowd, bared his teeth, spit blood on them, hating them and everything about them.

  They cheered because they thought he was putting on a show. But they knew—they all knew what was happening and I vowed I'd make them all pay, in the most ruthless and bloody way I knew how.

  But first I had to get the fuck out of here. And it was my turn to make that happen. The guy in front of me in the caged ring was my age—eighteen years old. He'd been here the same amount of time, watching fighters like us come and go, mostly in body bags, and he wasn't prepared to die tonight.

  Neither was I.

  After a few rounds of exchanging blows, I lost it. I wasn't putting on a show for the rich fuckers who paid money to watch me like a monkey in a zoo. I slammed my opponent's face, over and over until his features were unrecognizable, the damage I did to him registering in my gut. But he wasn't as important as the life I was saving, and it sure as hell wasn't mine.

  I'd just ended him in the fastest, most humane way I could when I smelled the stench of something burning. My eyes scanned the crowd, which had blurred, although I could sense their panic.

  Fire.

  The smoke filled my lungs and I wanted to scream, rage, but a strong hand grabbed my wrist.

  Vann's voice. "Nothing we can do now but live or die."

  Then he tugged and I made the choice along with him to get the hell out of there, into the city streets and cool air and no cages in sight.

  I was eighteen years old and, for the first time in two years, I was free.

  I had nothing but death to show for it.

  Chapter One

  Present day

  Brogan was finally back home from his extended European stay—six months when he'd only meant to hang out with some friends for a couple of months—and decided to catch up on his real estate holdings. He was lucky enough to have the wealth and a family name behind him that allowed him to travel the way he did, but he also continued to work from abroad.

  Brogan preferred the real estate market, with its highs and lows, to the banality of the canning factories and the like that his great-grandfather had established. Without them, there would be no Montgomery-Johnstone money to invest. Because of it, Brogan was able to make himself wealthier.

  Still, he sat on the board of directors, the monthly meetings with his cousin Harry and the other men in suits always an experience he wished he didn't have to repeat. Although he'd grown up with Harry, the distance between them couldn't be more apparent.

  He had managers and landlords handling the properties, but he liked to keep up with his buildings in person when he could, in case there were any complaints he could rectify. He'd discovered that most people were more reasonable if they thought they were tugging an owner's ear.

  He was also a good landlord, and he'd saved his favorite shop for last, a tattoo parlor called Inked. When the building manager originally brought him the lease from the new clients, Brogan had gone to meet with them. One of the men was military, both had solid credit and Brogan knew a good tattoo pa
rlor fit the neighborhood perfectly.

  It turned out his hunch was more than right. Each year, the tattoo shop was featured in papers and online for its gifted artists, many of them visiting, since Quinn brought in the artists who'd done his tattoos.

  Today, when Brogan pushed open the glass doors, everyone looked over…except the dark-haired man giving a tattoo in the center of the large room.

  "Brogan, good to see you again." Quinn, co-owner of the shop and a master tattooer himself came over, hand extended.

  "Welcome back, man." Con, his partner—in business and life—came up next and punched him in the shoulder. Quinn's father and brother had served, and Con was former military like Brogan, and he was more than happy to be renting to other vets. They were great tenants, and they were renting the majority of the building out, since Con decided that he also wanted the apartments above the shop so he wouldn't have to, in his words, "commute."

  As Brogan got to know them, he quickly realized that although Quinn would often roll his eyes at Con, he also gave in to most of his whims. If Brogan could find someone to make him a quarter as happy, he'd be more than fine with that. "Thanks. Sorry I was gone so long. I'm assuming everything's okay over here?"

  "More than," Quinn assured him. "We're still taking bets on when you'll get your first ink."

  "Sorry, still not my thing." Brogan's eyes flicked to the man in the shop who most definitely was. "You've gotten some fresh faces in here."

  "Yeah, we took on a couple of new artists. Becca does piercings and Aleks over there does fantastic pieces." Quinn motioned to the man Brogan had noticed.

  Aleks's head had been down as he concentrated. It still was but he raised his chin a bit, enough to make Brogan start.

  Because it was him, the fighter Brogan had been picturing for what seemed like forever. The image of his sweat-slicked body had gotten Brogan through the worst of Special Forces training, the small piece of comfort he'd allowed himself in those few moments of stolen downtime. He'd used the fighter's image to motivate him, to turn him on, to prove he was still alive when he felt dead inside.

  10 years earlier

  "Gotta show you a good time before you head back into hell," his cousin, Harry, had told him, then ushered him into an underground basement.

  This was so far from the good time Brogan planned on having for himself later, in another type of club in another part of the city, but for now, he humored his cousin. Harry liked to act the part of the big spender, which was lost on Brogan, since they shared the same family fortune.

  Harry thought Brogan was slumming it in the military. Thought he was crazy to put himself through the gauntlet of Special Forces training, but Brogan could never have done the fraternity shit that he'd been hearing Harry brag about for years.

  "We're here for the first fight of the night." Harry handed him a cold beer and pointed to the ring inside the steel cage. The crowd surrounded it, standing outside the chain link as though watching some kind of exotic animals through the metal.

  The first guy was shoved into the ring and looked back at the man who'd pushed him out there. He was big and the jeers from he crowd had him giving everyone his middle finger and sneering.

  Great. A bunch of overgrown college kids trying to pay their way through school, according to Harry.

  But Brogan soon forgot about not wanting to be there when the first guy walked into the ring, escorted by his coach, and was locked inside with an ominously loud clink of a lock clicking into place.

  No way out. Brogan's skin itched as though he was the one trapped.

  The guy had dark hair and hypnotically dark eyes. He scanned the crowd, wearing only blue shorts and white tape on his hands.

  "Money on the fighter in blue," his cousin told the man who came around to collect the bets.

  "He's favored," the man confirmed, handed them their chits.

  Yeah, I favor him.

  When the fight began Aleks moved like a blur—fast, slick with sweat and yeah, Brogan had his jack-off material for a good while. The other men in his bunk would be thinking about breasts and Brogan would be dreaming about bringing this fighter to his knees, putting his cock in his mouth, watching him submit.

  And now, his fantasy was in front of him, alive and well and tattooing a barrel-chested men on his wide biceps. Concentrating fully on the picture taking shape under his gun, the black and gray ink he constantly wiped away revealing a perfect symbol, a cross with a military insignia above it, an intricate, original design.

  Damn, the guy still looked the same. Better, actually. His face was chiseled and matured—model material—his body still muscled but a fighter's muscles.

  Aleks didn't have the tattoos back then that Brogan noted running down his arms—he'd only worn blue shorts, so Brogan would've seen them if he had.

  Con clapped him on the shoulder and prompted, "Sure you're not in the market for a tattoo?"

  Con's brow arched and there was no mistaking his intention. Everyone noticed the way Brogan watched Aleks…except maybe Aleks himself. "I'm in the market, but not for one of my own," Brogan told him.

  Con smiled broadly. "Brogan, I like the way you think."

  "That's seriously perfect," the Army vet in Aleks's chair breathed as he stared at the complicated 82nd Airborne symbol on his biceps. It was shaded black and gray with a 3-D look to it. Aleks had helped him pick the perfect spot to highlight it best, using the natural shape of his muscle.

  "Looks good on you," Aleks confirmed.

  "You serve?"

  "No. One of the guys who owns this place did," Aleks said. "I just have the respect and appreciation."

  "It shows." The vet shook his hand and gave Aleks the once-over. "I'll be back for another one soon, I'm sure."

  "I'll be here," Aleks told him.

  The vet glanced back at Aleks as he walked away and Aleks moved to clean his equipment. Tattooing—and being tattooed—was a personal thing, a vulnerable thing, and a lot of times feelings and emotions came out that weren't necessarily the person's true feelings.

  This customer's reaction was a product of that—he was straight, Aleks knew, but sometimes after sitting in a chair and getting close the way they had…well, things could feel different. Because of that, Aleks got hit on a lot—men and women alike, young and old. He just seemed to have a magnetic pull. At least that's what lovers had told him.

  Probably because he was unavailable. His life was devoted to two things: tattooing and taking down the man who'd ruined both his life and Vann's.

  Vann had exacted his own revenge on both their accounts, and he'd found a way back. Aleks was happy for him. He knew he'd never get that far if he didn't exact his own revenge. He stayed up nights, planning. Waiting. And the perfect opportunity would present itself, where the guy wouldn't be surrounded by bodyguards. It was only a matter of time.

  But when Brogan Montgomery-Johnstone walked into the tattoo parlor, Aleks was so fucking unprepared, he didn't know if he should walk out the back door or right up into Brogan's face. Because time? It might be up.

  He looked just like Aleks remembered—a little older. Tanned. Blond, blue-eyed, All-American and handsome as fuck. His bearing was military and if Aleks closed his eyes, he could picture that night, making fast work of one of his first opponents in the ring while Brogan watched him intently.

  Sometimes the fights made Aleks hard—a purely physical reaction his body had to fighting—but that night, it had been all about Brogan's intense stare. If Aleks hadn't been locked back into his cell afterward, he might've left the cage and gone with Brogan somewhere to get fucked.

  Now, Brogan's eyes caught and held his, and yes, Brogan remembered him, let it show for a long moment before putting on his "all business" face again for Aleks's bosses.

  Aleks would've been content for Brogan to finish up his talk and leave, but Con put a kink in that plan by calling out, "Hey Aleks, come meet Brogan. He owns the building."

  And Aleks couldn't refuse that, so he ambl
ed over to reach out and take Brogan's outstretched hand in his. He wasn't a big believer in the whole "bolt of lightning when you meet the right guy" crap, but hell, a shot of electricity seemed to jolt a current through both of them. For a second, they just stared at each other; probably equal parts shock and lust were unmistakable on his face the way they were on Brogan's.

  Even if Aleks hadn't recognized him from the fights, he would've from the pictures he'd found of Brogan's cousin, Harry. Aka the man Aleks had marked for death. So far, Aleks had been able to rule out Brogan's direct involvement in funding the fight club, barring the fact that he shared the same last name and part of a vast family fortune with Harry.

  Harry was a major backer—the biggest fish—in the deathmatches. Rumor had it that Harry was the one who'd come up with the concept. As for the whys? That probably could've broken Aleks more easily than any fight ever had if he allowed himself to dwell on it: for sport. Harry was rich, bored, looking for easy entertainment for his wealthy and out-of-town clients.

  It was also a front for the Russian mob.

  And now Harry's cousin was standing right in front of him, like a package with a bow on top.

  Leverage.

  "Brogan Montgomery-Johnstone's a big deal in this community," Con told him after Brogan had said goodbye…reluctantly, it seemed to Aleks.

  "So I've heard," he said dryly. "Was I supposed to kiss his bare feet when he walked in? Or lick his boots first?"

  Con shrugged. "Hell, if you're into that, I'm sure he'd be all right with it." When Aleks narrowed his eyes at him, Con explained, "Rumor has it he's a Dom."

  Ah, now that made a hell of a lot of sense. His body seemed to want to respond to Brogan with a ferocity Aleks wasn't used to. "I'm not in the market for one."

  "Hey, don't knock it if you haven't tried it."