Tattoo Lust: A Tattoo Romance Collection

by Skyla Madi

  “Sonofabitch.” He groaned on the way to the refrigerator for a soda. It was empty. Where was his food? “Oh, wonderful.” He ran his palms down his face and groaned again. Ice cream had leaked out of the container, down the side of the lower cabinet, and the milk and eggs were piss warm.

  Hours later, Mikey finally had his house mostly back in order. After investigating the kitchen, he'd gone straight to his son Brayden's room. It was the least ransacked room of the house, the first area he cleaned, and with the most care. No way would he want one thing of his son's stuff out of place.

  At eight o'clock Mikey’s stomach growled. He hopped onto his motorcycle, because his car was still parked out front of his ex’s house, and rode to the twenty-four-hour Hector’s Coney Island restaurant. The sign when he walked in had been flipped to the ‘Seat Yourself’ side. He picked a booth in the back along the front window so he could keep an eye on his bike. Jennifer, the perky blonde waitress with a ponytail and a streak of pink on either side of her head ambled up to his table. He’d thought about asking her out but decided the early-twenty-something was too young. At thirty-two, Mikey wasn’t a kid anymore. What he needed was a mature girlfriend not a fuck-buddy.

  “Hey, Jennifer.”

  Her neck flushed and she smiled. “Hey yourself. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Pepsi, please. Oh, and a glass of water.” He grinned at her despite his sour mood. He also leaned slightly to the left and checked out her nice ass. His eyes traveled the length of her side down to her feet. A butterfly tattoo adorned her ankle. “When you gonna come by my shop and get inked? By me?”

  “Um, when do you want me to stop by?”

  “Anytime you want. Treat you really well, give you a discount.” He looked her in the eye and she blushed.

  “Oh yeah?”

  Mikey dipped his head. “Yep.”

  “I might do that.”

  “Think about it.” He winked.

  Jennifer walked away, smiling demurely over her shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Grace

  Grace parked her car in her father’s driveway. She leaned her head back on the seat. Her mother’s birthday party was coming up and she dreaded the whole thing. As she got out of her car and approached the side door, Grace went over the speech she’d memorized. This year she wouldn’t be joining her dad in the celebration. Not only was it depressing and slightly morbid, it was unhealthy. Her mother had passed away over ten years ago.

  She used her spare key to let herself into the house. The lights were off in the kitchen.

  “Dad?” she called out. The lights in the front living room were also off. “Dad? Are you home?” No answer. She checked the rest of the house. Wandering toward her parents’ bedroom, she knocked on the closed door. Still no answer. Grace ducked her head inside the room and glanced around. The bedding was rumpled. Normally her dad kept the bed made. She approached the mattress and threw the patchwork bedspread over the exposed pale yellow sheets. She stood back, looking at the half-assed job she’d done at making the bed.

  The phone rang on the nightstand. She smirked at her father’s insistence on still having a land-line and picked up the handset. “Hello?”

  “Oh, hi. Grace? This is Marianne at Cake Happens Bake—”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Yeah, um, I wanted to let you know your mother’s cake will be ready for pick-up at—”

  Oh God, Dad.

  “Yeah. I see. Thanks.”

  “Is there something wrong?” Marianne asked hesitantly.

  “Do you think you could—oh never mind. All right, I’ll let my dad know. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Grace hung up the phone and went back into the kitchen. She wrote a note about the cake only after realizing that her father must have forgotten their dinner plans again. No sense in using a guilt trip on him. This was her father’s favorite weapon. And it was effective. How was she ever going to tell him she didn’t want to mark her mother’s birthday?

  Back in her car and on the road again, she pulled into the parking lot at Hector’s. The bells over the door jangled. A waitress with a swinging blonde and pink ponytail greeted Grace as she walked by the entrance. “Have a seat anywhere you like, ma’am.”

  Since when had she become a ma’am? Funny how something as innocuous as ‘ma’am’ made her question herself with things like, ‘Oh my God, do I look that old?’ and ‘What have I done with my life?’ She had done plenty: she’d mourned her mother’s death at twenty, had a thriving CPA practice, and a divorce under her belt. Okay, she was a ma’am.

  She sighed heavily as she sank in a booth across the aisle from a dark sandy-blond haired man. The guy glanced in her direction and his eyes lingered on her face longer than made her comfortable. She shied a little at the scrutiny. He was gorgeous. Tattoos peeked out below his t-shirt. A motorcycle helmet sat on the bench opposite him. She noted the overhead lights highlighted the shiny black enamel. In an instant she thought the man was everything she wasn’t—wild, free, and adventurous. Sexy.

  Miss Pink-n-blonde set a soda and a glass of water on his table. Grace tried not to stare but found it impossible. A pang of envy pinched her insides. What was this now? She didn’t know the guy. He spoke with a deep voice when he ordered.

  Oh. Dear. God.

  He leaned back for a better view of the waitress’ ass, except he didn’t ogle the girl. He looked at Grace. She turned red, smiled crookedly, and pretended to peruse the menu. A breeze lifted the ends of her hair. Grace looked up through her lashes. The waitress ba-donk-a-donked away, swinging her hips. She rolled her eyes at the menu on the table in front of her. When she looked up, hot guy had turned in his booth toward her.

  “There’s something familiar about you. Have we met?”

  Grace’s heart sped up, excited he spoke to her. “No.” She shrunk into the booth. Her face tightened.

  He swiveled back around and faced his table. “Sorry. I didn’t mean bother you.”

  She exhaled loudly.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, I’m sorry. You’re trying to make conversation with me and I shut you down. It’s…forget it. Sorry.” Grace’s eyes never left the menu. Her cheeks heated. An image of her lying dead in her apartment surrounded by thirteen cats eating her eyeballs made her shiver. She sensed his eyes on her again and forced herself to look him in the face.

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  The waitress interrupted the embarrassing moment. “What can I get you?”

  “Uh, I’ll have a Coney, fries, and a diet Pepsi.”

  “Everything on it?”

  “Yep. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Pink-n-blonde shimmied off toward the kitchen.

  “Her name’s Jennifer if you need anything. She’s cool,” he said.

  “What?” Grace filed the menu behind the condiments caddy.

  “Nothing. Just trying out more conversation.”

  Grace giggled quietly. His tone sounded like she wasn’t the only one nervous. However, he never blushed. “Can I ask you something?”

  He shrugged and sipped his soda through the straw.

  That was stupid. She didn’t have any question lined up, she wanted to hear him talk some more. “Umm…” There was a ridiculous amount of gape-mouthed staring on her part and no talking.

  “Yeah?” His eyes widened and he smiled. “Did you have a question or…?”

  “I guess not.” She laughed. “God. You can ignore me.” Her feline demise was a real possibility. When would she stop living in the backseat of her life and get behind the wheel?

  He sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Well, see, now I can’t do that.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Oh God. Why not?”

  “You caught my attention. Well, truthfully you grabbed my attention when you walked through the door.”

  Yikes. Holy crap.

  The man wasn’t nervous like she thought before.
“Can you at least make an effort?” she squeaked.

  “Nope,” he chuckled. “I’m Mikey Hardin by the way.”

  “Grace Bell.” Divorcee spinster she felt like adding. She put her elbow on the table and leaned her cheek on her palm.

  “Hey, uh, listen. This restaurant is dead tonight. You wanna sit here?” He gestured to the seat across from him.

  “Um…” She glanced at the floor and thought about flesh-eating Siamese cats.

  He waved her off. “It’s all right, you don’t—”

  “No. I mean, okay, why not?” Grace blurted. She stepped over to his booth and pursed her lips. “What should I do with your helmet?”

  “Oh, sorry. My bad.” He got up and removed his helmet from the seat.

  The waitress came over with his food and her drink. “Your food will be up in a minute,” she told Grace. Mikey thanked Jennifer and the girl’s eyes lingered on him.

  “So, that question you weren’t going to ask me earlier…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Was there ever a question?”

  Grace smiled. “I don’t know?” She searched his face for a reaction.

  “O-kay. Cool.”

  “I hope you don’t think I’m too weird.”

  “I make you nervous.”

  “A little.” After she answered, Grace realized that was a statement on his part, not a question. Jennifer dropped off her Coney-dog and fries. The waitress set a bottle of ketchup on the table before she left again. Grace busied herself squirting the Heinz all over her fries and putting a napkin on her lap.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mikey

  Grace defined beautiful. Mikey smiled at her single-minded focus on her French fries. She glanced at him as she brought a golden crispy up to her lips. The less than a millimeter gap (he’d measured once) between his two front teeth seemed as wide as the Grand Canyon. She may have been nervous but he was self-conscious. He put a couple of fingers up to his mouth then felt silly and removed them. He’d been smiling so much she would have already seen the space anyway.

  They spent the next thirty minutes eating and chatting between bites. Mikey leaned back against the seat after Jennifer cleared their plates. They talked for a long time even after their waitress had glared at him and slapped the check on the table. He knew why too.

  “I never asked, what do you do for a living?” she asked.

  “I own Ink Addiction.”

  “The tattoo parlor? You’re a tattoo artist?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh.” She studied the condensation on her glass of soda. “My mother passed away about eleven years ago.”

  “Sucks doesn’t it? Both of my parents are gone now. What about you? Is your dad still aroun—?”

  “Do you live near here? I mean,” she giggled, “do you come here often?”

  He tilted his head back and laughed. “Every Sunday. Well, I guess it’s Monday night now but usually I only come on Sunday nights.”

  “Only Sundays, huh? No, I’m sorry, I should’ve have said that.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

  He chuckled and reminded himself not to get cocky and screw this up. He opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it and smiled instead.

  Grace yawned. “Listen, it was nice meeting you. But it’s getting late.”

  “Yeah. We should do this again sometime. Preferably somewhere nicer.”

  “I’d like that.” She dug inside her purse and handed him a business card. “Call me.” The raven-haired beauty slid out of the booth. She waved goodbye and turned, only to pivot back around. “What do I owe for my part of the check?”

  He waved her off. “I got it.”

  “Oh no. I can’t.”

  “We’re good,” he winked. “Get out of here. I’ll call you and you can make it up to me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Talk to you later, Grace.”

  She dipped her head. “Thanks. Bye.”

  Mikey watched her all the way to the door. She turned back and glanced at him before she left, a smile lighting up her face.

  He picked up his helmet and walked up to the register to pay the bill. Jennifer took the twenty-eight dollars he offered.

  “How late are you working tonight?” he asked.

  She checked the clock on the wall. “I get off in about an hour. Why, what’s it to you? You strike out with that chick?”

  Hmm…Okay, he deserved that. “You keep the change all right, darlin’?”

  She glanced down and realized he’d given her a ten-dollar tip. “Ah, thanks. Sorry if I was—”

  “Well, have a good night and be safe. That parking lot out there is pretty dark.”

  “Yeah, I know. Some jerk keeps shooting the bulbs out.”

  Mikey surveyed the restaurant. The several diners that had come in earlier still remained. Once outside, he laced his fingers, stretching his arms over his head. He mounted his bike and looked around before starting the Harley. He sat enjoying the vibration and familiar “potato, potato” from the exhaust. There was no substitute for the shovelhead and single-pin crank. Three cars were parked by the dumpster near the rear of the building, in the darkest part of the lot. The smallest one, a Chevy Spark, belonged to Jennifer.

  ***

  TUESDAY

  12:05 a.m.

  The killer’s breath caught in his throat when he spotted the girl. Her hair was up in a…what did they call that hair style? …pigtail. She was young, blonde, and had a love of bright pink, evident from the streaks of the color in her hair. He readjusted his position in his car seat.

  The girl fished her keys out of her purse as she made her way around to the side of Hector’s Coney Island to her car. His timing had to be perfect. From his vantage point he could no longer see her, so he left his vehicle. He wasn't the largest of men, but he was strong and could easily overpower her.

  “Hey,” he said to get her attention. He spoke with a kindness to his voice as to not spook the girl.

  “Hi,” she said, guarded. “What are you doing out here?” She looked at her surroundings and visually measured the distance to her car, clutching her purse close to her side.

  “I was wondering if you had the time?” He pointed at one of his wrists.

  “Midnight. Don’t you have a phone?” She walked faster and glanced behind her.

  “Not on me.”

  “It’s late. I’ve got to get home.” Her eyes widened when he moved closer to her. She held her purse tighter. “I have pepper spray,” she said, swallowing hard.

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

  She tried to run. Abruptly, he put his hand out and grabbed the leather strap of her handbag. With it still draped over her shoulder, she couldn't escape. A muffled scream left her lips as he wrapped his hand around her face and covered her mouth. He pulled her flush against his chest.

  He marched her back over to his idling car. The parking lot was poorly lit. The lamps had been knocked out the week before by a pellet gun. Shooting wasn't the killer’s forte so he'd paid cash to a couple kids he knew from his neighborhood, the type that wouldn't squeal.

  The lid to his trunk was down but not locked. Jennifer tried to squirm away from him but he picked her up with little effort. When she managed to kick him, he swung her around and slammed the heel of his palm into her jaw. Her head rocked back and she lost consciousness. He shoved her into the trunk.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Harry

  The rhythmic knocking of the windshield wipers aggravated Detective Harry Hunter. Driving to a fresh crime scene always stressed him out and the noise seemed louder than normal. He saw the red and blue strobes through a blurry windshield and continued in the direction of the emergency vehicles. The Crime Scene Investigators' truck and uniformed officers were gathered near the side of the road. This stretch of two-lane was a bridge that covered a ravine. Springtime meant the bottom of the valley was flooded with water, and the rain only made things more miserable. Several cops looke
d over the edge at the terrain below. Harry stepped from his vehicle and looked up at the sky. The rain continued to pour with no signs of stopping. He blinked water out of his eyes.

  Harry ducked under the caution tape. The yellow plastic ribbon had been placed lower than it usually was. Right? Or he was just getting old?

  “Who called it in?” Harry asked while he peered over the side.

  “Kids on a nature hike,” a cop answered from behind him.

  Harry swore under his breath, again with kids finding a body. In his experience, with the similar description of the victim and cause of death, they might be looking at a serial killer.

  ME Tech Daniels approached Harry. The man’s boots and pants were covered in mud. Dammit. The crime scene was already contaminated. With the rain, any attempt at gathering evidence would be pretty much pointless. “COD?”

  “Crushed skull, so blunt force trauma, I'm assuming. We'll know more after the ME reports his findings.”

  Harry groaned.

  “Removal of the body has been cleared by the ME.” Daniels said.

  Harry already knew that. The fact he wasn't the first on the scene to lead the search annoyed him. He had preferences when it came to how a scene was explored for evidence, a spiral pattern starting from the victim and circling out was what he thought was best. Although it may not be the most efficient, he liked to search this way. Harry made his way down the embankment to join the search for evidence. Fat raindrops pattered his rain-jacket reminding him of the drippy faucet his late wife had nagged him to fix.

  The female victim lay face down in the bottom of the shallow stream which ran under the road. She was drenched. Strands of pink hair were threaded through the blonde. She wore a black skirt of some kind, hiked up to her hips, her pantyhose were torn in many places, and her bloody white t-shirt was plastered to her body. Harry could almost taste the old meat smell of death. No matter how many times he'd rolled up on these scenes he found himself covering his nose and mouth with a napkin. There was a stash of them in his coat pocket. Her hands had already been covered with plastic bags and taped at the wrists. Maybe they’d get lucky and some DNA under her fingernails from her attacker had survived the creek.