Angel Ink

by Siobhan Muir

  ANGEL INK

  Angels, Art, and Abduction: The magic of an angel’s heart…is written on his skin.

  Haley Michaels, Reporter

  I was minding my own business, trying to escape a party, and walked straight into a murder. Which would’ve been the scoop of a lifetime if my phone hadn’t died. And the door hadn’t locked. Now I’m stuck in a cabin in the mountains with a hot guy who appeared on the street like my knight on shining motorcycle, and I should be more worried than attracted. I mean, he’s covered in tattoos and is VP from the notorious Concrete Angels MC, the same group I’m investigating. Because I know they’re involved with the deaths of a U.S. Marshal and two FBI agents. My love life luck sucks.

  Michael, Concrete Angels’ VP

  Love isn’t something that archangels ever expect to feel. At least not the all-consuming, no-holds-barred kind of love spoken about in films and songs. But that’s what I felt the moment I laid eyes on Haley. She doesn’t know I’m not human, or just how inhuman the rest of my MC is, but I can’t stay away from her if I tried. Now I have to protect her – not only from the men hunting her, but also from the truth. The question is: will she stay when she finds out what I really am? Because if she can’t be trusted with the truth, Loki will make sure she can’t pass on the information. Permanently.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About Siobhan Muir

  Bibliography

  ANGEL INK

  Book 3 of Concrete Angels MC series

  Copyright © 2020 Siobhan Muir

  ISBN:

  Published by Three Lakes Books at Smashwords.com

  Cover Design: Bianca Sommerland, I’m No Angel Designs

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any other book, or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Electronic Print, May 2020

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to Catharine Lindsey, reader, fan, and lover of Archangel Michael. Thank you for your encouragement and patience while waiting for this story. I hope you love Michael’s story.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is never really a one-person job, and writing a series is especially difficult alone. Keeping track of details is so much easier when you have help. Not only does it take a great deal of hard work, editing, and research on the part of the author to get things correct, but without help, there’d be a lot more mistakes.

  Great thanks to Paige Prince for crossing my Ts and dotting my Is, and for editing this story after the writing spanned a couple of years. Huge thanks to Josh McLees for keeping me on task and helping me show this story off to the best of his abilities. And great thanks to Bianca Sommerland for designing the cover.

  Thanks also to the following readers who helped me choose the best tagline for this tale: Denise Callaway, Mary Decker, Patty Dump, Sandie Engle, Tammy Kreis, Emily McCay, Stephany Miller, Becky Parsens, Bianca Sommerland, Jennifer Thibeault, and Diane Nialis Vice.

  As always, great thanks to my readers for cheering me on. Y’all make my writing worth the detailed effort.

  Chapter One

  Haley

  I stood in the art wing of the Denver Museum of Nature & Science and tried to smother a yawn as the curator droned on about the new exhibit featuring rising-star artist Austen Powyrs. Eye-roll to his name. Must have been a 90’s child. From what I could tell the guy basically used light and dark shapes like Bob Ross with his happy trees and Thomas Kinkaid with his sparkly lights, but not nearly as well.

  Dude, my holiday cards were better.

  I took a few shots of the curator, the crowd of press, and the art, but my attention wandered. This was a frickin’ fluff piece to make the Fort Collins Bugle look good. And get me off their backs looking into the story I want to write.

  Damn, I was bored with writing fluff pieces. To be honest, I wanted to run through the vaulted rooms of the museum screaming, “Let It Go” at the top of my lungs. Maybe with a cute, long-haired electric guitarist following along. It would definitely be more exciting than this story.

  A scuffle in one of the side rooms drew my attention and I slipped to the entrance to see what was going on. A tall guy with angelic features around his large nose and wearing a leather cut ran through the room, but paused in front of a painting with light filtering through an autumn forest. For just a moment, I swore I saw huge black wings rising up behind him.

  He met my gaze and darted to me before he grabbed me by the strap of my camera bag, pulling me to his chest. He planted a hot and stunning kiss on my lips. I dropped my jaw and his tongue slid along mine, electrifying me more than the long-haired guitarist in my fantasy. I tasted cinnamon rolls and hot coffee before he pulled back with a wild smile.

  “I saw wings.” Okay, not the best response to a sexy kiss.

  “Don’t worry, love. It’s an illusion.”

  And then he was gone.

  I stood there, completely non-plussed and out of words for the first time in my life, only barely registering the rest of security streaming past me. It took me several minutes to get over the kiss and the scent of the man who’d laid it on me. He’d smelled like freshly baked bread with a hint of rosemary and basil. They reminded me of safe, comfortable places where I’d always had enough.

  My cellphone rang, bringing my attention back to the room. The art and people around me came back into focus like hoodoos reappearing as the fog retreats from the lowlands. Hell, a lot of them look like hoodoos.

  “Haley Michaels.”

  “Hey Hale, how’s it hangin’?”

  I sighed. My best friend and co-conspirator Tori Lindhurst did a lot to make me smile, but right now I didn’t need her distraction.

  “Hey, Tori. I’m just at the Denver Museum getting the “scoop” on that hot new artist in town.”

  “Blergh. That sounds as fun as watching paint dry. It’s almost over, right?”

  “Yeah.” I frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I got something cookin’ that’s right up your alley. Remember the story about the dead FBI agent found after the big summer forest fires?”

  “Yeah…”

  Tori squealed her excitement. “I found
out where he’d been working undercover, and who he’d been working for. And it wasn’t the FBI.”

  “What?” I barked the word and winced when people shot looks my way. “Are you going to tell me more? Or just tease me, then let me die of curiosity?”

  “Take me out to get a mocha, and I’ll dish it up. Soonly!”

  I gaped and got my ass moving. None of the other members of the press paid me any mind as the museum curators tried to placate them after security had run through. After the baked goods guy. What the heck had he been doing here? Despite his overwhelming presence, he hadn’t been carrying any stolen goods that I could tell. Why had security been after him?

  I shook my head as I pushed out the front doors into the blustery, frigid February morning. Fuck, it’s cold out here. We’d had a cold snap so sharp that everyone dressed like marshmallows just to walk to their cars. I sped up my steps so I didn’t have to withstand the icy wind shooting down the funnel of the Front Range.

  The relative heat of my car’s interior made my shoulders loosen as I slammed the door shut and cranked the engine. No matter what people said about those late model Subaru Outbacks, they’d run forever when taken care of. I never missed an oil change or maintenance checkup. I’d drive that baby into the ground before I gave it up.

  The wind threatened to push me off the road as I drove north up I-25 toward Fort Collins. All this used to be farm land and ranches, but as Denver grew to engulf Brighton, Thornton, Longmont, and Loveland, it turned into one long city. It was great for having places to go and things to do, but it made traffic hell. I only came down to Denver when necessary or for the airport. Otherwise, I preferred Fort Collins.

  I lived on the west side up against the mountains in what used to be old student housing for Colorado State University. Campus had moved three blocks south of my street and had sold off the old apartments. All the partying had gone with it and my apartment building became secluded and quiet. The offices for the Bugle sat on Harmony Road in downtown Fort Collins and our favorite coffee shop, Jitters, was located just around the corner. I found a place to park and hurried into the heated shop, sighing at the scents of ground coffee and fresh bagels.

  Tori sat at a table near the window, her natural golden blond tresses cascading artfully from beneath her knitted hat around an elegant scarf. She’d draped her fitted winter coat over the chair behind her and I was reminded just how ordinary I was. I was the dark to her light, the woman passed over as forgettable in Tori’s brilliance. It was a good thing she had the job of print organization instead of reporting because I’d be out of a job faster than one could say, “pretty.”

  “Get your coffee and get over here. I have such a scoop for you.” She grinned wide and her brown eyes danced with excitement. “Come on. I can’t wait to tell you this.”

  “Okay, okay. Give me a minute to thaw. It’s fuckin’ freezing out there.” I disrobed from my thick coat and draped it over the other chair. “I’ll be back.”

  I headed for the counter and the scents of the baked goods made me think of the hot guy I’d seen in the museum. He’d smelled so good and made me hungry—but not necessarily for food. To make me a liar, my stomach growled and I grimaced. The barista winked at me, the freckles on his nose winking in the overhead lights, his smile warm. He’d been interested in me for a while, flirting when took my order, but he’d never made the next move. I considered the possibility of asking him out, but the image of the dark-haired guy with the big nose crowded him out of my thoughts and I let the barista go.

  I got my coffee and a bagel with garlic cream cheese and headed for Tori’s table.

  “Okay, I’m ready. What the hell is going on?” I sat down and fixed my gaze on her as I bit into the warm bread.

  “So you know about the guy in the wildfires was an FBI agent and according to the ME’s report, he died of a gunshot to the head.”

  I nodded. “Right, executed and left to burn.”

  “Right. Well, it turns out he was supposed to be undercover in the Concrete Angels Motorcycle Club, getting the dirt on them for the FBI.”

  I nodded again. The Concrete Angels MC was a club local to the Fort Collins area and were rumored to be into everything from drug and weapons sales to money laundering and racketeering. But no one could ever get any dirt on them because they also donated to charities, paid taxes, and protected the weak.

  Good Samaritans with a kick.

  A memory surfaced of bikers wearing cuts bringing in a whole bunch of women and kids to the Hopeful Heart Shelter. I don’t know why I thought they were bikers—none of them rode Harleys, but their leather jackets all had a gargoyle riding a bike with flaming wheels and they had “rough life” stamped all over them. I’d been there when they’d come in and helped get the kids settled, but didn’t pay more attention to them. Turns out the kids had been victims of the sex trade and they all appeared broken and defeated. It had taken a long time for any of them to recover from their ordeal, but I’d volunteered twice a week to help as I could.

  For Jeff.

  Snapping of fingers in front of my face made me focus on the present with a jerk.

  “Earth to Haley, come in, please.” Tori waved her hand until I looked her in the eyes. “Jeez, have you heard a word I’ve said? Where the hell did you go?”

  “Sorry, I was thinking about Jeff.” I grimaced as her expression softened and waved my hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. He’s doing much better now. What were you saying?”

  “Okay, so this FBI Agent, Eisenburg is his name, was supposed to be undercover in the Concrete Angels, but he got his hand caught in the cookie jar for embezzling from them. Rumor has it they killed him for it, but the money didn’t go to the FBI.”

  I blinked. “Wait, Eisenburg was undercover FBI, but he was skimming and not sending the money back to his bosses?” I shrugged. “I assume he was setting up a nest egg for himself. Why is this a big deal?”

  Tori shook her head. “Do you think I’d tell you this over a crooked Fed’s nest egg? Come on, you know me better than that.”

  “Kinda. Get to the punch line.”

  “Okay, okay, keep your bra on. Five months ago there was a big brouhaha over the US Marshal accusing the Fort Collins Police Commissioner of beating him up and taking bribes to destroy evidence.” Tori warmed to her subject, her eyes flashing. “He took off and they chased him up into the hills where he drove off a cliff and died in a fiery crash. An investigation was started but the Commissioner, Daniel Ainsworth, had a heart attack and died en route to the hospital.”

  I frowned. “I remember that, but Ainsworth wasn’t very old, was he? Somewhere in his late forties?”

  Tori nodded. “Yeah, it was hinky all right, but everyone passed it off as natural causes due to the stress of his job. They didn’t bother with an autopsy and it was swept under the rug.”

  I tilted my head as I sipped my coffee. “You think someone killed him and made it look like a heart attack.”

  “No, my source does.”

  “You’re the organizer for print, arranging stories on the page. How do you have sources?”

  “Hey, just because I’m not a field reporter doesn’t mean I don’t have any skills at reporting.”

  “If you have such skills, why aren’t you a reporter?”

  Tori grimaced. “Are you kidding? I don’t want to be outside if I don’t have to. You know how fuckin’ cold it is around here in wintertime? Plus, the pay is better as the print organizer and I’m anal-retentive enough to make the Bugle look fabulous every day. Even better than the Denver Post. Our paper is sexy.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “It is that. So what does a dead marshal and now a dead police commissioner have to do with the executed FBI agent?”

  “It all comes back to the money.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course it does. Damn, people are so fuckin’ predictable.”

  “Hey, that’s how we have news, right?” Tori winked. “Eisenburg was embezzling bu
t it wasn’t going into his own accounts or the FBI’s. My source said it was tracked to some offshore and blind accounts that seemed to go nowhere. But they also found a ledger which had a list not only of the accounts and the money, but also of names.”

  My heart rate went up. “What kinds of names?”

  Tori mercifully didn’t go for the sarcasm. “Crooked cops, FBI agents and US Marshals.”

  “Oh my glory. Was the marshal who died in the crash one of them?”

  Tori shook her head. “No, he’d been trying to expose them, which is probably why they chased him off a cliff. But Ainsworth was on the list.”

  “Holy shit. Where’s this list now?”

  Tori’s lips curled in smug satisfaction. “I happen to have a copy of it, right here, right now.”

  You ever seen those commercials where the actors get this avaricious look on their faces and make grabby-hands motions? That was me in that moment, desperate for the story that would push me out of fluff pieces and into the world of real journalism. And if I could take down corrupt cops, too, I was all over it like white on rice.

  “Are you going to give it to me?” I reached for the piece of paper she held but she pulled it out of my reach.

  “I will, on one condition.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What condition is that?”

  “You have to introduce me to your hot cousin.”

  I frowned. “Which hot cousin? Jeff?” I shook my head. “He’s not ready, Tori.”

  Her mouth flattened. “You told me he was bi.”