Indelible: Beneath His Ink
© 2016 Inger Iversen
All rights reserved.
Published by: Inger Iversen Books, LLC
All of the situations and characters in this novel are fictional.
Any similarities to actual people or situations are completely coincidental and wholly unintentional.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
First Edition
ISBN: 978-1539683551
Cover Model: Ty Sundeen
Cover Artwork by: Regina Wamba of Mae I Design Photography
Formatting and Typography by: Inkstain Interior Book Designing
Editing by: Victoria Rae Schmitz | Crimson Tide Editorial
Inger Iversen
www.ingeriversen.com
“Fuck this shit,” Trent muttered, as beads of sweat gathered from the top of his head to the crack of his ass. Lifting his hands, he grabbed hold of the vehicle’s undercarriage and rolled himself out from underneath. For the life of him, he could not comprehend why the owner of this ‘69 Camaro continued to treat this baby as if it was some fucking Chevy Malibu.
Groaning, he stretched and stood, releasing the aches and pains from laying prone in one spot for so long. Using his arm, he swept the sweat away from his forehead, and took a few steps out of the partially covered garage and into the scorching sun. As the sun’s rays beat down on his skin, he lifted the sleeveless shirt he’d discarded earlier and wiped the remaining sweat from his face and neck.
The mid-summer sun had become a sweltering beast, transforming his skin from its normal pale coloring to a deep, dark bronze. He’d avoided a farmer’s tan solely because it was too damned hot to wear a shirt while working, unless he absolutely had to. Kentucky’s heat was so oppressive, Trent had considered—on more than one occasion—moving to a colder state. Maybe one that actually had a winter, and a mild-ass summer. The bar he frequented out of town even had a signature summer drink called Devil’s Ball Sweat, and as repulsive as it sounded, the drink itself was damned good. The thought of it had his mouth watering.
On leave from the Marines, Trent had found his way back home, and into the familiar grease and fumes of the auto body shop, where he’d slaved away as a teenager. But life had changed since high school. Trent was now in his mid-twenties, part owner of a garage, fully enlisted in the Marines, and waiting for the call of duty.
Logan’s voice pulled Trent from his musings and he near jumped out of his skin.
His friend’s brow lifted as he deliberately ignored Trent’s jitteriness. “Hey, man. You hungry?”
As if on cue, Trent’s stomach roared. He placed a greasy hand over his eyes, shielding the sun’s glare, to find Logan headed toward him with a 7/11 bag in hand. Trent nodded and moved to the sink, squirting some Fast Orange into his hands. Using his elbow to turn on the hot water, he shoved his hands under the steaming spray.
“You gonna work on this all day, or you planning on taking a real break? You’ve only been back home a few weeks and you haven’t done shit with anybody. Barely been out of the house.”
Trent turned to see a couple of hotdogs, a bag of chips, and a forty sitting on his workbench. Logan had already started in on his own food. Trent’s mouth watered at the sight. He’d been in the heat for most of the day, and skipping breaks to shorten the workday made sense, until he was dizzy with hunger, of course. Drying his hands, he grabbed a milk crate and carried it over to the workbench and sat down.
Trent had ignored Logan’s question, but his friend stared at him expectantly. Between gulps of his beer and a bite of his hot dog, he gave in. “Who’s been asking?”
Logan shook his head and took a hefty drink of his soda. He’d never been much of a drinker. “Nobody. It’s just, before you left, you were all over the place. This bar, that club, and now that you’re back . . .” he shrugged and let the sentence hang in the air.
Trent didn’t need anyone worrying about him. Besides, he’d gone to Gator’s a few times since his return. He’d taken care of himself for the past decade, with little to no help, yet Rhonda, the garage’s accountant, who’d taken a shining to Trent, was always up his ass about finding a woman and settling down.
That was the thing about a lot of women in the South. They always wanted to bag a man, settle down, and duplicate, but Trent wasn’t trying to hear it. The military had helped him perfect his ability to survive on his own. He didn’t need anyone else.
He moved the bottle from his lips and set down the chili and cheese hotdog, his stomach groaning in protest. “You been talking to Rhonda?” Trent couldn’t hold back his anger. Rhonda seemed to think she had his best interest at heart—her words, not his—and that shit was getting old.
Logan lifted his chin. “You always get pissed when she comes around. You messing with her?” Eying Trent with half-veiled disapproval, he added, “I see the way she looks at you, and that shit ain’t right. She’s old enough to be your mother.” He scarfed down the rest of his hotdog, while managing to keep a grimace on his face.
Trent cocked a brow. “I can tell you one thing. I’ve never seen a better pair of tits on a woman her age.” He smiled wildly at Logan’s appalled glare, waggling his eyebrows to goad him further.
Logan had less years under his belt, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d call the man a virgin. Yeah, Rhonda was in her mid-forties, but damned if she didn’t have long legs, a round ass, and tits too firm and high to be real. He could only imagine the things she knew and would be willing to do.
“Whatever, man. I brought it up because I’m headed to Louisville for a party. You want in?”
Trent finished one hotdog and opened the second before answering. “Who the hell wants to drive almost two hours for some party?” He shoved half the dog in his mouth.
Logan shoved his hands through his hair and stood. “Look, it’s been nothing but boring ass work since you’ve been gone. Hell, maybe I’ll join the military.” He picked up his trash and threw it in the nearby can. “There ain’t nothing to do here, other than work.”
Trent glanced up at the man. Was he actually thinking of joining the military out of boredom? There wasn’t a war going on, but being owned by the government was no picnic.
Trent started in on his chips. “Who do you know in Louisville that’s got you willin’ to drive over there for a party?”
Logan was young, still had that twinkle of youth in his eyes. Living on the notion that possibilities were endless. Even though his life had shown him the bitter harsh truth, Logan still held onto hope. Perhaps it was his past. After all, he’d come from a good home, while Trent had grown up in a single wide, to a woman whose only redeeming quality was that she hadn’t aborted him—as she like to remind him about loudly, and often.
Logan sat back down and propped his feet up on an empty box. “Jake is coming from back home and he asked me to go with him. I figured I’d see if you were up to it.” He shrugged. “If not, it’s cool.”
Trent sensed that it was far from cool if he declined the invitation.
“And I’m not driving, he is.” Logan took the last swig of his soda, then nodded over to the car. “You need help finishing that up?” Standing, he headed over to the vehicle he’d been working on.
Trent watched as Logan lay down on the creeper and slid under the car.
His voice called out, muffled from the undercarriage. “Go start on your paperwork. We can head
out in a few hours.”
Trent hadn’t remembered agreeing to go to any party, but instead of arguing, he went inside and got to work.
Hopping out of the shower, Trent grumbled under his breath. His frustrations with finding something clean to wear, coupled with the fact he’d even agreed to attend a party so far away to begin with, made him grumpy. Trent would’ve just driven his own truck, but that damned thing was acting up on him again.
With a sigh, he realized he was just making excuses, and although he wanted to go out with Logan, he’d fought it—acting as if he was bothered with hanging out the way they’d used to. He could blame it on his training, or he could be honest with himself and admit his self-imposed isolation had everything to do with the nightmares he’d been having again.
Trent dried his body off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and headed to his closet. He had to admit, he felt like a fool searching for something decent to wear around a bunch of stuck up college students. He’d attended college parties before, but never with a guy like Jake.
As Logan had explained it, he was a rich kid with a chip on his shoulder. He’d attended community college with Logan for a few months after being disowned by his parents for his blatant drug use. Six months later, the idea that their son would slum it with inner city kids had grated on his mother’s nerves so much, she convinced her husband to gather up her baby boy and send him out of state to college. After a few transfers, Jake found himself back in Kentucky and at the University of Louisville, and from what Trent had heard, clung to life, balls deep in drugs and women.
Rummaging through his closet, Trent found a clean black T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans that didn’t smell of motor oil and grease. He threw his clothes on and ran a hand over his military buzz cut. He missed his long hair, and was pissed he’d been forced to cut it. Silly enough, it was Trent’s way of rebelling against what society told him was appropriate for a man.
His phone buzzed from the living room as he rolled some deodorant under his arms. He was sure it wasn’t Logan calling, since Logan had a key and was always more than welcome to show up unannounced—which is what he usually did.
Rounding the corner and heading down the hall, he stopped at his cell as the ringing ceased. Reaching down to check the caller ID, he paused. He recognized the number, since Logan had called him from the emergency room a few times before; the first six numbers were always the same. Who the hell is calling me from the Cantor Regional Medical Center?
Metal sliding into metal and a key twisting into the lock of the front door stole Trent’s attention away from his cell. He swiped it up before heading out into the hallway, as Logan, and a man who Trent assumed was Jake, walked through the door. He’d never met the man in person and was proud of that fact, as he observed the air of self-aggrandizing vibe he gave off.
Hell, maybe Trent was biased, but from the second the man walked in the door, with a ridiculously expensive hoodie under his blazer, and nose in the air . . . Trent wanted to deck him, twice. Bristling as he watched the man glance around, he could see the look of condemnation on his smug face.
Logan made his way past the men and headed to the kitchen. His voice boomed throughout the house. “Hey man, you about ready?”
Trent caught the sound of the fridge opening, then a can of soda being cracked open.
Never taking his eyes off Jake, he grunted a reply and watched as the tall, tan guy had the fucking nerve to wipe some invisible dust off the sofa before he sat down. Heat flared at the back of Trent’s neck as Logan appeared in the doorway leading into the living area.
He took a swig of Coke before he spoke. “Trent, this is Jake.”
The two men eyed each other, disdain radiating off both of them. Trent didn’t respond, other than crossing his arms over his broad chest. Jake sized him up, and a slow smirk spread across his face. White teeth gleamed from behind thin, pale lips.
“Jake, this is Trent,” Logan finished, then downed the rest of his Coke.
Trent observed Jake in a silence that grew; from his gaudy, gold watch, all the way to his leather penny loafers. He had that slick, untrustworthy salesmen look to him. On closer inspection, Trent noted a toothpick tucked between his blade-thin lips.
Jake shifted it to the side before he spoke. “So you are the famous Trent Reed my boy here talks so much about.” He gave a slick grin before turning and eyeing the living room. “Nice place. Cozy.”
Trent caught the sneer in his voice as he spoke, but honestly, he’d come to expect it from men like Jake. He gave him his signature fuck you grin, then turned to Logan. “Let’s head out.”
As if suddenly aware of the tension building between the two men, Logan placed down the soda can and nodded, heading to the door. When his eyes met Trent’s, Trent allowed his temper to ebb. There was no reason to let some snob piss him off.
Trent felt like an old ass man, moving amongst the throng of college students. Bodies moving to the music, hips grinding, and lips fervently entwined; it all left Trent’s body feeling tight and bothered. Women were swaying to music with bass so loud it vibrated throughout his body in nauseating waves. Was this shit considered music? Every other word out of the rapper’s mouth was something that would get him skinned alive if he used it in certain crowds—or praised in others.
When they’d pulled up to the frat house, Trent had done everything he could to suppress a groan. How could Logan think to bring him to some fucking party full of privileged brats? Beta Gama twenty-somethings with red solo cups, rhythmically moving with the music.
Trent’s anger flared as a red cup of some strong ass liquor narrowly missed spilling on his shirt. “Jesus Christ. Move!” he yelled, pushing past the drunk frat boy. Shoving his way through the throng of people, he headed to the back, in search of an exit. He’d climb out of a window if he had to.
Vaguely, he could hear Logan’s voice shouting after him, but he ignored it as soon as he found an exit through the laundry room. Trent threw the back door open so hard, it let loose a deafening bang as it hammered against the side of the house. He stepped outside, gulping in air that wasn’t polluted by the cloying scent of fifty different body sprays, mixed with marijuana.
The party was in some off-campus frat house about two miles away from the college, but that didn’t mean the party wouldn’t get busted. The military was fucking strict about that shit, and while Trent was in no way a square, he wasn’t interested in getting mixed up in shit if the cops were involved.
When he came around to the front of the house, Trent froze. Where the hell was he going to go, and how would he find his way back? Glancing back at the noisy-ass house, and the cars lining the streets, he instantly regretted his decision to come. This wasn’t Trent’s kind of party. And if they were anything like Jake, they weren’t his kind of people either.
While Logan often felt the need to please people, Trent felt the exact opposite. Take him or leave him, and he preferred the latter. He skimmed the street and gritted his teeth. BMW, Lexus, Mercedes . . . a fucking smorgasbord of foreign, high-end cars. Whatever happened to good ol’ American muscle? What the fuck would he talk to these people about? He’d been nowhere, except boot camp, and knew no one, except the same people he’d grown up with—which wasn’t much, since most of them were in jail.
Trent turned to head anywhere but back to that house. “Fuck that shit, pretentious pricks,” he muttered.
“Damned straight,” a woman said, followed by a chuckle.
Trent’s head shot up at the soft voice. Though it was dark out, he could see the silhouette of a curvy woman occupying a small tree swing across the street.
Trent glanced over his shoulder, then back to her. He eyed her before speaking. “I’m sorry?”
She stood and moved toward him. It was hard to focus in the dark, but under the filtered yellow streetlights, Trent surmised she was his age, if not a year or two younger.
Her brown hair was streaked with honey blonde and shoved on top of her head in a mes
sy, yet attractive bun. She pushed a few errant strands away from her eyes as she saddled up beside him. Her overalls—streaked in dried black and gray paint—hung loosely on her body. The tube top underneath, held tight to her high, soft breasts.
Pointing to the house he’d vacated, she said, “I agreed with you. They are over-privileged, pretentious pricks.” She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, and gave him an appraising once over.
He raised a brow at her leisurely exploration of his body, flexing his chest when her eyes landed on his pecs. They said milk did a body good, but the Marine’s boot camp did a body fucking great.
She frowned and took a large step back. “Did you just make your man tits jump at me?” The disapproval in her voice froze the words in his throat.
Was she not attracted to him? Trent had never been a conceited man, however, he knew what made women hot, and his body was one of his best tools. Maybe she was playing hard to get. A lot of college chicks did that shit. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. Fucking was fucking, it was a primal necessity that didn’t need to be complicated.
A low growl formed in his throat. “I don’t have tits.” Why the hell had he stopped and spoken to her? And why was he letting this stranger get under his skin?
She let out a bout of laughter at his irritation. Her light smile burned away a bit of his anger and Trent’s lips followed suit, lifting to reveal that he too had a sense of humor. Turning, she headed back to the house across the street. Bypassing the swing, she walked up to the front porch. Over her shoulder she asked, “Why’d you leave the party?”
Trent made his way through the well-manicured lawn and propped his hip against the porch railing.
“Not enough coke and booze?” Her words held no heat, and her lips sat in a pursed smile.
Trent stared down at her as she sat crossed-legged on the steps, leading to what he assumed was her home. “Nah, there was enough coke.” She shot a wry smile at him. “There just weren’t enough hookers to go ‘round. And I was the odd man out.” He lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. He couldn’t stop the bit of laughter that escaped.
Indelible: Beneath His Ink (Teal and Trent Book 2) Page 1
