Ink Slapped

by A. M. Jones

  Ink Slapped

  Book One

  Copyright © 2018 Annie Walls

  All rights reserved.

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Some places and brands are real to give local flavor to the setting of Nashville, TN.

  Cover Design by Annie Walls

  Formatting by Annie Walls

  www.AnnieWalls.com

  Contents

  1. Taylor

  2. Eli

  3. Taylor

  4. Eli

  5. Taylor

  6. Eli

  7. Taylor

  8. Eli

  9. Taylor

  10. Eli

  11. Taylor

  12. Eli

  13. Taylor

  14. Eli

  15. Taylor

  16. Eli

  17. Taylor

  18. Eli

  19. Taylor

  20. Eli

  21. Taylor

  22. Eli

  23. Taylor

  24. Eli

  25. Taylor

  26. Eli

  27. Taylor

  28. Eli

  29. Taylor

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For romance writers… it’s harder than I ever thought. You guys are the real rock stars.

  I hate romance. The notion of a serendipity occurrence is saved for those lucky, beautiful people in romantic fiction while the rest of us drown under our own clouds of doom without an umbrella. But low and behold the shock coursing through me begs a conflict of opinion. I know not all absurdly fortunate circumstances aren’t just fabricated concepts to make you feel like crap about your life. In my defense, I’ve never experienced it for myself. Until now.

  My novel character has unique coloring and a large build with shoulder-swept, chestnut hair. A fictional guy I concocted in my head. It feels like my brain sent a hologram of him right in front of me in a rundown, honky-tonk bar in downtown Nashville’s Music Row. The rest of Jimmy’s Bar grows distant as I take him in. He’s ready to play live music with a band and sing the blues or country or whatever.

  Propping himself on a stool, he grabs his guitar. His rough fingers turning the tuners hold my attention as I roam closer to get a better peek at him. Hair falls forward like a curtain around his face and he runs a hand through the dark strands. The gesture is unfamiliar. My character doesn’t have this mannerism. It doesn’t matter because all I’m seeing are new book covers and promotional items. This man could give me custom stock images featuring my heroine and hero. This is what my Death to Demon series needs. The possibilities are endless.

  I don’t realize how close I am until he glances at me from the corner of his eye and turns my way. He scans my body. I almost snort at his blatant antipathy. Something I’m used to from guys like him. Hell, my boyfriend sometimes gives me hell for what I choose to do with my body.

  Tired eyes turn curious as he searches my face. “Have a request?” He drawls the question in reluctance.

  Straightening my glasses and squaring my shoulders, I shake my head and turn toward the bar. I need a beer. My steps slow and I throw over my shoulder, “Wish You Were Here. Acoustic style.” Take that you good-looking, country-singing hunk of man. His band mates groan at my request. I shrug, figuring it’s not their style, but he only gives me a tight smile. Unease worms down my spine for a moment.

  Eyeing the draft levers, I spot the signs of tourism right away. Bud light. Budweiser. Miller. Gross. This place needs to hit the twenty-first century and stock local crafts. They have canned Guinness in the small fridge under the display of bourbon bottles. I exhale, flag the bartender, and order a Black and Tan—something stout to calm my nerves.

  The patrons are a mix of college students and tourists. The guy occupying the stool on my right sports jeans, boots, a long-sleeved button-up, and an expensive looking cowboy hat. It’s probably made from beaver fur and the hide of his ex-wives. In this June heat, he’s making me sweat just looking at him. Anyone paying attention can always tell the difference between the locals and tourists. Half of the out-of-towner’s sport the hats and boots with tight jeans and the other half wear t-shirts from the Johnny Cash Museum or The Pedal Tavern.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket and I answer without looking, “Yo.”

  “Tay, Tay! Sorry, I’m late. I’m waiting for my Uber.” Savannah’s voice sounds excited and slurred.

  “I found a replica of Jaxon.”

  Silence for a long second. “Really? Have you spoken to him?”

  “I’m drowning myself in Guinness to find the nerve.”

  “Will he look good posing next to me? I mean, not too good, you know? I don’t need him making me appear like a frump. What’s he like?”

  Savannah’s the heroine to my hero. She graces all my covers so far and we always joke about what it’d be like to find a Jaxon. I start with the basics. “He’s getting ready to play with the band. A microphone insures there’s singing involved.”

  A gasp. “A musician?” Her tone is what I’d describe as far away or wistful in my novels.

  “He’s not your type.” I glance at his grease-stained work boots and a wrinkled t-shirt as if he just rolled out of bed. There’s nothing wrong with how he looks. Nothing at all. He might appear as if he stumbled from slumber, but it works for him.

  She groans through the phone. “Wedding ring?”

  I can’t believe I’m scoping out a potential cover model for my friend a one-night stand. “Not that I can see from here.” Just then he glances toward my perch on the stool. I divert my gaze. “Shit, he’s looking.”

  She laughs. “No doubt you stick out like a sore thumb. Who else is staring at you?”

  Since she brought it to my attention, I peer around the bar and half the patrons sneak peeks when I turn toward them. I sigh. “We need to keep this professional, Savannah. That means no fucking your cover model partner.” I’m already flustered, so when the mournful, goose bump-inducing notes for Wish You Were Here start, I jump in surprise and drop my phone in my beer glass. The perfection of my layered beer swirls into one ugly color. “Shit!”

  After fishing for it, I watch in dismay as beer leaks behind the touchscreen. A bag of rice lands in front of me. The bartender chuckles. “You’d be surprised by how often this happens. Keep it in there overnight, and it’ll be fine.”

  I banish my phone to its tomb of rice in a snap, but my attention is on the band. They’ve put their own spin on the classic song. A true sign of talent.

  “Can you do me a favor? Take the gentlemen whatever he’s drinking on me.” I point to the beefcake holding everyone’s attention with a voice that’s sure to remove a few pairs of panties tonight. “Tell him I have a business proposition to discuss with him.”

  Sliding over my business card, I tap it twice, but the bartender doesn’t take it. He scratches his buzzed head. “I’m not a messenger. If you want to solicit him, you must do it on your own.”

  My mouth drops open. “I’m not—” But isn’t solicitation exactly what I’m doing? My face grows warm. I’m so fucking shallow. Here I am thinking the same of the guy for looking at me in muted disgust. It’s just… my books are becoming popular, and if I spotlight Jaxon as part of the series, then eventually, I could write full time. He’d be the boost the series needs to gain more attention. N
o more wedding photography for me. No more graphic designing which absorbs so much of my time.

  I study said potential hero and know he wouldn’t want to work with me anyway if his disinclination is any hint. He sings his heart out through the microphone and strums the chords in a flawless flow as if he plays this song every day. In his element, a contentedness shows on his face, along with a smile, even though the smile doesn’t affect his tired expression.

  The stool squeaks as I turn and perch my cat-eye glasses on top of my head. The bartender becomes a blur while I rub my temples. “You’re right. I need another drink, then I’ll cash out.” Yes, another drink. I wish I had the balls to do what it’d take to get where I want to be—a full time author.

  The female bartender from the other end snatches my card off the bar. “Good Lord, Joey. Prostitutes don’t carry business cards.”

  Joey’s eyes travel along my tattooed arm sleeves and then stop at the cleavage popping out of my corset. No doubt looking for a tattoo, but he’ll be disappointed. A girl has to have a little class.

  I shake my head. “No, he’s right. Well, not about being a hooker or whatever he thought but about soliciting. I want that guy to pose for a book cover.”

  Her eyebrows rise and after throwing a bar rag over her shoulder, she braces her hands on the bar. “Wow. I got you. Eli won’t mind if you ask.”

  “Eli.” I unfurl the name from my tongue, and decide it doesn’t fit my hero, Jaxon. The female bartender is gone and Joey watches something. I’m almost scared to see what's happening.

  Glancing over my shoulder, the band has fallen silent and a few of the members fiddle and argue over a drum. The bartender hands Eli a shot glass and my card while whispering in his ear. They both look at the same time. He holds the shot with a nod in my direction. With nothing else to do, I lift my glass in acknowledgement and watch him toss the shot back.

  After a few minutes, the band starts again with a song I don’t recognize. It sounds a lot like whining about being lonely and drinking. I ignore it and wrestle with the idea of staying to talk to him. Coming to a decision, Savannah be damned, I down my Guinness and Bass concoction, grab the bag of rice, and leave like the true coward I am.

  A few days later, I have the cover designed and can only stare at it in apprehension. My bottom lip throbs from biting it so much. I ask, “What do you think?”

  It takes a few long minutes, but Adrian moves away from his laptop, tucking dark hair behind his ear. “Looks like all your other covers, T. Want me to try?”

  I’m annoyed at his vain suggestion at giving it a go himself. He designs websites, not book covers. Even though he could, I’m a right-brained introvert and need the constant switch of creative outlets to keep me busy without being bored. Adrian comes in handy when I need some coding done, however. He must see something on my face. “Come on. I’m only helping you. I know how upset you get when you get attacked by cover snobs.” Taking a deep breath, he gives the cover an intense look. “Lower the opacity of this layer.” He points to a textured image.

  I do as instructed. The image fades and brings out Savannah’s katana, but he grunts. “I’m tired of seeing Savannah looking all badass evil slayer, when she’s anything but.”

  “I think Savannah makes an awesome Zara.”

  “What about objectifying this cover? With a grungy landscape or something?”

  I scoff. “I thought you were worried about cover snarks?”

  He stands, wearing nothing but pajama pants—a perk in both of our lines of work. Taking my laptop and placing it on the couch, he pulls me to my feet and grasps my hips. His hands travel over my thighs. “I love when you get all passionate and throw my words back at me.” As if to punctuate this, he kisses and nibbles along my neck and jaw, sending heat and desire through my body. “I can get your creative juices flowing.”

  “Only if you let me handcuff you,” I say with a smirk.

  Adrian mulls this over without taking his gaze from mine. “Not the pink ones?”

  “You won’t know since you’ll be blindfolded.”

  His eyes darken in that way they do, which lets me know he’ll let me have my way. “Will you do the ribbon thing?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  He smiles, following me into my bedroom. Too bad he can’t be my cover model.

  Two hours later, I sit on my balcony with my laptop, smoking a cigarette. I sent Adrian home because all he’s done is distract me, but I have a new idea for the cover.

  Sounds of South Nashville nightlife float in from the other side of the building. My apartment complex isn’t the best, but I can afford it on my own. I have a nice view of the swimming pool. Plus, over a small tree line, I can see the Batman building and some condo construction and cranes that occupies the Nashville Skyline.

  I search my images of Savannah. I'll need a pose we don’t have.

  Dialing my cell, which survived the land of beer-soaked phones, I hold it to my ear. I hope she’s not angry with me anymore for ditching her the other night.

  “What?” she answers.

  “Nice greeting. We need more pictures, today or tomorrow.”

  “Ugh, Taylor. I’m covered in geriatric puke and you want me to take pictures? I’m not in the photo shoot mood.”

  Sounds like a bad day at the old folks’ home. I sit straighter. “Really? Is it on your scrubs or a t-shirt? Is it chunky? What color is it?”

  Silence follows as she contemplates telling me to go fuck myself. “You are so gross. It’s on my scrubs, and even if it weren’t, there’s no way I’d let you take a picture of me covered in vomit.”

  “But it would be so real.”

  “Shut up. I’ll meet you at the usual spot at six since I have an addiction to living vicariously through you.” She hangs up and I stub out my cigarette with more force than necessary.

  “It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.” I chant this and chant it often because I can’t help the direction Savannah decided to take for the course of her life. Sometimes, I don’t think she has any idea how hard I bust my ass just for what I have, which isn’t much. My apartment’s cheap, my rusty car is paid for, and I live on a tight budget. The nice things I have, I take good care of almost to a fault. The luxury side of life is what I’ve sacrificed to do what I want. Savannah enjoys the finer things. She loves to drive a brand-new car and live in a premium condo, so I will not feel guilty she took the easy way to make a living.

  What do men do when a woman runs away? We chase them. In my case, I’ll stick with researching her. For now. Though her offer has my curiosity spiked to an all-time high, I have reservations. My initial impression of her still sticks with me even after watching her squirm, drink a virile beer, and then drop her phone in it—so out of place and unsure. She stood out from all the other women and made the tourists’ heads turn with her tattooed body. And those curves? Enough dips and swoops to keep even the most distracted men attentive for weeks.

  I turn on my piece-of-shit computer, and it whirs in protest. The sound echoes through my studio apartment. I flip the business card through my fingers for the hundredth time. T. M. Dabney—Author, Graphic Designer, Photographer, it reads, along with contact information and website. Photographer. This could be a good opportunity for the band. We need something to boost our morale.

  When the computer decides it’s okay with being productive, I type her website into the browser. The page loads colorful but dark, like her tattoos. Her personality splashes across the web in chaos, but somehow the images and color all fits together like a puzzle.

  I’m surprised to find she has four books under her belt with another on the way. There’s no cover pictured beside the description. Maybe it’s the cover she needs. I’m also intrigued they’re in an end-of-the-world setting.

  Clicking the portfolio, I notice she has art. My eyes focus on a character who looks a lot like me, only aggressive, judging from his menacing look. Weapons adorn his appearance while dead bodies litt
er the ground. There’s blood. Lots of it.

  Fuck. This is too weird. I don’t know what I expected. A romance novel? A vampire book? Isn’t that what’s popular nowadays? I have to admit, I had a flash of her posing me while biting someone’s neck and making it appear orgasmic at the same time. But this, I’ll be transformed into some kind of apocalyptic superhero.

  What man hasn’t envisioned that for himself? Although, my vision includes a blue jumpsuit and red cape, this is just as powerful. It’s rugged and unpolished. Realistic.

  I fetch my phone, hoping hers didn’t go to the crapper after the beer incident.

  “Yo,” she answers. I hear sounds like she’s typing.

  “T. M. Dabney?”

  “Yes, this is she.” She still sounds distracted and the typing gets a little rougher.

  “Eli Gregor. I’m calling about your business discussion you ran out on.”

  I know I have her attention when something drops, and she curses. The words are so soft, I’m sure she doesn’t think I hear. “Shit. Sorry. I mean, sorry about my fumbling and switching gears. Not sorry for walking out.”

  “So, the offer isn’t on the table anymore?”

  A long pause on her end. “Um, you know I need you to pose so I can splash your image all over my book covers, right?”

  “That’s what Joey and Edie were telling me. I’d like more information about it, if you still need someone to pose.”

  Another long pause, and I check my phone to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. “Hello? You there?”