by Avon Gale
Riptide Publishing
PO Box 1537
Burnsville, NC 28714
www.riptidepublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
Permanent Ink
Copyright © 2017 by Avon Gale and Piper Vaughn
Cover art: Natasha Snow, natashasnowdesigns.com
Editor: May Peterson, maypetersonbooks.com
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. 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 the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-62649-643-9
First edition
August, 2017
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-644-6
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At twenty-three, Poe Montgomery is going nowhere. He still lives in his father’s basement and spends most of his time tagging with his friends. When an arrest lands him in debt, Poe accepts the front desk job at Permanent Ink, the tattoo shop owned by his father’s best friend, Jericho McAslan. Jericho is nearly twice Poe’s age, but with his ink and prematurely graying hair, he quickly takes the starring role in Poe’s hottest fantasies.
Jericho is known for his ability to transform poorly designed tattoos into works of art, but he was once as aimless and misdirected as Poe. Wanting to pay it forward the way someone once did for him, Jericho makes Poe his apprentice and is determined to keep things strictly professional. Easier said than done when Poe makes his interest—and his daddy kink—abundantly clear.
Jericho can’t resist Poe or their intense chemistry for long. But between the age gap, tension with Poe’s father, and Poe’s best friend calling him a sellout, they’ll need to ensure they’re both on the same page before they can rewrite their rocky start into something permanent.
To everyone who believes in second chances.
About Permanent Ink
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
Also by Avon Gale
Also by Piper Vaughn
About the Authors
More like this
Poe
“I can’t believe you got arrested!” Landon’s voice boomed in the dim interior of the truck. “How many times have I told you this was gonna happen? Dozens. Yet you still don’t listen. It’s like talking to a wall. Hell, it’s like I’m talking to my-fucking-self.”
I grunted and sank further into the passenger seat. No sense interrupting when my father was on a tear. Not that I had anything in particular to say anyway. I didn’t really understand all the drama. Both he and the cops were acting as if I’d desecrated the Lincoln Memorial, not spray-painted the side of some shitty corporate building downtown. They should thank me for adding a splash of color to an otherwise boring-ass neighborhood. A little bit of graffiti might liven things up for the yuppies and boujee vegan hipsters.
“You think I wanted to spend half the night bailing you out of jail?” Landon asked. “I have to be up for work at five in the goddamn morning. I should’ve left your ass there to rot until I closed up shop.”
Blah, blah, blah. I stifled a yawn behind my fist.
“Fuck, Poe, are you listening?”
“Not really.”
Landon growled, his tattooed fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Do you think this is a goddamn joke? You’re not fourteen anymore. This is going on your permanent record.”
I tilted my head back against the seat and sighed. “It’s a misdemeanor. Calm down. I didn’t murder anyone.”
“That’s not the point.”
I closed my eyes. Jesus. I’m too tired to deal with this shit right now. “Then what is? Do enlighten me.”
“The point is it’s time for you to grow the fuck up and stop being so irresponsible. You’re twenty-three years old. You know what I was doing when I was your age? Working my ass off to provide for you and your mom.”
I snorted. “Yeah, well, a lot of good that did you. She still ran off when she got tired of playing house. Some beacon of responsibility she was, abandoning her husband and kid.”
Landon went quiet, and even without looking, I could picture his tight-lipped, narrow-eyed disapproval, and the throbbing vein that popped up in the middle of his forehead whenever he got pissed off.
“Your mother isn’t the point either,” Landon said softly. “I stuck around. I raised you. I kept clothes on your back and food in your belly. And I’m still letting your grown ass sleep under my roof and eat my groceries. A little respect would be nice. So would an apology.”
“Sorry,” I grumbled. I knew I’d crossed a line. My father didn’t have to answer the phone when I called at one in the morning. He didn’t have to get me out of jail either. And he was allowing me to live in his house rent-free, which was the only thing that spared me from having to room with five other dudes to afford a janky apartment on my pitiful, gas-station-cashier salary.
“Just ease up with the attitude, okay?” Landon said. “Oh, and don’t think you’re not paying me back that bail money and the lawyer fees and whatever the hell else I end up having to spend. Consider this a loan, and trust me, I will be keeping a tally.”
I opened my eyes and glanced at my father, whose attention was focused on the darkened road. A streetlamp briefly lit the inside of the truck, and in those few seconds of illumination, I could see Landon’s jaw clenched tight through his heavy beard. “Fine. And . . . thanks. I’m sorry for being a dick.”
Landon dipped his head, acknowledging the apology. “I hope you know I’m not trying to be an asshole, kid. But you’re not Peter Pan, and this isn’t Neverland. You need to start getting your shit together, and you won’t be able to do that if you’re out tagging at all hours of the night. Grow up, Poe. I can’t
tolerate this behavior forever. One day I’ll hit my limit, and you’ll be out the door.”
I believed the threat in my father’s words. I knew someday he’d reach the end of his rope and give my ungrateful ass the boot. But when I closed my eyes again, all I could think about was the backpack and cannons I’d lost. Premium-quality spray paint confiscated as evidence. Some of the cans belonged to my best friend, Blue. Damn. That was going to piss him off. I’d have to pick up a few more shifts at the gas station to buy replacements.
At least the cops had let me keep my skateboard, and they hadn’t gotten my piece book either. It was filled front to back with ideas for both past and future projects. If that fell into the hands of the police, I’d be well and truly fucked—along with several other members of my crew.
For once my shitty attention span had come in handy.
Jericho
I was finishing up my last client of the day when one of my artists, Pete, stood in the door and cleared his throat. “Uh. Jer?”
I hated being called Jer. Hated it. “Yeah, Pee?”
He didn’t get it. “Mikey called in again.”
I closed my eyes, pushing the chair back and setting down the tattoo machine. My client, Landon Montgomery, gave me a sympathetic look and a shake of his head. He owned the garage next to my shop, Permanent Ink. He knew all about dealing with staff who had commitment problems. I glowered at the empty desk and said disgustedly, “That’s, what? Sixth time in a month? Fuck that kid. He’s done.”
Pete nodded. “You want me to stick around while you finish up here?”
It was late, almost seven thirty, and I doubted we’d be that busy for the last half hour. Maybe if it were the weekend, but on a Wednesday? Probably not. “I got it. See you later.”
“Cool.” Pete gave a wave and disappeared.
“‘Jer’?”
I glanced at Landon as I picked up my machine. “I know.” I went back to work on his tattoo, which was a cherry-red vintage Mustang and part of an elaborate sleeve we’d been working on for the last four years. Landon had been one of my first clients when I’d opened Permanent Ink, and we’d gotten to be good friends in that time. Enough that he knew to never fucking call me Jer.
“Mikey . . . I thought he was a good one,” Landon said, in reference to my—former—front desk receptionist.
I shrugged, dipping the machine in the red ink and turning his arm a bit to do the shading. “If you count showing up mostly on time for four weeks and not stealing money or trying to give piercings to underage girls for sex after hours as good, yeah.” I was still mad about that. I seemed to have the worst luck when it came to front desk receptionists. “Not too high of a bar, there.”
Landon made a sympathetic noise. “You still got that beer in your fridge? We should have one when you’re done. Hell, I could use one right now.”
“Yeah, I think I have a couple.” I glanced up at him briefly. “What’s up?”
He sighed. “Guess.”
“What’d he do this time?” I went back to shading, preparing myself to hear another story about Landon’s son, Poe. The kid was twenty-three and, according to Landon, both the joy and bane of his existence.
“Motherfucker got arrested for damaging public property last week. Again.” Landon shook his head. His beard swayed gently with the motion. Landon looked exactly like a guy who’d named his son after Edgar Allan Poe should look—graying beard, tattoos, and a never-ending supply of work shirts with his name on them. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with him, Jericho. I really don’t.”
“Where’d he hit this time?”
“Where’d he tag,” Landon corrected me, and I thought he was only being half-sarcastic about that. I knew he hated that Poe got in so much trouble, but he was also impressed with his kid’s talent. “Some building on Sidney.”
My brows rose. “Yeah?” I’d driven past there the other day, on my way home from a concert on nearby Arsenal. “The bells? I saw that, actually. Wasn’t half-bad.” It was a lot better than that. Poe was clearly a gifted artist. But spray-painting other people’s property wasn’t the best way to show it off. “That damn building’s an eyesore.”
Landon snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe if someone else’s kid had gotten picked up tagging it, I wouldn’t be so annoyed. Why’s he keep doing this? If he’d show the same determination to get a better job as he did spray-painting buildings, he’d be out of my goddamn house by now.”
I smiled and finished up with the shading, pushing the chair back and grabbing the squirt bottle of green soap to clean off the blood and plasma from the fresh tattoo, wiping it with a paper towel. “You’d miss him.”
“I motherfucking would not,” Landon muttered. “I just don’t know what else to do.” He glanced at me as I wrapped the tattoo and taped it securely. “Except whine to you and drink a beer.”
I stood up and patted him on the shoulder as I made my way back to the small break room. The two beers were in the bottom, the so-called “crisper” drawer that had never before seen a vegetable and probably never would. Everyone who worked here knew it was my drawer, though, and if there were a few beers in there . . . they better stay there until I decided to drink them.
I carried the beers back and handed one to Landon, then set about cleaning up my area. “I was a punk when I was younger, you know,” I reminded him. I didn’t have kids and had no idea how to relate, but Landon knew my story and how I’d been far from perfect. “I ended up okay.”
“Too bad I don’t know anyone in San Diego,” Landon deadpanned, and I laughed. I’d been sent there to my mom’s sister when I was sixteen for doing stupid shit like vandalism (though admittedly without Poe’s talent and apparently extensive array of materials) and petty theft, but it was when I discovered drugs that my parents reached their breaking point.
Getting out of North County had been helpful, but it wasn’t what had turned me from a future hooligan to a future business owner. That had all been Chris, who’d caught me dealing drugs in front of his store. He’d decided, for whatever reason, that I was worth a blistering lecture and a chance to do something besides inevitably ending up in jail.
Landon drank his beer, still telling me about Poe and his brush with the law. I’d seen the kid around, obviously. But usually when I went over to Landon’s to watch a game or have a few beers, Poe was either working the late shift at the gas station, out with his friends, or down in the basement.
“I have to pay these lawyer fees to keep him out of jail,” Landon continued when I finally finished and sat down with my own beer. I took a long pull, enjoying the satisfying, cold taste after a long day spent tattooing. “Someone better show up with a Maserati that needs the works. Christ.” He made a face, then glanced at his beer. “I wish you had more of these.”
“One’s enough. You just got a tattoo.”
Outside my tattoo room, the front desk phone rang. I glanced at my watch. It was ten after eight, and we were technically closed. It made me think of Mikey, who hopefully knew better than to show up here ever again.
That reminded me. I glanced at Landon, thinking about what he’d said about Poe. “So, you know how I need a new front desk receptionist?”
Landon gave me a droll look. “I wasn’t asking for a job, man, but thanks.”
“Not for you, dumbass. Poe.” I should be so lucky to have Landon working in my shop. He knew what the word responsibility meant and had a fierce work ethic. Mikey had a problem counting the drawer, had never figured out how to load the paper in the credit card machine, and a horrible habit of saying things were “wicked” even though he’d grown up in Chesterfield.
Landon narrowed his eyes at me. “You seriously want to hire my son after I told you he got arrested? Again?”
“He doesn’t think he’s an amateur piercer, does he?”
Landon shook his head, but he didn’t smile at my joke. “Jericho, I— That’s nice of you, but I can’t ask you to do that. Fuck, if Poe—if Poe fucked up . . .�
��
“Then Poe fucks up,” I said bluntly. “It’s not you. We’re cool.” I took a swig of my beer. “As long as you don’t peel that tat and tell me it faded in a week.”
“Still.” Landon stood, flexing his arm a little. He tapped his fingers on the bandage until he saw me glaring at him, then dropped his hand. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Here’s the thing,” I said, slowly. “The reason I got my shit together was because someone gave my criminal ass some direction. Your kid might be a punk—hey, like father like son, right?—but he’s definitely got talent.” And at least he wasn’t mixed up dealing drugs like I’d been in my own misspent youth. I didn’t think Landon would put up with that for a hot minute.
“In defacing public property?” Landon’s brows drew together.
“Art,” I said, though I knew Landon was being cranky on purpose. “Maybe he’d like to learn how to actually put it to good use. And make money doing it, instead of a police record.”
Landon crossed his arms. “You’re not giving Poe a tattoo machine,” he said flatly.
“Not right away.” I picked up mine. It was wiped clean, ready for the morning. I studied it, all shining chrome and gleaming black metal. This simple thing had given me a new path in life, and if I could do the same thing for someone else, especially the son of my best friend . . .
“But if he showed up and worked the desk until I found someone who won’t no-show me, and if he proved himself, I’d be willing to give him a shot at an apprenticeship. Maybe it’d keep him out of trouble.”
Landon didn’t say anything for a long moment. “That’s— Dude, that’s pretty goddamn nice of you to offer.” He sounded a little wary, and I didn’t blame him. Landon and I had both learned the hard way that things that sounded too good to be true usually were.
“Like I said, man. Tattooing got me on the straight and narrow, so.” I cleared my throat at his snort of laughter. “Figure of speech, that’s all. Maybe I could help Poe out.”
“I bet you could, but my problem is . . . I don’t know about Poe. He’s my son and I love him, and I know he inherited his mother’s ADHD, but he’s also not that trustworthy. And you’re my best friend, dude. I don’t want to lose my sweet tattoo discount because my kid’s more interested in misdemeanors than a job.” Landon wasn’t looking at me, and I knew it was more than that. He was worried somehow that he’d have to step in for his son over his best friend, and he didn’t want to be put in that position.
