Vanessa lowered her head into her hands. She felt tears stinging her eyes. She looked up quickly at her grandmother. “Who took the money out of my mother’s account?”
Bertha Mae White leaned forward and stared directly into her grand daughter’s eyes. “Your guess is as good as mine,”
Vanessa blinked and then sat slowly back in her chair.
She changed the house after your mother…you know, Jalissa had said.
The morning that she had been told about her mother’s death, aunt Callista had left with the police to identify her mother’s body. But after doing that…maybe she got possession of mama’s personal effects; her identification. And maybe Callista had gone to the bank and used that identification to make a withdrawal. She didn’t look like her mother but they had some similar qualities…
Bertha Mae continued to talk, her voice quieter but just as firm. “So there is no trust fund. There’s only the money that was left to me; the money that I’m giving to you. When I feel that you’re ready for it.”
Vanessa felt like fainting. Everything in her life had once again gone upside down, and even though her aunt had never fooled her, it destroyed something in her that the woman’s treachery could be so far reaching.
Everything is Everything book 2 is coming August 2014 to Amazon, Barnes and Noble and AllRomance e-books.
In book 2 of this gritty urban drama, Pepper Pace continues the story of Vanessa; a multiracial young woman, where the secrets of the past continues to push her into places that are beyond her control. And Scotty, the ghetto hardened white man who finds salvation in his childhood first love. In book 2 of this romance, reminiscent of the 70’s era street literature books, Pepper Pace continues this action packed story of love, betrayal and secrets…and whether Scotty and Vanessa’s love can endure through out the decades.
About the Author
Pepper Pace stories span the gamut from humorous to heartfelt, however the common theme is crossing boundaries.
Pepper's unique stories deal with taboo topics such as mental illness and homelessness. Readers find themselves questioning their own sense of right and wrong, attraction and desire.
In addition to writing, the author is also an artist, an introverted recluse, a self proclaimed empath and a foodie.
You may contact the author at [email protected]
TATTOOED MOON
Tiana Laveen
BLURB:
Julian Savant is a man on a mission. Growing up in Athens Georgia, he remained somewhat removed from the urban jungle of bigger cities. In this vibrant student town an hour’s drive from the Atlanta metropolis, he created his own domain in the ownership of a tattoo salon. It didn’t take long for his beautiful, captivating designs, the talent of his charismatic staff, and the capable management of his business to gain widespread attention. One day, his seemingly polar opposite walks through the door—intelligent and classy accountant, Milan Parker. Little does he know, their lives run parallel as they have both experienced recent traumatic loss. Milan finds herself strangely attracted to the eccentric Julian, and through the inking of her flesh, as well as his touch on her heart, she finds a kindred spirit with whom to begin her transformation. The two find themselves giving in to temptations, and Milan cannot resist as this one man from the opposite side of the tracks tattoos his intentions right across her soul…
~***~
DEDICATION:
This story is dedicated to everyone that has lost someone that they loved. You see, this story was almost complete when one of the most important people in my life, passed away. Rest in peace, Applesmith (my grandmother). I finished the last chapter while at the hospital, hours after she had passed away. The entire experience was surreal. I never knew that I would soon be experiencing the painful type of loss that is detailed in this story. She was a cheerleader of my writing, a good friend, a confidante, and a woman that I loved and respected. I miss you, Applesmith, and I will continue to call you, to chit-chat, complain and laugh, knowing that somewhere out there, you can hear me.
~***~
“My grief and pain are mine. I have earned them. They are part of me. Only in feeling them do I open myself to the lessons they can teach.” – Anne Wilson Schaef
~***~
CHAPTER ONE
Julian sank low in his white chair, the noisy pleather crunching under his dark, loose-fitting jeans. The heat from the work lamps made his skin dewy with a thin layer of sweat. Buoyant, seductive swirls of Nang Champa incense eddied past his face, causing his nostrils to flare as he inhaled the scent. The intoxicating fragrance intermingled with the previous cherry stick aroma he’d lit sometime earlier in the evening. He removed his rubber ink-stained gloves with a snap, then tossed them haphazardly in the nearby trashcan as he waved a lazy goodbye to his last customer for the day.
‘Soul Inscriptions’, a tattoo salon wedged between the reddened brick walls of a tall and skinny historic building, was his baby, the tattooed child he’d created with his own ink-covered hands. It flaunted an attached new age store filled with his unique blend of healthy energy beverages, assorted scented candles, spiritual what-nots, a few ‘naughty’ toys for the sensually adventurous, and one-of-a-kind massage oils, blended on site. The place was now empty, the patrons long gone. The old LP records from yesteryear and a plethora of holistic healing remedies were getting more business than he’d ever anticipated with the influx of new college students and transplants from larger cities moving into Athens, Georgia. Matter of fact, business had never been so good, and his clientele was building by long leaps and bountiful bounds. It fast became apparent that he was constructing a substantial status, and he’d been completely taken off guard in the whirlwind.
Word was spreading around town that he was damn good, and competitively priced for his advanced skillset. He couldn’t handle the new demand, so he elicited help. He’d hired another artist — Alex, another sought after skin tagger — to help with the overwhelming workload, and decided to use some of the additional revenue to spruce up the place. His original hand-drawn signs, though magnificent if he said so himself, just weren’t cutting it anymore. They had been replaced with a professional sign boasting of bright vermillion and neon clover radiant letters, right along with his favorite trio of goopy, hypnotic orange lava lamps, set atop a bookshelf housing a hard-bound book collection on the history of body modification. He ran his hand down his slightly scruffy face then glanced at a nearby mirror, watching himself twirl about in the client chair as he stole precious breaths and slippery moments of serene peace. He sized up what he saw before him as if he’d never seen his very own reflection before.
As he glared into his cerulean eyes, a bit duller than usual as his tiresome body became more complacent, he could see that his face reflected the turmoil inside — he was severely sleep deprived. His typically vibrant eyes were full of shadows, his mouth dry, and he’d rarely been so self-negligent. But business had been fierce, and he had important things to tend to. Matter of fact, this was the first day in weeks that the shop was quiet, and only because they were now closed and he’d sat down for a long needed breather.
I better get home…
He stood to his feet, snuffed out the incense with wetted fingers, turned off the sleepy ceiling fan and lava lights, and made his way to the money safe in the back of the place, hidden away in a slender closet to remove the nightly deposit. After he turned the lock on the storeroom and placed his fingers against the cold, chrome, ridged dial, the phone rang, chilling him as the shrillness interrupted his tranquility. He stepped out of the enclosure and glanced at the turtle shaped clock on the wall, its little avocado-colored legs moving back and forth and its long neck swinging a tiny head with a silly, hand-painted grin on its emerald face.
The damn thing is still slow… What a coincidence.
He smirked at the paradox and looked at the other side of the room, noting his very first hire’s station, Cedrick’s work area. There, atop a thickly bound mount
ain of tattoo books and illustration magazines, stood a digital clock with vibrant red numbers. It read 11:03 P.M. It was Thursday evening, and they officially closed at 9:30 P.M. on weekdays. He slumped his shoulders, sighed, then marched towards the ringing siren, his facial muscles taut with annoyance.
“Soul Inscriptions, Julian speaking…” The lack of enthusiasm in his tone delivered loud and clear to the caller, no doubt. He’d half attempted to put some life into it, some oomph, but he simply didn’t have the strength.
“Um, yes, I was thinking of getting a tattoo. I’d like to know if—”
“Ma’am, we’re closed.” He cut her off at the pass, loath to waste her time, or his, with a long drawn out story. “Call back at nine tomorrow, and I can talk to you about it.” He stifled a yawn.
“Oh, I thought you guys were open all night.” The disappointment was clear in her tone.
“It has been all night.”
“No, I mean like, twenty-four hours.”
“No ma’am. I’m the owner, and I definitely wouldn’t want any of my employees working hours like that. It would interfere with the quality of their labor. I’m the only one allowed to have a shaky hand,” he joked, feeling like talking a bit after all. He was met with stony silence. “I don’t really have a shaky hand. I was just…well, never mind.” He huffed and ran his palm across his forehead, now eager again to put the awkward conversation to rest. “What’s your name? I can write it down and set you up an appointment tomorrow.”
The woman hesitated, as if unsure. Julian was accustomed to this sort of thing. It was kind of like someone calling a rehabilitation center for drug intervention. They knew they wanted it, they knew they needed it, but the fear was overwhelming nevertheless.
“Let me guess, this is your first tattoo?” He tucked the phone in between his shoulder and neck and crossed his arms as he resigned himself to once again engage the caller.
“Yes.” She laughed lightly, a sound paired with what seemed like a sigh of relief.
“Okay, look.” He waved his hand around, as if she were actually standing in front of him, face to face. “Like I said, I’m the owner, and I’ve had this shop for three years. I’ve been doing tattoos professionally for eight years though. We do quality work here. We’ve received a lot of awards and recognitions, I’m not really into all of that, but hey, that’s something folks like to know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “No one has tried to sue me,” he said with a grin. “Knock on wood, and that should put you at ease.”
She laughed. “Well, that’s good…” He could hear the beam in her tone.
“And I promise to be gentle, and give you exactly what you want.” He found himself morphing into his inner salesman, despite being dead on his feet.
“You own the place and still do tattoos?”
“Of course. I’m here practically all the time, too. Now, let me get your name and number, and you let me know when you want to come in.”
“Mmmm, okay. My name is Milan — Milan Parker. I work until six in the evening, and I’m honestly a little concerned about Friday activity. I bet you guys are really busy on the weekends.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but privacy can be arranged. We have areas in the shop that can be roped off with a curtain and one room in the back for special situations.” He shoved the receptionist’s papers around on the front desk, until he’d unearthed the appointment book that he demanded still be done by hand. “Here we go…” He flipped the damned thing open. “…Okay, Milan, please give me your number and I can get you in, say…looks like I can squeeze you in for…” he narrowed his eyes as he searched almost in vain for a blank spot, “… a consultation at 6:45. Would that work?”
“A consultation? I was coming in to actually get it. If I don’t, I’ll lose my nerve!” She laughed a bit louder, though her voice shook with the all-too-familiar touch of apprehension.
He smiled and nodded, feeling himself become even more engaged in the conversation as the softness of her voice and the articulation of her words sounded rather sexy.
I wonder if she looks as good as she sounds? Probably not…
“I never give a first-timer a tattoo without a consultation first, Ms. Parker.”
“Really?” She genuinely sounded surprised.
“Really. Here is how my policy works.” He cleared his throat to unload his spiel. “You’d come in, we’d talk about it, you know, the design, the reason for it, all of that. Then, after you leave, I require a twenty-four hour wait time, and then you return and I do the work. This is permanent; this is for life. Not to mention, my work is not cheap in cost; it’s competitively priced, but you are going to shell out some money for a good, quality design. Neither my work, nor my two employees’ work, is lackluster, either. I hand picked them because they meet or exceed my expectations.”
“Hmmm, well, that puts me in a predicament as far as me running scared. I think that is really smart, you know, how you have a wait time, but I don’t know...” She sighed on the other end.
“You could always go to a different shop,” he offered. “I have recommendations actually, of salons that are pretty good where they will give you one as soon as you walk in. It’s just that…” He put his hand across his chest. “I don’t operate that way. But, I want you to be happy so you just tell me, and I can direct you to another place if you are concerned about my first-timer policy.”
There was a long pause, and though he was tired, he soon discovered that his patience was untested. He had no qualms giving her all the time she needed to sort it out.
“No, I think I should follow your advice, actually. Alright, I’ll be in for the consultation tomorrow at 6:45. My number is 762-971-1002.”
“Alright, got it.” He tilted his body around in an unnatural way as he busily scrawled her information down with a fast left hand. “If you need to cancel, or are running a bit behind, just give me a buzz.”
“I will, and thanks… See you tomorrow.” And she disconnected the call before he could give his farewell. He hung up the black, cordless phone covered in peeling red rose stickers and ivory crossbones, tossed the appointment book to the side, and made his way back to the safe.
I can’t wait to get into my damn bed… I should come in at noon tomorrow, but I can’t. Lonnie’s appointment is at ten, so I have to be here. If I don’t get some decent shuteye though, I’m going to fall asleep at the damn needle!
~***~
Milan had been staring at the same damn screen for over five minutes. Nothing had changed, except her growing annoyance. Martin had been hovering over her like a storm cloud. His pale, freckled arms were crossed and his all-too-familiar over-powering cologne made her nose hairs tickle and curl.
Is he embalmed in it?
This was his habit. To come. Stand. And stare. He never said, ‘excuse me’ or ‘hello’, no…none of that. He’d just wait for her to acknowledge him first, as if he were some red-headed much sought after top-notch celebrity that she should feel privileged to have in her company. She kept right on typing and reading, refusing to even blink her eyes in the fucker’s general direction.
Hers was one of three large cubicles. She’d given it a cozy feel with a few adornments, including a small cactus with whimsical Christmas ornaments wrapped around it’s needles, a photograph of her and her mother in a yellow, ceramic frame, and a molasses jar filled with wrapped gourmet peppermint candies. The office chatter was at a minimum this particular day, and the occasional burst of belly churned laughter or husky whisper about the game would break up the monotony for a brief spell every now and again. She almost forgot Martin was there, but then, she caught his bloated likeness in the computer reflection. Today, she simply wasn’t having it. The last few weeks had been emotionally brutal. She’d been beat along her heart, and her mind hung on by a loose, practically serrated thread. Everyone knew what she’d been through, but Martin didn’t seem to care. There was no acknowledgement, no kind words —sincere or not. His paper thin lips had not offered on
e utterance of consideration. More seconds passed, and the jerk still stood there, huffing and puffing, trying to draw her to him with his damn near pornographic heavy breathing. Two more minutes passed, and she refused to budge. She scrolled down the screen, inputting information after reading her fill from the last report. Two could play this game. At that moment, she had the patience of Mother Theresa in a hospital full of dying children vying for their last wish to be granted…
Dying…
You douche. Why can’t you just say, ‘Excuse me?’ like everyone else?
She stomped the keyboard with her gel-nail fingertips, as if all ten of her flying digits were marching beasts, beating out paragraph-ridden drumbeats for the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade.
He loudly cleared his throat, as if that would tempt her, reel her in.
Persistent fucker aren’t you, Martin? If you used half this effort to do a good job, he’d be a force to reckon with…
Instead, she stuck it to him by reaching over her keyboard and paperwork to pick up her work phone and dial a vendor. His fate would be sealed.
“Hi Fran! This is Milan Parker from Collins Accounting Services…yes, I did receive your email, thank you so much!” She added extra cheer in her voice, causing the man to turn and storm off. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him hightail it in the reflection of her computer.
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