Lilith--Blood Ink

by Dana Fredsti

  “It’s a good thing, you dope. In a town where rich assholes don’t even bother to leave tips, it’s really nice.” She lifted her wine. “Here’s to you.”

  We clinked glasses and drank.

  “I got an email from Kyra a few days ago,” Eden said casually. Kyra had been the makeup supervisor on Pale Dreamer. We’d bonded over our dislike of Portia, the lead actress, but I hadn’t heard from her since I’d gotten out of the hospital.

  “How’s she doing?” I asked somewhat grudgingly.

  “She’s working on a low-budget indie in Mexico.” She paused, then added, “Connor’s the DP.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.” I tried for nonchalant, but ended up sounding stilted.

  “He never contacted you, did he?”

  “Nope. But why should he be any different than the rest of the gang. After all the ‘Lee, you saved our lives, you’re so awesome,’ I’m now totally persona non grata.”

  “I’m sure that’s not—”

  “Oh, it is,” I insisted, not even trying to hide the bitterness. “Do you realize you’re the only person from that production who still talks to me? It’s like having professional leprosy. No one wants to catch it.”

  There wasn’t much Eden could say. She knew I was right. She gave a disgusted huff and shook her head. “Well, that’s their loss. And they’re stupid. I haven’t had any problems getting work.”

  My turn to shake my head, even as I laughed. “Eden, you’d get hired even if you were besties with Hitler.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but—” Eden’s attention suddenly shifted as the front door creaked open. “Hel-lo…”

  I turned and saw a tall, well-built man with his back to us, a long-sleeved cotton thermal doing little to disguise the musculature underneath. Designer jeans hugging an exceedingly nice butt. Dark auburn hair, a more sedate shade than Manny’s fiery mane. I could see why Eden’s jaw hung ajar, although not enough to be unattractive. I don’t think her face is programmed for unflattering expressions.

  Eden stared appreciatively. “He’s tasty, am I right?”

  “Did you get a look at his face yet?” I asked.

  “Actually, he backed into the room.”

  “So maybe that’s his best side.”

  Mr. Hunky Butt called to someone still outside the bar, voice deep and pleasantly raspy. The hackles rose on the back of my neck as it stirred some weird and unpleasant sense memory. I recognized the voice, but hell if I could remember the specifics.

  A couple of giggling starlets—probably actresses-slash-waitresses-slash-models—sauntered in, draping themselves on the redhead’s shoulders and arms like expensive custom-made accessories. You know the type. Six feet of impossibly slender limbs and torso—although if you took their high heels away, they’d lose four inches. Heavy makeup—too heavy for this early in the day—carefully applied. The kind of hair that didn’t need a fan or a slow-motion headshake to look like it’d just escaped from a shampoo commercial.

  “What’s wrong?” Eden raised an eyebrow.

  “His voice sounds familiar, but I don’t recognize him.”

  “Maybe you only saw him from the front before,” she said with a smirk.

  She had a point.

  Hunky Butt and his entourage finally came all the way inside, neglecting to shut the door behind them.

  Then he turned around, light from one of the wall sconces next to the door falling across his face. Strong, almost coarse features. Pale-blue eyes, tan skin. I knew exactly why I’d recognized his voice. I’d run into him at Arlo’s a few months back. He’d been a condescending jerk, oozing both confidence and arrogance while dissing my taste in beer—although to be fair, I’d tossed in some PBR for the boys along with the good stuff. He’d just moved into a place up the road, the DuShane mansion, a genuine 1920s movie-star palace that was rumored—most likely correctly—to be gruesomely haunted.

  Figures, I thought. Typical Hollywood show-boater, making sure to be seen with not one, but two hot babes on his arm before lunch. How many women did he take with him on a typical night on the town?

  Never mind. I didn’t really want to know.

  “I’ve definitely met him,” I said, still looking at the man. “He may have a magnificent backside, but the man’s an ass.”

  I wondered what kind of supe this guy was. I had a pretty good radar when it came to picking supes out of a crowd of humans, but I couldn’t always identify specifics. It’s kind of like wine-tasting, except instead of trying to identify grape varietals, you’re trying to figure out if someone is a naiad or a dryad.

  His companions most likely had a dollop of succubae in their genetic makeup, but they seemed more insipid than sexy. Proof that even supes weren’t perfect. There was no denying he was attractive, however. A real bad boy—for those who went for the type.

  Not me, though. Nope.

  “Well, hell,” Eden said.

  I pulled my attention away from the newcomer. Eden was smiling, but it was as if someone had made a facial cast of the expression, not the real thing. This was the first time I’d ever seen my friend appear less than authentic. She looked like she was acting, like Nicolas Cage on most of his movie posters.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’m familiar with him,” Eden replied. “Cayden Doran. He does stunts. And also maybe directs. Or writes. Or something.” She waved a hand in a gesture as vague as the information she’d just imparted.

  The stunt part did not surprise me. There was something edgy about him, the same kind of vibe I’d gotten off a lot of other stuntmen in the past. Willing to try or do anything no matter how dangerous. Extreme. I’d bet he’d climbed and jumped off of more than one figurative mountain just because it was there. The only real question was why I hadn’t run into him on a job before now.

  I glanced over my shoulder, feeling the weight of someone staring at me. Sure enough, Doran was looking in our direction. He said something to his companions, pointed to a table, and headed our way.

  “He’s coming over here,” I said in an undertone.

  “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room,” Eden said suddenly.

  “But—”

  “Be right back.” Standing, Eden walked quickly past the far end of the bar, vanishing into a hallway that led to the restrooms, leaving me feeling abandoned as Cayden Doran approached the booth.

  I stiffened in my comfy padded seat. Last thing I wanted to do was to talk to this guy, especially without Eden to run interference. He’d been an arrogant jackass during the few minutes I’d spent in his company the first time we’d met. When he stopped in front of my booth, I didn’t smile or give any indication that his presence was welcome. He sat down across from me in the seat Eden had vacated.

  “Too dark to be PBR,” he said with a nod toward my glass. “Guess you managed to upgrade since the first time I saw you.”

  I glared at him with open dislike, not flattered he’d remembered me. “I didn’t invite you to sit down.”

  “Waiting for an invitation means running the risk of not getting invited anywhere interesting.”

  “So, what? You’re a professional party crasher?”

  “Not anymore.” He leaned toward me, managing to invade my personal space even with a table between us. “These days I’m invited everywhere. There are even people who would pay to have me at their parties.”

  “Wow. You super-sized your ego when you ordered it, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Is it ego if it’s true?”

  “Is it true if it’s delusional?” I shot back.

  He grinned at me, something not entirely sane dancing in those blue eyes.

  I didn’t bother to hide my distaste. “How about you go back to your own little party?” I jerked my thumb toward the table where his two companions sat pouting, probably because he was paying attention to me instead of them. “I don’t think they like being ignored, whereas it would delight me no end.”

  He ignored my hint. “
I’d rather talk to you.”

  “Honestly, does the fact that I don’t want anything to do with you matter at all?”

  That grin again. “Did you know that most of the time when someone starts a sentence with ‘honestly,’ it means they’re lying? In your case, you’re lying to both of us.”

  I could have thrown my drink in his face. But that would’ve been a waste of damn fine beer. For the first time in my life, I wished I had Pabst Blue Ribbon in my glass. Heresy, I know. Mortals have been struck down for less blasphemous thoughts.

  “Is there a point to any of this?” I asked, forcing myself to stay calm. “Because my friend will be back any minute and you’re in her seat.”

  “You’re Lee Striga.” It wasn’t a question as much as a confirmation.

  “And you’re Cayden Doran. What of it?”

  “I might have a job for you.”

  Oh, there were so many other things I expected him to say, things that would’ve enabled me to slam the metaphorical door in his face. After the demoralizing conversation I’d had with Faustina, however, I was interested despite myself. This pissed me off no end.

  “This looks good,” he said, picking up my glass and staring into the dark caramel-colored depths. “What is it?”

  “Triple Threat.”

  “Triple Threat, eh?” He raised the glass and he—

  Oh, he did not just take a sip of my beer. But he did.

  “Not bad,” he allowed. “Are you a triple threat, Lee Striga?”

  I stared at him, a death stare that should’ve disintegrated him where he sat.

  “You just drank half my beer,” I said. “I wouldn’t let my boyfriend get away with that, let alone some jackass I barely know.”

  He smirked. Either he liked to be insulted or didn’t care what anyone thought. My money was on the latter. “You’ve been hanging around the wrong kind of men. The type of guys who drink PBR. The type without the balls to do much of anything without asking first.”

  “Which is why they’re all still alive.”

  “Really? You seem like the kind of woman who doesn’t mind a little danger. A little uncertainty.”

  “Really?” I mimicked his tone. “And you’ve figured that out in the space of two random encounters, both of which have taken up less than ten minutes combined?” I shook my head. “You’ll have to forgive me if I tell you you’re full of shit. Scratch that. I don’t give a flying fart if you forgive me or not.”

  He laughed, unoffended despite my best efforts. “Did I give you my card the first time we met?”

  I shrugged. “Sorry, don’t remember. You didn’t make that much of an impression on me.”

  As if by magic, a black business card appeared in one of his hands. He slapped it on the table in front of me. “Don’t lose it. I don’t hand these out to just anyone.”

  I stared at him. “You really think you’re something, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I know I am.”

  “If you know as much about me as you seem to think you do, then you’ll know some people are actually afraid I might kill them. In your case, it would be a temptation.”

  He gave a roar of laughter. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s been tried more than once.”

  “No real surprise there.” I looked over at the table where his companions alternately pouted and glared in my direction. “Are we done? You’re in my friend’s seat and I’m tired of getting the death glare from the Barbie twins.”

  “Call me.” With that, he stood up and rejoined his companions without a backward glance.

  I didn’t bother answering, but I tucked his card in my purse.

  * * *

  “Is this the place?” Liz gestured toward the alley with a wide swoop of one hand—the one holding her plastic cup. Pink slush went flying, spattering her three friends. Star shrieked as frozen daiquiri dripped down her ample cleavage, staining her formerly pristine white blouse.

  “God, Liz, you are such an asshole!” Tiffany said, emerald eyes flashing annoyance. The slush had splashed her shoes, which she swore were Manolo Blahniks. Her friends already suspected they were knock-offs, and this confirmed it. If they’d been the real thing, Tiff would have ripped Liz’s drunken ass a new one.

  Cherry took her fair share of daiquiri splatter too, but didn’t care. She was just happy she’d worn black this evening and didn’t have to waste time being pissed at Liz. She’d rather just enjoy the evening.

  Bourbon Street was a notorious tourist destination in the French Quarter of New Orleans—certainly not the place where locals went when they wanted to get drunk without spending too much. They also carded, and all three girls were a few months shy of their twenty-first birthdays. Still, it was a fun place to hang out and meet cute guys there to party. Some of them—usually older ones—didn’t mind sharing their to-go drinks in return for some flirtation.

  “Girls Gone Wild missed out,” Cherry’s stepmother Jazz sniped as the girls had been heading out the door.

  “They’re just high-spirited,” Cherry’s dad had replied, not for the first time. Dad had more tolerance than her stepmother. Then again, he’d known the girls since they were kids, pre-cleavage and attitudes.

  “Sluts, more like.” Jazz’s comment had been just loud enough to be audible. Cherry had heard it, and so had her friends.

  “Your mom is such a bitch,” Tiffany said now, as if reading Cherry’s mind.

  “She’s not my mom,” Cherry said for the umpteenth time. “I swear, I don’t know why Daddy married her. She’s, what, like four years older than me?”

  “Careful, Cherry,” Star said. “You sound like Chutney in Legally Blonde.”

  “I don’t need to perm my hair,” Cherry said with the smugness of truth.

  “C’mon, you guys!” Liz gave another drunken wave, and the four entered the alley, teetering on uneven cobblestones not meant to accommodate three-inch stiletto heels. Tiffany and Cherry clung to one another, following Liz and Star to a door set into a weathered brick wall that looked too old to house an establishment named LeRoy’s Ink Shop.

  Going inside, the girls expected to find some sort of pirate tavern, men with beards wearing puffy shirts and boots, with busty wenches on their laps, swigging from huge tankards of ale. Instead there were walls covered with artwork, tattoo samples, and a sign that read: IT’S ALL ABOUT THE PAIN. THE TATTOO IS JUST THE SOUVENIR. Chairs that could almost belong at a dentist’s office and a long counter with portfolios on top. Three women, two of which were working on clients. Those two could be twins—long brown hair, huge muddy green eyes and receding chins. Like frog princesses. Pretty in spite of themselves. Both smiled at the newcomers, then went back to their work.

  The third woman, a petite brunette who looked like she spent too much time in libraries, was currently unoccupied. She smiled and said, “Can I help you?”

  Tiffany, as usual, stepped forward and took charge. “Yes,” she said in her best “you are the help and don’t forget it” voice. “My friends and I want to get tattoos.”

  The girl’s eyebrow shot up at Tiffany’s tone, but she kept her own voice civil. “Well, you can see some examples on the walls.”

  Tiffany gave the girl and the artwork in question a quick disparaging glance. “If that’s the best you have, we’re wasting our time.” Cherry actually thought the art was way cool, but Tiffany never liked anything unless she knew she had the best of the best.

  The girl opened her mouth to reply, but before she’d begun, a deep, rich voice from the back of the store caught everyone’s attention. Her mouth snapped shut on whatever pithy insult she’d been intending to unleash.

  As for Cherry and her friends, even Tiffany’s attitude melted in the face of the warmth and charm oozing from the man stepping out from the back of the shop. Tall. Strong, aquiline features. Complexion an olive-toned tan. Eyes the color of smoky topaz. He smelled like spiced coffee and forbidden fruit.

  “We…” Tiffany gulped, staring into those dark eyes. “We’d like t
attoos. All of us.”

  The man smiled and nodded. “I’m LeRoy. I will be happy to help you lovely ladies choose the perfect ink for each of you.”

  Tiffany gave a self-satisfied smile that made Cherry want to slap her. “Our friend was here,” Tiffany continued. “She said she got a special tattoo.”

  Star nodded. “From a special book.”

  “That’s right,” Tiffany agreed. “She said the book wasn’t something that just anybody could look at.”

  “Ah,” LeRoy breathed. “Your friend chose the blue morpho design.”

  “Is that a butterfly?” Cherry asked. “If that’s a butterfly, that’s what Celia got.”

  “It’s really nice for a tramp stamp,” Tiffany added.

  LeRoy smiled. “I know just the book you speak of.” He pulled a thick book bound in brownish-red leather on the counter. “Here. My own special portfolio. Take a look and see if anything strikes your fancy.”

  All four girls felt like he was talking just to them alone. Had he placed one portfolio on the counter or four? None of them could remember, but when all was said and done, Tiffany chose an exotic flower in vivid shades of reds and purples that might be found in the heart of the Amazon. Liz was drawn to a stylized heart surrounded by black lace, like a Gothic valentine. Star, appropriately enough, chose a star in a simple design that seemed to glow with a life of its own, and Cherry picked a delicate pair of wings, like an angel’s, but black.

  All four girls wanted LeRoy to ink their tattoos—after all, they were his designs. He smiled apologetically and said that he could only do one, but his three apprentices—the three women in the shop—were more than up to the task. Tiffany insisted that she be the one to be inked by LeRoy himself. The other three girls grumbled, but knew better than to argue. Tiff was a total bitch when she didn’t get her own way.

  When all four tattoos were finished, and the girls were back on Bourbon Street, it didn’t seem as if any time had passed at all.

  The eternity of pain came later.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I knew I was going to call Cayden Doran. I had a feeling in my gut—the kind of churning that feels like indigestion, but is actually certainty that a course of action, however distasteful, is the right and necessary thing to do. Just in case I was wrong, though, I took some Pepto-Bismol. Then I forced myself to do something I’d never had to do before.