The Devil's Tattoo: A Rock Star Romance

by Amity Cross

  The Devil’s Tattoo

  A Rock Star Romance

  Amity Cross

  The Devil’s Tattoo (A Rock Star Romance) by Amity Cross

  *This book was originally published as The Devil’s Tattoo by Nicole R. Taylor in 2013. It has been significantly rewritten and edited.

  Copyright © 2013-17 by Amity Cross/Nicole R. Taylor

  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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book 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.

  All song titles, song lyrics, products, networks and brand names mentioned in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.

  Cover Design © Amity Cross / Nicole R. Taylor

  I don’t know where we’re going…

  But I’m sure it’s beautiful.

  Contents

  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

  Follow The Devil’s Tattoo On Tour!

  VIP Newsletter

  About the Author

  Other Books by Amity Cross

  Chapter 1

  Wandering down the clogged Melbourne city street, I smiled when I heard the docile tones of a busker playing a cover of The Doors’ song ‘Riders on the Storm.’

  Crossing the flow of foot traffic, my grin widened when I caught sight of my best friend, Dee. He was standing at his favorite busking spot, guitar in hand, playing to a group of pretty girls who’d stopped to check him out. Typical.

  When he saw me coming, he winked. I hung back, waiting as he finished playing to his adoring fans.

  When he was done, he set down his guitar and wiggled his eyebrows at me, making my cheeks flush as the group of girls glared with unmasked jealousy. “Hey, hot legs.”

  “’Sup, Dee, making any cash today?” I nudged his open guitar case with the toe of my scuffed combat boot.

  Pointing to the blue velvet interior, he said, “There are a couple of tenners in there, Zo Zo. The people have been showing me the love. I’m too hot to handle.”

  He threw an arm around me, tugged on my hair, and planted a kiss on my cheek. I breathed in his familiar scent of leather and musk as I pushed him off with a playful shove. I had long, dark-brown hair that hit my lower back, and wearing it in a braid was better than brushing it most days when I rolled out of bed at five a.m. for work.

  Dee and I have been best friends since our first year of high school when we were both twelve, and time had done nothing but solidify our friendship. Back then, we were both awkward outcasts, and we just fit together when we didn’t fit anywhere else. We ended up in different classes but still managed to hang out every chance we got. Now we were both twenty-four, and I couldn’t remember a week going by where I didn’t speak to him. I can’t even remember us having a fight that lasted more than an afternoon.

  The brisk mid-afternoon Melbourne swelled around us along with the sickly-sweet smell of the natural cosmetics and soap shop Dee was currently out front of. How he managed to sweet-talk the girls in there to plug in his amp for free, I’ll never know. I’d bet anyone a million bucks that they all have an epic crush on him.

  Dee busked here almost every day. He was the die-hard musician type—always on the lookout for his big break into stardom—with the charisma to match. Truthfully, he earned a bucketload playing for strangers on the street, but that’s the reality of being Dee. The awkward kid from high school grew up to be a smooth-talking, handsome, tattooed man. When the hell did that happen?

  “You off work for today?” he asked, propping his guitar against the shop front.

  “Yeah,” I said, burying my hands into the pockets of my leather biker jacket.

  I worked in the mailroom of a building on William Street—the business end of the city—for the past year and a half, sorting letters and packages for a law firm. It wasn’t glamorous, not like the hairdressing job I’d quit before it, but they didn’t care what I wore or that I had an arm full of tattoos as long as I did my job and exited by the side door. They learned quick smart that I put my head down and worked. For what must be the first time in history, they rewarded me with a slackened dress code.

  “Wanna play with me? I’ll take vocals,” he asked.

  “Hell, no.”

  The last two years had been hard, and everything had taken a massive hit, including my confidence. The only thing that kept me on the up and up was my guitar. I just couldn’t face the world anymore—resulting in me quitting my old job, cutting ties with everything I once was, and moving to the other side of the city—and the only one who stuck around was Dee. He gave me his beat-up black Stratocaster to practice on, promising it would take my mind off all the bullshit that had happened, and he was right on the money.

  I played every day, getting blisters on my fingers from nutting out some silly chord progression that should have been simple until I got it. I moved onto harder things and worked those out on my own too, and soon enough, life got a little easier, as well. I still hid from the world in my own shell, but I didn’t dwell on those things as much.

  As I got better and better with the guitar, I decided to buy my own and give Dee’s back. I now had a matte black Epiphone Les Paul with a pedal collection to rival Jack White’s, and Dee was jealous as hell. He still tried to get me to busk with him, and I still declined, but it had become a running joke now. Hey, Zo, wanna play with me? Hell, no.

  Dee laughed and shook his head. “One day, I’ll have you up there on a bloody stage, chicken.”

  “In your dreams, buddy.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows at me again. “I have the best dreams. Wanna hear one?”

  “Ugh.” I screwed up my face in disgust. “No thanks.”

  He bent down and started collecting the coins and notes from his case. “I’m cutting it early today. Are you going home?”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “Do you wanna go get a drink later?”

  “Sure. Anything to spend time with a hot woman.”

  With a mouth like that, it was no wonder girls fell over themselves when he was around. “You’ll never get a girlfriend if you keep flirting with me like that. You know I’m a dead end.”

  “If I’m still single at forty, I’m proposing to you.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh as I went to retrieve the other end of the amp’s power cord. “Deal.”

  After Dee was done blowing kisses to the girls in the shop, we walked the three blocks down to Flinders Street to catch the train home—Dee with his guitar and case full of shrapnel and me with the amp. It was only a small thing that weighed next to nothing, so I didn’t mind carrying it to the station.

  Dee lived in Prahran with dodgy roommates, and I lived across the highway in St Kilda in a one-bedroom shoebox. We were both within ten minutes of the same station, which made getting home by cab a hell of
a lot cheaper.

  We sat on a seat on the open platform, waiting for the next Sandringham train as people walked past us. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that. It was something we did all the time—I knocked off work, found Dee in the city, and we shared the ride home. A group of girls walked past and giggled, eyeing him as they passed. The thing about Dee, with his slicked back quiff and sunglasses, he looked like he was in a band even if he was only walking down the street. He was smooth as hell. Total ladies’ man. Sometimes, I think I was jealous of the attention he got.

  I snorted, and as I looked the opposite way, I saw someone interesting coming down the escalators. My eyes wouldn’t focus at first, but my brain registered this guy was worth a second look, but Dee elbowed me.

  “Train’s comin’.”

  I stood and watched the lights of the train approaching through the tunnel, and the guy passed us on the platform. He was a typical indie-looking guy with a shock of long, curly hair in his eyes. Eyes that looked at us indirectly. You know, like when you want to check someone out but attempt to be a little covert about it? He was trying at least. Me, I stared at him as he walked by. He looked very familiar, and I wondered where I’d seen him before.

  Dee looked at him over his sunglasses. “You know him?”

  I shrugged. “Isn’t he in that band The Stabs?”

  “Yeah. Bass player, I think.” I could tell Dee was disinterested.

  I knew exactly who it was. Will Strickland. Just one look at the guy and I was already picturing what it would be like to kiss him.

  I glanced down the platform, but he’d disappeared, but in his wake I felt a spark of loneliness so profound, I felt my heart twist. A guy like that’d never look twice at me.

  At that moment, the train pulled in next to the platform, and we dragged the gear into the carriage.

  Guys and me? Well, that was something I didn’t go near anymore. And guys in bands? That was something I especially didn’t go near. I absently rubbed the scar on my arm through the sleeve of my jacket and settled into a free seat next to Dee. Yeah, I definitely didn’t need a guy.

  But no matter what I did, I still thought about Will Strickland.

  Later that night, I met up with Dee for a drink like I’d promised—silly, giggly schoolgirl romance still on my mind.

  I was quickly developing a crush on a guy I didn’t even know. Seriously, it was like fangirling over a super-famous rock star. When I thought about it—and I was thinking about it overtime—Will Strickland was a rock star.

  Dee and I frequented a bar off Chapel Street, mainly for the cheap drinks and not the decor. It was called Ted’s Shed, and it looked exactly like its title. They served Mexican food in foil containers and alcohol in well-worn glasses. The place wasn’t exactly upper class, but the people were friendly, and it was within our price range, which was bargain basement. Because of this, it was always crammed with young locals. Students, artists, and hipsters. The posters on the wall were either Hawaiian themed or some kind of tattoo art, and every now and then, there was a fake potted plant strategically placed to hide a pole or an ugly wall of corrugated iron. The plastic hula girls on the bar and the fake flowers really topped it off like a cherry on an ice cream sundae. This place was what you would call kitsch on a grand scale.

  When I felt down, I’d come here to get a fluoro-colored cocktail. Eight bucks would get you a sugar hangover and a few hours of ignorant bliss. It was in my comfort zone and away from the regular crowd of people who once filled my past life.

  Dee sat with me at a lopsided table in the corner. He was scowling at his bright pink drink like it was going to sprout wings and steal his manhood. Mine was an obnoxious shade of orange and was already starting to help mute my thoughts about unobtainable happy endings.

  I stroked the scar on my arm that was hidden in among the Japanese dragon I’d had tattooed over it. I hadn’t realized I was doing it until Dee narrowed his eyes at me. When I broke my arm two years ago, it was the beginning of the end, and it’d never healed one hundred percent. I covered up something ugly with something beautiful in an attempt to move on. There hadn’t been much moving.

  “Is your arm worrying you?” Dee asked, watching my fingers.

  “No.” I shook my head and let my hand fall away. It was a nervous gesture I’d developed more than anything. My arm ached every now and then but nothing bad.

  A group of girls across the bar laughed loudly, pulling my attention away from Dee. Sometimes, I thought I was dragging him down by being such a mess. I felt bad about it, but I knew without him, I’d be in a much worse place than I was. And right then, I was just coasting, but I guess that was better than sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean never to be found again.

  I glanced over at the group of girls again as they put on their coats, and I recognized Beth among them. My arm was like a barometer or something, like when old people swore rain was coming when their joints began to ache.

  My gaze ran over the girls she was with. I didn’t know any of them, but I’d recognize Beth anywhere. She was the super-alternative Goth type with long black hair and a Bettie Page fringe. She looked like a pinup model even when she was in her gym gear, which I had always been secretly jealous of. I was rough around the edges and more like a rock ‘n’ roll girl than a perfect gothic doll.

  “Isn’t that…” Dee began to ask, and I elbowed him.

  I hoped she didn’t see us and went the other way. I couldn’t take her judgey looks tonight. I couldn’t take it at all. Once upon a time, when I was happy and didn’t have the constant reminder of my pathetic life scarred on my arm and long before she took sides and believed a lie, we used to be good friends. Like I needed her around to remind me how blind I’d been. I tortured myself enough, thank you very much.

  They walked toward the door away from us and, to my relief, didn’t look our way. Close call.

  I needed some serious cheering up then, so I downed the rest of my fluoro-orange cocktail and dragged Dee to the bar for something else. I either needed to get drunk to forget or find something else to dwell on. Starting with an electric blue Fruit Tingle sounded like a good idea to me, so I shouted Dee one, much to his horror. Girly drinks were not hard enough for him, and two in one night was stretching his friendship.

  I scanned the bar, which had emptied out since the night was getting on. I’d never admit it to Dee or even to myself, but I just wanted to look at a handsome guy. If he smiled at me, then I would feel less like the mutant I was. That I didn’t have something wrong with me, and I was still worth a second glance. Seeing the echo of a much happier past had shaken me up and implanted the seed of doubt in my mind that grew like a noxious weed.

  The thing was, when you’re single, you can’t help but look twice at any decent-looking guy anyway—like you’re an animal looking for a suitable male with a strong genetic makeup.

  Nice hair, nice eyes, but crap shoes. The shoes were always a deal breaker. Beat-up white runners turned me off because it was like the guy couldn’t make an effort to be presentable. So when I saw a guy leaning against the far wall, I looked at his shoes first. He wore scuffed to hell tailored combat boots with the laces undone. Sexy as. One hundred bonus points already. So naturally, I looked up to see what the rest looked like.

  To my surprise, it was Will Strickland.

  The bass player from The Stabs.

  The guy I’d developed a crippling crush on in T minus an afternoon.

  I didn’t recognize the people he was with, but right now, they didn’t exist to me. For once, I had time to look at him without anyone but Dee noticing. I hadn’t had a chance to take in the full package that afternoon, and I was practically salivating. He had a faded The Strokes T-shirt and tight gray jeans on, tattoos on one arm, and the wildest curly hair I’d ever seen on a guy. And I knew some unkempt guys. It was short at the back and sides, and the shock of blond curls falling into his eyes was like the guy’s trademark. I wanted to brush it away to see what c
olor his irisis were underneath all the wildness, curl my fingers through it and—

  “Zoe?”

  “Shit, Dee,” I cursed, looking away.

  “Who you checkin’ out?” He winked at me, saw where I was looking, and whistled. “The Strokes, huh?” he said almost sarcastically. “Twice in one day. Since when are you into indie guys?”

  I squirmed, knowing I was more than a little tipsy. “Since when does it matter?”

  “Since I knew you.”

  “You’ll know my fist in a minute.” When I glanced back, Will Strickland was gone, and the bar was almost closing. If it weren’t for Dee acknowledging his existence, I’d swear I was seeing things.

  “You’re so volatile,” Dee said, putting his empty glass on the bar.

  “You know who we have to thank for that,” I snapped and instantly regretted it.

  Dee frowned and linked his arm through mine. “C’mon, Zo. I’ll walk you home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze.

  “S’okay. You’re drunk, you lush.”

  “You’re such a woman, Dee.”

  “My cock thinks otherwise three nights a week.”

  “I think I just vomited in my mouth.”

  We wandered down Chapel Street toward home, and I made a mental note to see if I could get a ticket to that Stabs gig I saw advertised the other day.

  It could be a disaster waiting to happen, or it could be nothing. Going by my track record, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t amount to anything. I’d hide in a dark corner and watch him like a creepy pervert, never working up the courage to talk to him.