Beneath This Ink

by Meghan March

  “You’ve always got a choice, princess.”

  I glanced down at my jersey knit skirt and pink Fleurty Girl NOLA T-shirt. “Then it looks like I made mine.”

  He examined my attire. “Don’t you own jeans?”

  I looked pointedly at his basketball shorts. “I think even you can agree that it’s too damn hot to wear jeans this time of year. Besides, for all I know, I’ll be outside scrubbing sidewalks.”

  “Fair enough.” He tossed a glance toward my car. “You probably want to park around back. That ride might not be here long, otherwise.”

  I bit my lip. “Can you explain exactly where ‘around back’ is? Because I was lucky to even find this place.”

  Con’s grim expression fell away, and he grinned. In that moment I was struck by how intensely gorgeous he was. Not that I wasn’t already keenly aware of that fact, but his smile brought it to the forefront of my mind. Unruly dark blond hair, dark blue eyes, over six feet of tattooed, muscled man. His jaw was covered in a few days’ worth of stubble, but that just made him even more ridiculously attractive. My panties were indeed a lost cause. “I’ll do you one better—I’ll show you.”

  What the heck is he talking about? I’d completely checked out from the conversation we were having.

  My eyebrows lifted as he plucked the keys from my limp fingers and strode toward my car.

  “What are you are doing?”

  “Showing you where to park. And since I don’t let chicks drive me around, you’re going to have to suck it up and get in the passenger seat.”

  I followed him, my flip-flops making it easier to keep up than my normal pumps would have.

  “Is that your version of asking for permission?” I felt like the token protest was necessary to preserve the rapidly deteriorating buffer zone between us.

  Con stopped at the passenger door, opening it for me. The courtesy was surprising, but I didn’t get a chance to linger on it before he replied, “Honey, I’m not sure where you got the impression that I’m the kind of guy who asks for permission. I would’ve thought I’d made that clear two years ago.” He waited until I dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Or have you managed to block that night out?”

  And the buffer zone just disintegrated completely.

  My mouth went dry, and I tried frantically to come up with some sort of response. I didn’t think saying ‘no, I remember that night altogether too well for comfort, and those memories have given me more than a few dozen orgasms over the last two years’ was appropriate.

  “Umm…”

  His grin spread wider and took on a stupidly attractive smug quality. “Girls like you always like it better when I don’t ask for permission. When I just take what I want.”

  I froze as the memories battered me. Heat licked along my insides at the same time goose bumps prickled along my skin. I needed to shut this conversation down. Now. Before I sacrificed any more of my dignity at the altar of Con Leahy. So I went with the most obvious lie. “That night barely registered on my radar, and I surely don’t remember any details.”

  I squared my shoulders, tamped down my inconvenient libido, slipped past him, and got in the car.

  A few moments later, Con was in the driver’s seat, and we were circling the block until we came up to a sketchy alley—the kind of alley you didn’t go down in New Orleans if you wanted to come out alive. Any wayward thoughts were eradicated from my mind.

  “Are you sure…?”

  He didn’t bother to answer, just drove down the narrow brick passageway into a small enclosed parking lot, and pulled into a spot next to a wicked-looking black Harley.

  “Is that yours?” I asked, nodding toward the motorcycle.

  He jerked his chin in what I assumed was a response and hopped out of the car without offering anything further.

  I hurried after him, not wanting to look like I was waiting for him to open my door. Because I wasn’t. I surveyed the back of the warehouse. It didn’t look any more reputable than the front. Con tossed me my keys with orders to lock the car.

  Con unlocked the heavy steel door before pulling it open and gesturing for me to enter.

  “After you, princess.”

  I stopped on the threshold. “Could you not call me that?”

  One side of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. “Why? That’s how I’ve always thought of you. Vanessa Frost, the perfect princess.”

  I didn’t know what stunned me more: Con’s confession that he thought about me, or that he thought I was perfect.

  I straightened and tried to look confident.

  “I’m not perfect. Not by a long shot. And since my tiara seems to have been misplaced, I think princess is out, too.”

  “I like nicknames. I give ‘em to everyone. So if not princess, what the hell am I supposed to call you?”

  I thought of several things he’d called me that infamous night. Sexy. Gorgeous. Tightest fucking pussy I’ve ever had. OH MY GOD. I can’t believe I just thought that. Even being around Con was a mistake.

  I cleared my throat, as though that would clear the smut from my brain. “I can live with Van, if I get to have an opinion.”

  “Done. But don’t bust my balls if I slip and call you princess now and again. Might be hard to break me of that one.”

  I decided this conversation needed to move on to whatever reason we were really here. “So, you going to show me what’s in this warehouse, or are you going to keep me guessing?”

  The semi-intimate moment broken, Con led the way inside. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

  I followed behind him, trying valiantly not to focus on the way his basketball shorts hung off his hips and molded to the curve of his ass. And I tried even harder not to study the way his rippling, tattooed biceps extended from the cutoff sleeves of his T-shirt. It was hard to believe I’d had my hands—and mouth—all over that body once upon a time.

  Sounds of thump thwack thump drew my attention back to the here and now.

  We entered a large open room with a boxing ring set up in the middle, punching bags hanging from thick beams, old exercise bikes, weight lifting equipment, coiled jump ropes, and sections of bright blue mats filling the rest of the space.

  Every piece of equipment was in use. At least a dozen boys stilled when we walked in. Whistles and catcalls filled the cavernous space.

  “Con’s got a girlfriend!”

  “Holy shit, did you see the curves on that one?”’

  “I’d tap that.”

  “I’ll take her when he’s done with her—tomorrow.”

  A shrill whistle ripped through the din.

  “Pipe down, knuckleheads, and get back to your workouts, unless you want to be running laps from now until Judgment Day,” called the man who’d originally answered the door on the front side of the building. The one who’d called me tail.

  Con spoke up. “This is Ms. Frost. If I hear any of you say anything disrespectful about her, you’ll be my cleaning bitch for a month and have zero ring time.” Groans and protestations filled the air. “Shut it down, boys, and get back to work.”

  Con glanced at me. “Sorry ‘bout that. They’ve still got some rough edges, and well… they’re teenage boys. I guess that’s an explanation all in itself. And no woman has ever set foot inside here, except for Mrs. Girdeau. And she doesn’t look anything like you.”

  I shrugged off his explanation. I was still stinging from the truth the one boy had yelled. Even these kids knew that Con operated on a one-night M.O., and I’d already had mine. Not that I want another, I told myself. Sternly. And don’t forget it. Mental tongue-lashing completed.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  A soft smile spread over his face, and I had to harden my heart. “This is the gym. A sort of afterschool, weekend, and summer program Reggie started a while back. He lets me hang out and pretend I’m partially in charge.”

  “In charge of doing what? Teaching them to fight?”

  Con’s smile turned mo
cking. “Yeah, Van. Teaching them to fight. To box. It keeps these guys off the streets and away from the gangbangers. They learn discipline and dedication. We’ve even been able to get a few of them scholarships.”

  “College scholarships? For boxing?”

  Con crossed his arms, his shoulders hiking up. “That ain’t good enough for you?”

  He’d completely misinterpreted my tone. I laid a hand on one bicep. It was the first time I’d voluntarily touched him in two years, and the heat beneath my palm told me it was a bad idea. But I needed to wipe the defensiveness away. I wasn’t judging him. I was… in awe. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m… impressed. I just didn’t know there were colleges around here that gave out boxing scholarships.”

  “The two guys who’ve gotten scholarships are at schools on the East Coast. They got a chance to get out of here, and they took it. We’ve got two more headed that way in the fall.”

  “That’s… amazing.” I was being completely sincere. Because it was.

  He shrugged, and I desperately wanted to lighten the mood. I told myself it was because a defensive, angry Con wasn’t going to help my cause… and if I lied to myself, I wouldn’t have to admit that I much preferred seeing him smile.

  I decided shock was the best alternative. “So, am I your cleaning bitch today?”

  My pointed question did the trick. Con’s head swiveled, and his eyes locked on mine. But then he turned it on me. “You wanna be my bitch, princess?”

  A hot shot of lust hit me low in the belly, and I dropped my gaze to the floor. “I thought you weren’t going to call me that anymore.”

  He flicked the end of my ponytail as he walked past me.

  “Follow me, and I’ll show you what I’ve got planned for you.”

  What Con had planned for me became evident when we entered a huge, gleaming kitchen. Where the outside of the warehouse looked like it was on the verge of being condemned, most of the inside was immaculate and new.

  “You know how to cook?” Con asked, flipping on still more lights.

  “Do you?” I asked.

  “I gotta eat, so yeah, I can cook.”

  I wished my relationship with food were so simple.

  I ate because it was an evil necessity. It didn’t mean I enjoyed it or looked forward to it. Too many years of being the chubby girl with the pretty face and a mother who just wanted me to be thin like the other kids had screwed me up royally in that area.

  Vanessa, you have to watch everything you put in your mouth. You could lose this weight if you’d just be more mindful. Vanessa, I just want you to be healthy, that’s all.

  She’d been gone for years, stolen from my father and me much too soon by ovarian cancer when I was in eighth grade. The doctors had caught it too late, and she was gone within months. One of my biggest regrets: the words of hers I remembered best weren’t the ‘I loves yous’ she’d whisper tucking me in at night.

  “And I’m still waiting for your answer,” Con said.

  “I can handle the basics.” To myself I added, as long as you don’t expect me to eat with you. There was a very select group of people I was able to eat in front of without my stomach twisting into a Gordian knot. I knew it was a messed up problem, but if you put yourself in the shoes of a younger me, and thought about what it would be like, at a birthday party, to have a friend’s mother watch you eat a piece of pizza and say to another mother: I can’t believe she’s eating that; you’d think she’d know better by now. If Madeline were that heavy, you’d never see another piece of pizza on her plate ever again.

  After that day, I’d stopped eating anything but fruits and vegetables in front of other people.

  Shaking myself out of that lovely trip down memory lane, I watched as Con opened the freezer and pulled out giant trays of premade lasagna and set them on the stainless steel prep table in the center of the room.

  My stomach tensed just looking at them.

  “The hard stuff is already done; you just have to throw it all in the oven, babysit it, and put together PB&Js for them to take home.”

  I could do that. I could so do that.

  “What’s with the PB&J?”

  Con looked up from where he was now turning on the oven. “They’re burning a ton of calories here, and they need the fuel. So we feed ‘em dinner every night, and lunch if they’re here during the day, and then send them home with a snack. It’s not like they’ve got overflowing pantries. Although, between you and me, I would guess that most of them hand off what we give them to a younger sibling.”

  I was floored. “You really feed them every day?”

  His face took on a militant quality. “If we don’t, they might not eat. And that’s not something I’m gonna let happen.” He surveyed me before continuing, “Come on, Van. You fund plenty of soup kitchens and food trucks. The fact that a good chunk of this city is going hungry on a regular basis can’t have escaped your notice.”

  He was right. My psychological problems with food were nothing compared to actual hunger. I’d read the grant applications. I’d made recommendations about different programs we should fund. And I’d felt good about what I was doing. But I was ashamed to admit I’d never done more at a soup kitchen than attend a ribbon-cutting. I’d never handed out meat and bread and fruit to someone waiting in line at a food truck with a laundry basket. And here was Con, bad boy of the first order, combatting childhood hunger from the front lines. My shame multiplied, but I tried to mollify it by telling myself that those food trucks and soup kitchens have to be funded by someone. And if the foundation didn’t do it, who would? I was making a difference, dammit.

  “Have you applied for funding for your program? You could probably get a grant.”

  Con opened the freezer again and yanked out several loaves of garlic bread.

  “You don’t get it, do you, princess? This isn’t about the money. This is about the kids and making sure they go home tonight with a full stomach and something to stop it from growling later.”

  “I get that, but if you’re shelling out all of your own money on this…”

  “I got plenty, if that’s what you’re worried about. Besides, I don’t have time to waste filling out some hundred-page grant application and justifying what we do here for a few bucks. Reggie started this thing on his own, and he and I will make sure it stays going.”

  He laid the bread on the table in front of me and grabbed several aluminum cookie sheets from the counter. “You think you can handle this?”

  I grabbed the bread, and, in an attempt to turn this conversation back to something lighter, I tossed out, “I’m pretty sure anything you want me to handle is way out of my league, Leahy. But I’ll give it a shot.”

  His answering grin was brilliant. “Holy shit, you do have a sense of humor. I would’ve been willing to bet good money that you didn’t know how to crack a joke.”

  “Well, I guess that means you would’ve been wrong.”

  Con slid behind me, and his heavy hands dropped onto my shoulders. His breath was warm against my ear as he whispered, “You’re the one who’s out of my league, sweetheart, and we both know it.”

  The bread fell from my shaky grip onto the stainless steel surface. I had no response. But that didn’t stop my mouth from opening in preparation to say something completely stupid.

  I was saved from myself when Reggie stuck his head into the kitchen. “Con, you gonna help with drills, or you gonna fuck around in here all day?”

  Con stepped away, and my traitorous body immediately missed his heat.

  “I’ll be out in a few, Reg. Just showing Ms. Frost the lay of the land in here.”

  Reggie guffawed. “Sure, man, whatever you say.” He slipped out of the kitchen, leaving an awkward silence behind him.

  Con cleared his throat. “So, you think you can handle this? We’ve got fifteen eating here, and we need a dozen PB&Js to go home.”

  I nodded, words still escaping me.

  “Good deal. Yell if you ne
ed help getting the lasagna in or out of the oven. Those things are fucking heavy.”

  My mumbled okay was less than impressive, but it was pretty much all I could get out.

  Con paused in the doorway and looked back at me. “Don’t go running off after you’re done either. We’ve got some shit to talk about.”

  I wondered if he was talking about the crazy feelings ripping around inside me. Good God, can he tell? I forced myself to remember the reason I was here: the piece of property I needed to keep my shot at running the foundation that had been my mother’s passion—a passion that had been imbued in me since childhood. My mother might have been happy to sit on the board in a figurehead position, but I wanted more. I wanted to think bigger, do bigger. I wanted to make the final decision on how we changed lives in Louisiana for the better.

  Just focus on the goal, Vanessa. Push everything else aside.

  I reached for the garlic bread, declaring my mental pep talk successful.

  Mostly.

  We all see what we want to see. And we expect our assumptions to play out accurately in real life. But in this case, the case of Ms. Vanessa Frost, it seemed like my assumptions may have been off—if only just a little. She was still gorgeous and eminently fuckable, but she wasn’t the stone-cold bitch I’d thought she was since she’d walked out and left me with the taste of her still on my tongue. It could have been a show to soften me up to get what she wanted, but she’d actually seemed to care about making sure these kids had food to eat. The way to most men’s hearts might be through their stomachs, but the quickest way to mine was through the stomachs of my boys.

  The flirty banter had also thrown me for a minute. She’d sounded serious when she’d said that anything I wanted her to handle was out of her league. I’d been equally serious when I’d reminded her that she was the one out of my league.

  A pair of gloves and headgear smacked me across the chest. Reggie.

  “Need you in the ring. I can’t watch all of them at once.”

  “We need to get another guy on board, to cover when Lord or I can’t be here.” Lord was the third in our motley crew of role models. Not that I was a good role model for any kid, but I did my best. And since I wasn’t a gangbanger, it made me more of an example to follow than most of these kids had.