Dark Ink Tattoo: Episode 1

by Cassie Alexander

  Welcome to Dark Ink Tattoo, Las Vegas’s premier 24/7 tattoo studio, where needles aren’t the only things that bite….

  Angela, Dark Ink’s owner, has a secret – she’s a werewolf who used to run with the Pack, a dangerous drug-dealing motorcycle gang that services Vegas’s seedier side. She’s been free for the past seven years, ever since her ex-boyfriend (and Pack leader) Gray went to prison – but when the Pack starts threatening her shop she realizes she’s on borrowed time.

  Dark Ink’s best artist refuses to show up before sundown – because he’s a vampire. Vegas is the perfect place for Jack – it’s an endless buffet of strangers to bleed. The only thing that haunts Jack more than his hunger is Angela….

  Will Angela ever trust Jack with her secret? Will Jack be able to protect Angela from the Pack?

  Dark Ink Tattoo is an erotic urban fantasy series, which will be comprised of ten 15,000 word pieces each with graphically detailed violence, and deliciously detailed sex. This particular episode contains two MF scenes, and one scorching FMF threeway.

  Dark Ink Tattoo

  Cassie Alexander

  Episode 1

  Dark Ink Tattoo - Episode 1

  Cassie Alexander

  Copyright © 2016 by Erin Cashier. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email cassiealexanderassistant@gmail.com

  www.cassiealexander.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design www.bookcoverbydesign.co.uk

  Chapter 1

  I heard an engine turn the corner, startled, and the MMA fighter I was touching up a truly regrettable tribal tattoo on yelped.

  “Sorry. Spine,” I apologized, peeking over his hulking shoulder to see Jack Stone arrive on time for work, possibly for the first time ever while in my employ. His black 1963 Lincoln Continental swooped through Dark Ink’s parking lot like a hearse.

  Just Jack. I knew what his car sounded like. Even though our shifts didn’t overlap often – I’d heard it often enough to know it wasn’t a bike. And still….

  I sprayed my client’s shoulder with cool water and wiped the blood away, trying to ignore the slight jitter in my hand. This was my job – this was my tattoo-shop – and I’d been doing tats for the past seven years in peace. I breathed deep and willed myself calm. I wasn’t scared, and I hadn’t lost control, and if I kept telling myself that long enough eventually I might believe it.

  I put the heel of my hand on the fighter’s back to steady it and stepped on the pedal to get the gun roaring again, starting where I’d left off, cleaning up some cheaper artist’s shoddy job. In no other profession was the phrase ‘you get what you pay for’ so true.

  This time, the fighter twitched, not me. No way not to hit nerves when you were tattooing someone over bone. Tattoos on top of bone felt like you were getting stabbed.

  A lot like getting menacing letters from your ex in prison.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Jack was leaning over from the wrong side of the counter, purring my name. “Angela.”

  I didn’t turn around. I knew where he was, of course, I’d just made it a habit to ignore him, mostly.

  “Hey, boss-lady, I’m on time, just like you asked,” he tried again. I snorted, stopped working, and looked up.

  A gaggle of barely-old-enough-to-be-in-the-shop girls flocked behind him, flipping through flash displays, whispering to themselves about him. He was stareworthy. If you were into tall, lean but muscular men, black hair, brown eyes, and full sleeve tattoos, Jack was your kind of guy. When our shifts overlapped I had to remind myself he was off limits the same way that ex-smokers have to remind themselves to forget about cigarettes. I knew it was for my own good – I’d quit men that were bad for me a long time ago -- but that didn’t make it any less hard.

  It was also why I tried to ignore him. It was good for him sometimes.

  “On time for once,” I corrected him.

  “It’s winter,” he said, like that was an explanation.

  I saw the post office truck pull into the parking lot behind him and my stomach clenched. “Yeah, of course,” I said without thinking, standing and pulling my gloves off. “Wrap him up, will you?” I said, sidling towards the hip-high swinging saloon door that divided our half of the shop from the client’s.

  “My pleasure,” Jack said, setting his ass down on the piercing display case and spinning his legs over to switch sides. Normally I’d yell at him about that, but – I reached the door just as the postman did, opening it up to take our letters from him.

  Junk mail, tattoo convention flyers, the electricity bill and – something stamped “Approved by the LVMPD.”

  Goddammit.

  I bit my lips and ran for the office. I stopped myself from slamming the door, just barely, instead whirling to place my back to it, like that would help keep all the monsters at bay, and slowly sank to the floor.

  I threw the rest of the mail to the ground and opened up Gray’s letter.

  Visit me.

  Funny how it only took two words to blow my life apart. I bit the side of my hand to stop from screaming -- but somewhere on the inside, a hidden part of me howled.

  I tore his letter up – same as I’d torn the other three I’d gotten, starting two weeks ago, and threw the pieces of it into the trash. If only escaping Gray were so easy. I should’ve left years ago – given myself and Rabbit a head start – but then what? Keep running forever? When I knew Gray and the Pack would always be able to find us? No, instead I’d pretended that I’d had a normal life – that I was normal. I’d rolled the dice, praying that someone meaner and nastier than Gray would take him out in prison. I should’ve known that no such person existed.

  I’d lived Vegas my whole life – you’d think by now I’d be a better gambler.

  There was a quiet knock on the door behind me. “Boss-lady?” Jack’s voice, full of concern.

  I stood and straightened myself out, opening the door a crack. “I, uh, didn’t know what to charge him – so I asked for two-fifty. That enough?” Jack asked.

  It was way more than I’d have asked for. It was only a touch up, hadn’t even taken an hour. “He paid that?”

  “I can be very convincing,” he said, and shrugged, searching what he could see of me with his expressive eyes.

  “Stop that. If I wanted to tell you about it, I would.”

  He leaned forward and pressed the door open. I could’ve fought back – could’ve closed the door – but I didn’t want to make a scene. But my office was meant for only one person, one desk, one chair, there was no way for us be here and not be in one another’s space. In other circumstances I’d thought about doing things to Jack in here that’d make even the most jaded local blush, but now – I’d much rather he hold me and lie to me that everything was going to be all right.

  “What was that?” he said, jerking his chin at the other mail still littering the floor.

  “Nothing.”

  He stared me down. Could he really read me? Or was he just one of those guys who made you think they could? T
he kind you had relationships with where you filled all the silences with too much hope?

  “Seriously, Ang,” he said, his voice low.

  I gestured to include the entire parlor. “It all says its for me.”

  “Even the one from the Las Vegas Metropolitan police department?” he asked. “Don’t ask me how I know what stamped mail from prison looks like.”

  Damn, Jack being Jack. Too smart for his own good. “It’s none of your business,” I said, as boss-like as I could, shutting down the conversation.

  Jack took his cue. “All right, all right,”

  “And I need to go.”

  “Yeah, to your date, I know.”

  I hadn’t told him I was going on a date tonight, that that was why I needed him to really-I-mean-it be on time for once. And he’d said it with almost precisely flat inflection, so I couldn’t really tell if he was jealous or whatever – and it didn’t matter, because I was with Mark now, anyhow. But some deep and secret part of me bared its teeth and wagged its tail.

  He glanced down at the letters. “If anything bad comes of that, you let me know, okay?”

  “Sure,” I lied, and pushed past him, out the door.

  Chapter 2

  I leaned across the counter to watch Angela go. My boss had the kind of ass that made me question my employability on a daily basis. So far I’d been wise enough to refuse to shit where I eat – Dark Ink tattoo was Vegas’s only 24 hour tattoo studio, and there weren’t too many places where an artistically inclined vampire could work all night for coffin rent. But should the day ever come when I got to quit my current occupation, I was taking that ass with me out the door.

  Too bad tonight it’d be wasted on Mark, her boyfriend, who I’d met precisely twice. Judging from his BMW and attitude, he had a casino job, a good one. Which was all the more reason for me to keep my damage to myself. Angela had a good thing going with him – if she was smart, she’d lock him down. People like us knew that second chances didn’t knock twice.

  One of the girls checking out the flash separated from the herd to come over and give me a megawatt smile. “Hey, you work here, right?”

  I turned, focusing my full attention on her. She was maybe twenty-three, curvy, hair that fell in blonde ringlets down her back. She smiled genuinely at me, in an earnest Midwestern way, and I leaned forward on the counter like a cat spotting a mouse.

  Just because I wouldn’t be spending the night with Angela didn’t mean I’d have to be alone.

  “I do indeed. How can I help?” I said, making sure to turn on the southern twang of my childhood as I rose back up.

  * * *

  In the end there were just two girls out of five – the blonde, and a brave brunette -- who wanted to commemorate their first trip to Vegas on their skin, permanently. The rest of their friends wanted to go back to the strip and hook-up with some guys they’d met last night. The leaving girls whispered lewd suggestions that I had no problem hearing – and kept sending text messages from the parking lot outside until their Uber picked them up, leaving the three of us behind.

  “So what do y’all want?” I asked, smiling at both of them, trying my best to seem harmless. I hadn’t fed in two days. I could not only smell their blood, but taste the way that sweat pricked their skin in fear -- of the needles, not me.

  Not yet.

  “Just her,” the brunette ratted out her friend.

  “Yeah?” I focused on the blonde. “Let me see which one you picked.”

  I walked through the saloon doors over to the panel of flash she’d decided on. A retro-version of the Las Vegas sign. It was Angela’s original art, but I’d done it a thousand times, and no one picking flash off the wall thought they were getting a one-of-a-kind.

  “I like it,” I told her. “If you keep it that size, it’ll be a hundred bucks.” Neither one of them flinched, good. “Where?” I asked, looking down at the tattoo retracing the lines in my mind.

  “Somewhere my parents won’t see it –“

  I glanced up. “I’m gonna need to see some ID.”

  Blonde was indeed twenty-three, and I had her sign all the normal paperwork, affirming that she wasn’t drunk or high, and that she realized letting someone pierce you with needles – with anything, really – always involved some measure of risk.

  She signed everything, tentatively at first, then more boldly as she committed to her course of action, and I felt a little like Mephistopheles on a cold German night.

  “All right then,” I announced the second she was done. “You figure out a place?”

  She nodded, sending her curls bouncing. “Here,” she said, placing her palm on her hip.

  “Excellent location,” I said, and held a saloon door open.

  * * *

  Both girls went to my station without me telling them which one it was. Did it look like me? Perhaps. There were pictures of my art all on the walls. These were my one of a kinds, and once I’d tattooed any of these on someone, I’d destroy the original, or give it to the client to keep. I could do anything anyone wanted me to, being halfway dead had given me the steadiest of hands: American traditional, Japanese, neo-traditional, new school bullshit – but what I loved doing most was photorealism. There was something about photorealistic art that channeled my memories of the sun.

  “So – I –“ the blonde said, tugging at the waistband of her skirt.

  “Yes, please,” I said, and handed her some of the paper-clothing that they gave you in doctors offices, which stayed on exactly no one nowhere.

  She pretended to be modest for a moment which I enjoyed, as modesty was a rare thing in Vegas after sundown, then slid her skirt to the floor, kicking out of it, hitching her underwear in and up. I patted the chair and she hopped up onto it. I listened to the leather sigh, and sympathized, as I lowered the back of the chair down and the legs up.

  I leaned over her. “Okay. First I’m going to shave things, clean things, put the stencil on, and then make art.” She’d signed a document saying as much three minutes ago, but people always needed reminding. Something about the adrenaline of knowing what was coming up, and that it would likely hurt, rendered otherwise intelligent minds empty.

  The brunette leaned over to whisper a joke about wasn’t she glad she shaved elsewhere, earlier, in the blonde’s ear, and I hid a wicked smile, before returning with gloved hands and razor.

  “Here?” I said, drawing a circle where the sign would be, and blonde nodded.

  “All right.” I drew the razor gently backwards, against the grain of her fine hair. She was holding her breath, and I hadn’t even started yet.

  “Breathe,” I reminded her, and she did, looking flush. Her skin was so pale, the part of her hip she’d chosen nearly translucent, hidden by a bathing suit from her likely numerous summer tans. I could see a trace work of veins in there, more delicate than any art I’d mark her with, and sense her blood pulsing through all of them. Her pulse increased, and the smell of sweat was sharp and sweet. “All right,” I said again, like I was calming a horse, rubbing one gloved hand over the shaved spot to make sure I’d caught everything. Then I set the stencil in place and sprayed water on the back of it.

  “A little cold,” I warned, too late.

  “Feels good,” she said with a brave smile. Then I pulled the stencil off and it was needle-time.

  I made a show of inspecting my needles with a magnifying lens – a) because I had to, in case any were defective and b) because if she was going to faint, I wanted her to do it now, before I’d begun. She didn’t, so I wheeled my work stool closer, looped an elbow in between her legs to brace against the inside of her thigh, pulled up ink onto my needles and pressed the pedal down. I brought my gun hand down and she started whining, “Oh, oh, oh!” at volume. I released the pedal – the needles hadn’t even touched her skin.

  I looked up at her, “It’s not too late. You can still change your mind.”

  And behind me, the door rang as a new client walked in.

&nbs
p; Chapter 3

  “Rabbit! Vitamin time!” I shouted. I had gold heels in one hand and an eyedropper in the other. “Rabbit!”

  “He’s not deaf, you know.” My mother said as she rolled in on her scooter – exhibit A in why I couldn’t have left town, besides. I couldn’t go without my mother – and ever since her hip went bad, there was no where she could go without her scooter. Taking an elderly woman on an interstate trip to avoid your ex-boyfriend’s motorcycle gang didn’t sound like a recipe for success.

  And there was no way I could leave her behind. I knew the Pack. Who knew what they’d do to her to get to me?

  “I know he’s not deaf, mother, but he still needs his vitamins.”

  “Those aren’t vitamins though. I looked them up online. You keep taking that shit, and you’ll turn blue.”

  “Keep your googling to yourself, all right?” I whispered, then shouted, “Rabbit! Get down here!”

  My son tromped down the flight of steps from his bedroom to the landing in our apartment’s kitchen. “But Mom,” he complained.

  “No. No butts. Not tonight. I’m in no mood,” I snapped – and regretted it, as I watched him wince and shut down. My Rabbit was a sensitive boy. “I’m sorry. Work was rough – and I’ve got to go soon. Can you just come here and take these for me?”

  He came forward, shy as a kicked puppy. Which was – I didn’t want to think about it. He opened his mouth, just out of reach, and I squirted his ‘vitamins’ in – then got another eyedropper full from the bottle for myself.

  “That stuff –“ my mother started.

  “When’s the last time we ever got sick?” I said, asking the both of them. “Never. See? They work.”

  “They make my stomach hurt,” Rabbit said.

  “Mine too. But it’s worth it, okay? Come ‘ere,” I said, and ruffled his fine blonde hair with one hand while I pulled a heel on with the other.

  “And just what time will you be coming home tonight, Missy?” my mother asked archly. I gave her a glare and caught her grinning. No one could torment you like family.