by Skylar Hill
Something Real
An Exile Ink Book
Skylar Hill
Contents
Also by Skylar Hill
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
Coming in May from Skylar Hill
About the Author
Also by Skylar Hill
Copyright © 2017 by Skylar Hill
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.
Cover Design by Charlee Hoffman
Edited by Laurel Hardy
Created with Vellum
Also by Skylar Hill
Steamy Standalones
For Keeps
All Worked Up (Coming in May)
The Exile Ink Series
James and Cam:
Something New (Book 1)
Something Right (Book 2)
Something Real (Book 3)
Aiden and Lydia:
Just One Night (A Prequel Short Story)
For my husband,
For always believing in me, no matter how hare-brained my ideas are.
Chapter One
James
He was late. James looked down at his phone as he hurried across the airport parking lot, swearing softly under his breath as he picked up speed. He crossed the road, dodging between two cabs and a shuttle bus, peering over the heads of the people crowded along the curb, waiting with their luggage.
“Jimmy-boy!”
James grinned, catching sight of Grant O’Connor standing near the wide glass doors.
“It’s great to see you,” he said.
Grant slapped him on the back jovially, and James got a whiff of whiskey.
“Rough flight?” he asked, as they collected Grant’s luggage and made their way toward the parking lot. People streamed around them, the scrape of luggage wheels against pavement filling the air.
“I don’t sit on a plane for nine hours for anyone,” Grant said. “Even if it’s in first class.” While he’d grown up in America with his mother, there was a slight lilt to his words, from the summers he’d spent in Ireland with his father’s side of the family.
James had known Grant for years. They’d met at a casting call for a reality show about tattoo artists—the show had been centered around Grant, who had been a up-and-coming artist at the time—and James had been brought in as the straight man to Grant’s party-boy personality. The two had formed a genuine friendship beyond the lights and cameras, though they had very different personalities—something that the cheesy reality show liked to play up. They’d always enjoyed working together, and when James had decided to open Exile Ink, Grant was one of the first people to encourage him to go for it.
“I’m really glad you decided to take the job,” James said as they took the elevator up to the second level of the parking lot and finally arrived at his Tesla.
Grant whistled. “This is fancy. I can’t believe Aiden let you buy one of these.”
James laughed. His brother ran a company that focused on green energy, so Grant wasn’t totally off base. “He has yet to get into the auto industry, though knowing him, it’s just a matter of time.”
He popped the trunk, and Grant threw his luggage in.
“Is the rest of your stuff being shipped over?” James asked as they got into the car and he backed out of the parking space and headed for the street.
Grant shook his head. “Most of it’s in storage in LA, still. When I went over to Ireland last year, I didn’t expect to stay more than a few weeks, but then…” he sighed.
“How are things going with your dad?” James asked.
“Better,” Grant said. “I was able to work with my stepmom to find a skilled caregiver that they both really like, and it’s going so much smoother than those first few months after he was diagnosed. I’ll still be flying back quite a bit—and thank you, by the way, for being open to that kind of schedule.”
“Anything you need,” James assured him as they merged onto the highway. Switching lanes, he headed toward Portland. “Come on, man. You’re one of the big reasons I have the career I do—and that I’m even in a position to open a studio like Exile Ink. You got me on the reality show.”
Grant grinned wickedly. “That pretty-boy face of yours is the reason you got on the reality show. The producer—that cougar redhead—was practically licking her lips when she saw you.”
“Ah, Fiona, I remember her well,” James said. “We spent a wonderful weekend together.”
Grant’s jaw dropped. “Seriously?”
James laughed. “No, Grant. She was a lovely woman, but not my type.”
“Okay, good, because she may have been my type. A few times.”
This was news to James, but he was entirely unsurprised. Of course Grant had slept with Fiona Kline. Grant was a carefree sort. He was always honest about who he was: good for a few nights of fun, but not forever. And many, many women had taken advantage of those “few nights” throughout the years.
“Speaking of types,” Grant nudged his elbow at James from across the car. “How’s your lady?”
The smile fell off James’s face too fast to mask it.
“Uh-oh,” Grant said. “What did you do?”
“Cam and I are great,” James said, staring down the semi-truck in front of them like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Oh, shit, the parole hearing,” Grant said, remembering suddenly. “I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. It totally slipped my mind.”
“No, it’s fine,” James assured him. He had filled Grant in on the situation when he and Cam had decided to inform all the Exile Ink employees what was going on. Like everyone else in their lives, he had been understanding and sympathetic about the horrible situation Cam had been put in. Her mother’s killer—Cam’s own father—was up for a probation hearing. Because of the favors he’d done turning snitch for the Feds, there was a chance he could get out of prison after serving only a fraction of his minimum sentence.
“How is Cam doing?” Grant asked.
“She’s strong,” James said. Cam was stronger than he could even fathom, sometimes. But still, the little knot of worry in his chest grew each day. Over the summer, she had thrown herself into projects, both at the house they had moved into and at the textile warehouse that would house Exile Ink in less than a month. James hadn’t protested because he understood she needed the distraction. The parole hearing loomed over their heads like a dark cloud, and she needed to keep occupied.
As a result, while he had a beautiful new home with her, and their business was going to open to astounding success, he was also deeply concerned about her. When she wasn’t running around painting or spackling or staining wood for whatever project she’d decided to make out of pallets that week, she spent long periods in the little workout space he’d set up in the spare bedroom. She was careful about her hands, never overdoing it with the punching bag, and the few times he had interrupted her while working out had led to some very gratifying sex, but still, he worried. It was like she was preparing… like she was expecting a war.
And could he blame her? She’d spent her life terrorized by the man who was suppo
sed to protect her most in life. And Keith Fawcett hadn’t even been content just to terrorize. A fire lit inside James every time he thought about what Cam had been forced to do—to come home one day to her mother dead and her father holding a gun to her little sister’s head… he was just so damn grateful Cam had had the presence of mind to get the spare gun and shoot at the bastard. But now she was being forced to relive that trauma—and she might be forced to face her mother’s killer and her own abuser—her father—going free. The injustice of it made him want to explode.
He hated that Keith might not continue to pay for the crimes he committed. Hated that he might walk away on probation because he was a slippery bastard who got the right information on the right person.
"You two are talking to lawyers and all that, right?" Grant asked.
James nodded, flipping his turn signal. Traffic was slowing down, and his exit was coming up. "We've got a whole slew of people working on it," he said. "Cam and her sister are going to have to give statements at the hearing, so that's the focus right now."
"Fuck, that's tough," Grant said. "I'm so sorry they're having to go through this. I can't believe they'd even consider letting a guy like that out."
"It's bullshit," James agreed. "I just gotta make sure he doesn't get out."
Grant raised an eyebrow. "And what happens if he does?"
James didn't answer, and his friend was wise enough—and had known him long enough—not to question him further.
“Tell me about the studio,” Grant said, smoothly changing the subject after a brief silence.
“It’s almost done,” James said, grateful for the reprieve. Keith and the upcoming parole hearing were haunting his every thought. He needed to force himself to think about something else. “I’m so excited for you to see the place. The space is great, it’s really turned out incredible.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help with the reconstruction,” Grant said. “I love an excuse to get my hands dirty.”
“I understand you needed to keep an eye on your dad as you got things settled and arranged,” James said.
“I never expected Alzheimer’s to be such a mindfuck on me,” Grant confessed, shaking his head. “Like… sometimes, he looks at me, and he’s there. He’s Patrick O’Connor. He can list our family going back three generations off the top of his head. But then other times…” He sighed, looking out the window at the clogged traffic as they inched their way toward Portland. “He’s not there at all.”
“I’m so sorry, Grant,” James said. He thought about losing his own father, how sudden it had been, and he wondered if it was harder or easier than losing your dad piece by piece, the way Grant was doing. He figured there was really no way to quantify or compare—both were horrible. Both ended the same: with the sons alone, and the fathers gone.
“Things are a lot better than they were,” Grant said, a determined smile on his face. He never had been one to dwell on darkness. “I want to know about the rest of the crew! You’ve got you and Cam—I saw some of her work online, where the hell has she been hiding? Her work is incredible. That watercolor pin-up girl she put up on her Instagram last week is incredible.”
“She and Tasha collaborated on that one,” James said. “They just did a guest weekend stint at a friend’s studio.”
“Tasha?” Grant questioned.
“Natasha Prince,” James said. “Did you two never meet in L.A.? I could’ve sworn I introduced you guys at one point.”
Grant frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I know her work, of course, but I guess we didn’t run in the same circles.”
“Tasha did get married pretty young,” James said. “She wasn’t exactly on the SoCal partying circuit like you.”
“You were right there with me!”
“Maybe then, but definitely not anymore,” James said.
“So Cam’s tamed you, then?” Grant asked good-naturedly, and James grinned, thinking if what he had with Cam was being “tamed,” he’d be a lapdog for life. “Nah, I’m not surprised you’ve found your one-and-done,” he said. “You had your wild days when we were young, but you were always the kind of guy who was going to get married, settle down, have a passel of kids, a dog.“
“We actually got a dog,” James said. “This giant mutt, I think he’s at least half Rottweiler, showed up the day we were moving into the new house. Covered in mud, looking all pitiful. Now he’s king of the house, sleeping in the couch whenever he gets the chance. But he sticks to Cam, and I figured having a big dog around wouldn’t hurt, if the worst happens.”
“Smart,” Grant said, his expression sobering. “What’d you name the mutt?”
“Ferdinand,” James said, unable to stop his laughter at the look on Grant’s face. “It’s from that children’s book, about the bull who likes sniffing flowers instead of being, you know, a bull. He looks really tough, but he’s a big baby.”
“Cute,” Grant said. “I think I’ll like this Cam of yours. She sounds like an interesting woman.”
“She’s that and more,” James said with a smile. “I think you’re going to fit in with the rest of the team great.”
“So me, you, Cam, and Natasha, then?” Grant asked.
“For now,” James said. “Our first year, I didn’t want to overreach with too many artists. This way we can really work together to create the right feel and reputation for the studio before bringing in anybody else. Tasha’s also going to be doing the piercing—but she specializes in more of the intricate stuff, corset piercings and the like.”
Grant nodded. “Okay, so Cam’s watercolor, Tasha’s classic, and I’m, as always, amazing.” James snorted, but Grant wasn’t blowing smoke up his ass. He was amazing. His tattoos were like real life on your skin. He could capture anything, his fine line detail better than anyone’s he’d seen. “What are you up to these days, Jimmy-boy?”
“I’ve been doing some new stuff the last few years,” James said. The traffic was finally starting to move, and he pressed the accelerator. Their exit was just three ahead. “Lots of dot work and geometrics. I’ll show you at your welcome dinner tonight.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Grant said as they finally exited the highway and plunged into the guts of Portland. Aiden, James’ older brother, owned a high-rise of eco-friendly apartments in the Pearl District. Technically, the building was James’s too, since the building itself was owned by Green Valley Industries, the McGowan family company. But he stayed out of company business other than to attend the monthly board meetings Aiden insisted he come to. James was grateful for his brother—Aiden ran the company their father had built and that he, Aiden, was responsible for making the huge success it was today. James would be miserable running in the high-tech world Aiden thrived in. Instead, he liked the intimacy of tattooing, of connecting with his clients one on one, in creating pieces for them that were emotionally meaningful and permanent. There was a quiet flow to creating a piece for someone. It soothed his soul, like the sound of a stream in the forest. Aiden’s life was all numbers and rushing and pressure, and there were times James knew his brother would flee to his private lab to get a few hours alone. But away from that haven, in the office Aiden was constantly trailed by a string of assistants and people who needed something from him. He handled it well, but James knew it wore on him. His brother wasn’t meant to be the public face of a company—that had been their dad’s job, and he’d been great at it. Aiden was still adjusting to the enormous change from the loss of their father, not only in their personal life, but in Aiden’s work as well
“Here we are,” James said, pulling up to the tall building, the roof shimmering with solar panels. “Let me find a parking spot and I’ll walk you up.”
“No worries,” Grant assured him. “I’m beat. I’m going to go up to my place, face-plant into bed, and sleep. But I’ll be up in time for dinner tonight, I promise. I want to meet everyone, including your girl.”
“I’ll see you tonight,
then,” James said. “I’ll text you the directions.”
“Perfect,” Grant said. He clapped James jovially on the shoulder. “Just pop the trunk and I’ll get out of your hair for awhile. And Jimmy-boy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for asking me to be a part of this. I’ve missed having a tattoo gun in my hand.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Grant,” James said. “I wouldn’t feel right about opening my own place without you around.”
“I am the life of every party,” Grant drawled. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He got his luggage out of James’s trunk, rapping on it twice and waving before heading inside the building.
James headed back into traffic. It took just minutes for his good cheer from seeing his old friend for the first time in a few years to fade, his mind turning back to September.
He was doing everything he could not to show how worried he was, but the closer they got to the hearing, the harder it was to hide from Cam. He’d spent sleepless nights pacing the living room, staring at their front door, thinking about what he would do if one night, that man came smashing through it.
His fists clenched the steering wheel, and he focused on the road, determined to outrun the dark thoughts that haunted the back of his mind.
Chapter Two
Cam
Sweat trickled down her spine, pooling at the small of her back. Cam had stripped down to just a pair of leggings and sports bra, her curly hair yanked up in a messy knot at the top of her head. Music pumped from the speakers set in the back of the room—she’d put on Prince this morning, needing something moody and sensual to combat the restless hum beneath her skin.
She flexed her carefully taped hands, sliding off her fingerless gloves and tossing them to the side. She needed a break. She loved that James had created the workout room for her, but she’d been spending a lot of time punching the bag. And in a short while, she’d be back to tattooing on a daily basis and she couldn’t risk a hand injury or even a cramp.
