Hot Ink (Paranormal Erotic Romance): Book I (A Walsh Jackson Novel 1)

by L. E Joyce

  When Connie and Bridget arrived at Grim’s Reaping Tattoos, they found the crime scene riddled with flashing lights and police tape. Bridget spotted ASAC Furlong talking to local Miami PD officers. He was a good Assistant SAC, one of the best agents in the field, but she knew he was gunning for her job. When she joined them, Furlong looked surprised to find Bridget there at all.

  “What do we have?” she asked him.

  Furlong stayed at her side as they entered the shop. “Two Caucasians, one male, one female. And-”

  Bridget gasped at what she found: the victims were strapped to the tattoo chairs. Pools of blood encircled them, but that was the least horrid part of the scene.

  “Double decapitation,” Furlong added.

  The forensics team already fast at work, snapped photos of the crime scene. Flash, pop, flash, pop, went the camera bulbs. Shivers went through her.

  Murdered people laid out on chairs not unlike what she herself had sat in only a few hours ago. She gazed at the victims’ heavily tattooed bodies, noting the color and lines. The man was heavy set and had every inch of his chest and arms covered with ink. The woman, also bare-chested, her pert breasts lay fully exposed on her light olive skin. The ink on her was more controlled, less of an intricate pattern and more of a selection of taste. She stared at the woman’s arms in particular. The green and blue design there, it was familiar to her in a way she did not yet understand. Without thinking, she took a few steps toward the bodies for a better look, but Furlong held out his arm to stop her. She had almost stepped in evidence, the pooled blood, without realizing it. A first.

  He leaned in, whispering something that only she could hear. “Are you OK, Ash?”

  She knew what his words really meant; the agent who never makes a mistake nearly contaminated a crime scene, and that he had saved the day. Jerk.

  “I’m fine, Furlong,” she lied. “I wanted to get a better look at their ink. Maybe it’s meaningful to the case.”

  Furlong motioned for Lamont, the head of Forensics. In his sterile-white collection suit, Lamont inched his way around the blood to where they stood.

  “We’ve haven’t been able to locate the victims heads yet, ma'am,” he said.

  “Interesting,” Furlong said. “Should we call in Brent from Serials?”

  Bridget held a finger to her lips. Without locating the victim’s severed heads at the crime scene, Furlong probably wasn’t the only one in the room thinking serial killer. Keeping tokens was the calling card for collectors. There was the staging of the victims, the way the pool of blood seemed to be an attraction rather than a symptom of the crime. The signs were all there–Miami had a new serial killer, but something gnawed at her.

  “Got any shots of the wound area?” she asked Lamont.

  “Yeah.” He showed Bridget and Furlong the photos on his camera disk, the pictures that showed the points on the bodies where the head was removed. The precision of the cut looked so clean and skilled, yet something seemed off.

  “Might be a good idea, Furlong,” she said. “But let’s wait for the labs. Let me know, Lamont, when you’ve got something.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Lamont said, returning to his collection duty.

  “Do we know their identity yet?” she asked Furlong, who clearly looked ticked off over the Serials block. He’ll get over it, she thought to herself. He always does.

  “We believe the man is the owner, Bob Grim, and the woman is possibly his wife, but we won’t know anything until the DNA comes back.”

  “Is there any next of kin?”

  “Local is checking on that now.”

  “Let me know what they find out. I’d like to interview them personally.”

  Bridget took in the scene once more: the lifeless bodies, the blood, the ink, all of it. She recognized the gruesomeness, the cull of brutality. She had seen it hundreds of times in countless cities all over the country. Yet here, today, looking at these victims, she felt her skin tighten in a sickening way.

  Without another word, Bridget removed herself from the crime scene. She brushed past her detail, avoiding their looks, ignoring their questions, and pressed on toward the double-parked SUV. Connie was at wheel; she had kept the motor running. Bridget quickened her stride. The press circuit had assembled at the bakeshop across the street. It was her job to speak to them. If she left now, Furlong would get the hit of limelight. It might be too much for him; she’d have to keep one eye looking over her shoulder from now until the end of time. Bridget stopped at the curb. Her mind went blank and the waking city around her roared in her ears.

  “Whoa. What’s the rush, boss?” Connie called from the waiting car.

  Bridget walked to the driver’s side. “Move over.” She climbed in as Connie scooted to the passenger seat. Before Connie had a chance to adjust her seatbelt, Bridget was putting the car in drive and making a tire-screeching departure.

  “I just need to get out of here,” she said.

  They drove in silence as Bridget’s thoughts turned to Walsh, his rock hard body slamming against hers, and the gruesomely decapitated bodies of the presumed Bob Grim and his wife. Her one night of recklessness brought her closer to the stench of death and decay, not further away. As she drove toward the beach, and her home, she hoped for the moment when she could think of Walsh without those two lifeless, headless bodies popping into her mind’s eye.

  The ocean was soon in view, and Bridget felt herself loosen and unravel.

  “What do you want me to tell everyone?” Connie asked as she parked in front of Bridget’s beach house and took the driver’s seat again.

  With another murder to solve, and possibly a new serial killer on the loose, the only thing Bridget could think about was having a shower. “You’ll think of something,” she said.

  Connie drove away with a concerned look on her face. She had a right to worry, but Bridget knew she was fine even if she couldn’t will the rest of herself to believe that just yet.

  The yellow sun danced on the early morning low tide waves. Seagulls called in the sky. Bridget breathed deep the sea-tinted air as she followed the sand covered stone path leading to her front door. Walter, her cat, greeted her with a purring meow as she let herself in. Flipping her high heels off and discarding her holster and badge to the foyer table, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair had begun to unravel from the makeshift knot she had hastily created at INK. She withdrew the scarf she had snagged from Walsh’s dressing room and let it slip to the floor. Walsh. There he was again, in her head. What was she going to do about him?

  She flung her jacket over the coat rack, and lifted up her tankini to get a look at her tattoo in the hall mirror. Tiny droplets of blood had soaked through the bandage. Carefully, she removed the tape and hissed as it released from her skin. She was surprised to find that it had healed so much already. There was a faint hue of redness along the design, but that was all. She touched the edge of the sweeping cascade, tracing the line with her finger. Her mind wandered then to Walsh’s hot breath on her flesh, his gentle yet firm touch, and the soothing way his voice sounded when she was in pain.

  Upstairs, Bridget drew a warm bath. She got in and let the soapy water soothe her aching body. Her mind grew quiet. Walsh passed behind her closed eyes. She felt her body loosen with the thought of him, his arms around her, guiding her down onto his cock. How their bodies work so efficiently together. Bridget laughed–efficient sex? Only she would consider that a turn on. There with the warm water hugging her, she felt aroused by the memory of him inside her. How his cock felt, how he tasted, how he gingerly eased her off the tattoo chair to save her any discomfort her new ink might cause when he pounded into her.

  Her nipples hardened at the thought of him thrusting into her, the look on his face when he came. Bridget let her hand run over her stomach and down to rest between her legs. She teased opened her folds and slid a finger deep inside. Her breath quickened. She moved her finger feverishly inside, then glided them up to her nub, m
assaging it at her own will and liking. Harder and harder she stroked, thinking of Walsh, his amazing body and how it felt against hers. Stroking faster, something inside her mind slipped, and images of flesh, of blood, of death, bombed her brain. She rocked her hips back and forth, clamping down in her mind on Walsh, on their sex, on the sweet abandon of surrendering to him, but nothing could rock the gruesome flashes from today.

  Defeated, she removed her hand and gripped the side of the tub. Get it together, she told herself. It’s just Death. You’ve seen it a hundred times before.

  Something inside her broke then. Tears welled in her eyes. She put her hands to her head and huffed in gasping breaths, letting them fall in uncontrolled bursts. How long had it been since she last cried? Years, she was sure of it. She let herself come undone, weeping, shaking, sobbing, heaving. Hysterically unraveled, like a ball of yarn after a cat’s had its way with it.

  Her phone buzzed then. She peeked over the side of the tub. Work flashed on the screen. Damn. She flushed her face with water and answered.

  “SAC, Ash?” It was Connie. She never called her SAC unless it was really important. “You’d better get in here. All hell’s breaking loose.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Five

  Walsh had done the mental calculations; he even argued with himself over the results. Eight hours was plenty of time to wait before calling her–if he was a stalker. Walsh had fought with himself like this all day. He hadn’t opened the shop and nobody seemed to care that he was closed. A day off after a night like he had was in due order. All he needed now was a little more Bridget.

  Giving up on playing the game side of the argument, he reached into his desk and removed her consent form haphazardly folded and thrown into the top drawer. To his total surprise, Walsh found the contents of the form less than helpful: Bridget Vixen, 1234 Intercourse Way, Climax, PA. 555-555-DoMe.

  Walsh couldn’t help but laugh. A jokester, and his kind of humor, but it meant he couldn’t call her and ask her out on a proper date. He was going to have to wait for her, and that sent him into a quiet fury while also arousing him. She seemed the type who liked to call the shots, and that had surprised him, until now.

  Walsh found his mind turning to Bridget–her long legs, her round supple breasts, the way she inhaled his cock. Heat rose in his groin. Shutting the blinds and laying himself on the couch, Walsh let his mind wander to her as he slid a hand down to stroke himself. He pumped his fist up and down inside his jeans, feeling the flesh stretch under his touch. In his mind, she straddled him, naked and ready, a sly smile laid across her beautiful mouth. Tell me how it feels, she whispered. Walsh could feel her mouth drink him again, feel every groove on her tongue, as she guzzled him whole.

  An unexpected knock at the front door jolted him out of his fantasy.

  Shit.

  Walsh peered out of the blinds. Standing on the curb was Miami Metro Detective Jim Nash, a person he knew too well for all the wrong reasons.

  Walsh quickly adjusted himself, his hungry cock now completely devoid of appetite, and opened the door. “Detective Nash,” he said. “It’s been awhile.”

  “Yes, it has.” Nash stepped past Walsh and entered the shop. “What have you been up to?”

  “You know, this and that.” Walsh kept his eyes steady on the detective. His surprise visits like these were never without warrant, yet nothing he had done lately would have earned it.

  “Coffee?” Walsh offered.

  Nash glanced his watch. “Why not?”

  Walsh poured out two cups for the second time that day.

  “What happened to your hand?” Nash asked as he took the mug.

  “This?” Walsh said flexing and relaxing his fingers. “This is stupid, salt in an old wound.”

  Nash arched an eyebrow as he took a swig from the steaming cup.

  “Old wound, huh? Would that old wound happened to be Bob Grim?”

  Walsh eyed Nash. He place the mug gently on the coffee table in front of him. “Could be. Why you asking?”

  Nash put his cup down on the table next to Walsh’s. “I went by Zeek’s. The bartender told me this lovely story about how you and Bob got chummy with your fists last night.”

  Walsh shrugged. “It was nothing. Just two old friends working things out.”

  “What did you do after?”

  “I came back here.”

  “Can anyone attest to that?”

  Walsh narrowed his eyes. “Maybe. What’s this all about?”

  Nash reached for his cup and paused. He set his jaw. “Bob Grim and your ex-wife were found murdered this morning.”

  Heaviness sank in Walsh’s stomach. He got to his feet. He paced around the couch with his bandaged hand rubbing his temple, as if trying to work his mind into understanding what he had just heard. “Where?” he asked softly.

  “In their shop,” Nash said. “I’m here because everyone knows that you and Bob didn’t see eye to eye all the time.”

  Walsh gritted his teeth as his pulse raced. “The guy moved into my house before my wife became my ex. Of course we had disagreements, but that’s all they were. There’s no real bad blood between us.”

  Nash rose to his feet. “Well, according to the bartender at Zeek’s, there’s enough motive to haul you in right now for questioning. But I’ll do you a favor and let you decide how this is going to play out.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide, Nash.”

  “Good.” Nash headed for the door and motioned for Walsh to follow.

  “I’ll take my bike.”

  “Suit yourself,” Nash said with a smirk, and slammed the shop door behind him.

  In the alley behind INK, the evening sun hung low on the horizon. Walsh started his Harley and tore off. With the wind in his face, and the roar of the engine drowning out the world, his mind drifted to Gloria. And Bob. Dead.

  He had issues with Bob but that didn’t mean he wanted the man gone. It wasn’t like he had stolen Gloria away as many around town had thought. Bob picked up her pieces when their marriage became irrecoverably broken down. She got the house, and Walsh got the shop. Gloria had taught him everything he knew about tattooing, and the student quickly became the master; his client list outgrowing hers in less than a month on the job.

  Maybe that was part of their break up? Jealousy. Walsh shook his head. He could call it whatever he wanted, but no matter how he tried to jostle the events in his mind, he was still to blame. His anger. His drinking. His despair over a life he could not remember.

  The ride to the station was quick and smooth, and a route he knew all too well. After Gloria left, his broken sorry ass had ended up in the drunk tank more times than the inches of ink that stretched across his flesh. That boiling rage of his liked to show its head when both his bottle and bed were empty, but he wasn’t a murderer. At least that’s what he told himself every day whenever he tried to remember his life before six years ago. Walsh chuckled at that thought: a murder with a memory problem.

  He slowed his Harley to a halt in front of the Miami Metro Police Station. Nash was waiting for him, still wearing that stupid smirk on his face.

  “I see you didn’t run,” Nash said.

  “I told you I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Inside, the station was bustling with activity. Ringing phones, shuffling feet, and the loud antics of hookers and johns pleading their innocence on deaf ears.

  Walsh followed Nash to the interrogation room.

  “Have a seat,” Nash said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Walsh had never seen inside this room before. Sleek white walls, a reverse mirror, cameras mounted on the ceiling, and a lone desk with two chairs–just like on TV.

  Nash entered the room again, holding a tan file. His file.

  Nash took the chair opposite Walsh and thumbed through the pages deliberately. “Six counts disorderly conduct,” he recited. “Four counts drunken lewdness.”

  Nash pe
eked his head over the file and eyed Walsh.

  “I had to take a piss. Four times,” Walsh said.

  “And two counts assault,” Nash said. He slapped the file on the desk. “One count against Gloria Jackson-Grim, and the other-”

  “Bob Grim,” Walsh added. “She locked me out of my own house. Bob came out to have a talk–man to man.”

  “You have quite a nice rap sheet here, Walsh, but strange that there’s nothing on you before six years ago.”

  “That’s right,” Walsh sneered. “You’re new on the force. Keep reading.”

  Nash flipped to the back page. “One count indecent exposure. Charges Dropped. Says here you were found naked and disoriented at Southpoint Park, with no recollection of where you came from, or how you got there. Correct?” Nash eyed Walsh. “Seen a doctor about that?” he asked.

  “All of them.”

  “Got any residual side effects from it?”

  “Other than drinking too much and getting into the occasional fight, no.” Walsh lied. There was no need telling Nash that he had been haunted by images, no, a single image, of The Blue Woman, every day for the last six years.

  There was a knock at the door. A younger uniformed officer walked in and handed Nash another file. He opened it and spread it out on the table. Walsh cringed at the photos attached inside.

  “This here,” Nash said pointing to a photograph of a large man with a heavily tattooed body. “This here is Bob Grim. And this other one, that’s Gloria Grim.”