Merry Inkmas: A BWWM Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  Shaking his head, he put the jacket over her shoulders as she'd just done to John. “Yeah,” he muttered. ”That’s one way of putting it.” But he felt his lips curl into a smile.

  "I can't take your coat," she protested. "You'll be cold."

  "I'll be fine.” He let his gaze rake over her face, tracing its smooth contours. Then her lips parted, and he forced himself to turn away. Because fuck, the sight of her soft mouth slightly open, just like it would be if she were gasping beneath him—

  Cash had known he had a thing for the girl at the coffee shop. But it was beginning to turn into a problem.

  John stood watching them, a smile playing about his bloodless lips. He was still shaking, clutching his backpack to his chest now. The longer Cash looked, the more he realised that John was just a young man, despite the worn-out tiredness that clung to him like a parasite. In a split-second, Cash made his decision.

  "Come on," he said. "Let me take you somewhere." Because aside from anything, if he didn’t start moving now, he might do or say something to Bailey that he’d eventually regret.

  Before he could second-guess himself, Cash started off across the square. He didn’t have to look back to know that the pair were trailing after him. Cash didn’t have a lot of positive qualities; he knew that. But one thing was for sure: when he spoke, people listened.

  ∞∞∞

  Just a few ice-cold minutes later, Cash led the way into a nearby hotel. He headed to the front desk and had a brief exchange with the perky young woman who manned it. Just as she handed over a keycard—and Cash handed over his credit card—he felt a gentle touch at his shoulder.

  He turned to find Bailey looking up at him, his leather jacket dwarfing her narrow shoulders and her delicate brow furrowed.

  "What are you doing?" She asked, her voice low.

  "Booking a room."

  She raised her eyebrows. “Like in Pretty Woman?”

  “I’ve never seen Pretty Woman.”

  “Oh. Um… Never mind.”

  Cash didn’t understand half of the references she made, but he definitely enjoyed the embarrassed smiles she flashed after making them. Still, he remembered, they weren’t at the coffee shop now. There was no time to indulge his weird fascination with this girl.

  "For John," he said shortly. "Just for a week or so. Until we can sort him out."

  Her cheeks plumped as she smiled wide. And there was that look again, the one that said, My hero.

  Not true. But he was starting to think he'd like it to be.

  There you go again, lusting after treasure like a beast under a bridge.

  "Here you are, Sir," said the receptionist, holding out his card with a white-toothed smile. "That's all sorted for you."

  "Thanks, Mandy," he answered, reading the name on her badge. Force of habit.

  He turned to catch John's eye, indicating to the younger man that he should follow. Then he headed to the lift, and they all made their way to room 302.

  "Here we go," Cash said, unlocking the door and stepping into a spacious room with a tea set, double bed, TV, and ensuite. John walked in and Bailey followed, closing the door behind them.

  "For... For me?" John asked, his hoarse voice barely a whisper.

  "Yeah. Just for now." Cash handed the keycard over, then grabbed his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a business card and put it on the side table, by the phone. "You can call me tomorrow, or I'll call you sometime after lunch. I think we could do something to help you get back on your feet."

  John stared, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. Behind him, Bailey turned tactfully away. "Why are you helping me?" The younger man asked.

  Cash spoke quietly. "Because this could happen to anyone. This could happen—" his throat felt tight suddenly, but he pushed through the rising panic, mastered it, forced it back into the farthest recess of his mind. Clearing his throat, he finished: "This could happen to me. And if it did, I'd want help. Everyone deserves help." Then he smiled, as though that could break through the heavy air that had fallen on the room. "Anyway," he said. "It's Christmas."

  John reached out a hand, hope and joy and relief shining through his tired features. Cash echoed his movement, and the two men shook hands firmly before one of them—or perhaps both of them at once—pulled the other into a hug.

  "Thank you," John said softly. "Thank you. One day I'll repay your kindness." The quiet words rang with the solemnity of a vow.

  Cash shook his head. They pulled apart, and John made his way over to the window, gazing out at the lights of the square. While his back was turned, Cash pulled a handful of twenties from his wallet and put them at the end of the bed, along with a business card.

  "We'll leave you to it, mate," he said, heading towards the door. "Get something to eat, yeah?"

  John turned, surprise on his face. Then he saw the money on the bed. "Oh, Cash, no—"

  "Stop it. Need you fighting fit." He winked. Then he said, "Let's go, Bailey," before he could stop himself. As if he had any control over her. As if they were a package deal. As if she'd follow.

  But she did, for some reason, and that brought the ghost of a smile to his face.

  "Have a good night, John," she called. "I'll ring you too."

  "Bailey. Thank you. Thank you for always being so good to me."

  "You don't need to thank me. You're my friend."

  Cash watched as she smiled at John, her honesty shining through like a star. She was so blindingly, beautifully bright, and yet he couldn't look away. He should look away, shouldn't he?

  They walked out into the corridor, shutting John's door behind them.

  Cash leaned against the blandly papered wall, studying the design on the thick hotel carpet. The shades and shapes of its brash pattern were so violently unsuited that they practically offended his eyes. They definitely offended his artistic sensibilities.

  "Hey," Bailey said softly. "Cash." The sound of his name on her lips sent a thrill through his gut. It was like the first time he'd gotten on a motorbike, or the high after his first tattoo. But it came from nothing more extreme than this woman. Maybe it was because she was so very off-limits—so very out of his league. Maybe it was because she’d been safe when she was stuck behind a counter, but now she was real and he wanted her badly. Whatever the reason, in that moment, he made the decision to chase the feeling she gave him.

  “Yeah?” He asked.

  She stepped forward, and he stood up straight as though she had him on a leash. Which she did, really—only it was secured around his suddenly-aching balls, and she didn’t even know it yet.

  “Why did you do that?” She asked, her voice solemn.

  “Do what?”

  “Help John.”

  He raised a brow. “Why did you help John?”

  “Because I like him,” she said immediately. No hesitation. “And I think he’s a good guy. And I wish… I wish things were better. For everyone.”

  Cash tried to keep himself under control—but he’d never been very good at that. So he wasn’t surprised when his hands moved, apparently of their own volition, to gently tug away the hairnet that still covered her head. “Maybe I trust your judgement,” he said, his voice low.

  She held perfectly still as he pulled off the hairnet, like a doe freezing just before it fled. And she said, “You don’t even know me.”

  I wish I did. It was the truth. Just like it was true that he’d spent more than a few nights thinking of her—of her smile and her tip-tilted eyes and the way her hands moved as she poured drinks—wishing that he were a different kind of man. The kind that she deserved.

  But he wasn’t. He was Cash.

  So he stepped away from her abruptly, doing his best to ignore the way her eyes dimmed. Then he pulled another card out of his wallet and tossed it to her like she was some kind of nuisance.

  Before he could see the look on her face—the look that would shatter any illusions he might have about ever being her hero—he turned
away. As he stalked down the corridor, he called over his shoulder: “I’ve got a job for you, if you want it. Be there at ten.”

  She didn't say a word in reply. He imagined her standing there amongst the bland walls and the awful carpet and the countless identical doors, staring at his business card.

  But for all he knew, she could’ve dropped it in disgust. He had no idea. His rules were clear: Cash never looked back.

  And before now, he’d never wished that he could.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, Bailey stood outside of Fallen Tattoos, clutching Cash’s card. It was black, with his name, contact details and business address printed on it in a stark white font. Something about it was… imposing.

  And the facade of the shop standing before her was pretty imposing too. This was definitely the place. But God, what the fuck was she doing here?

  For a moment, Bailey wavered, fiddling nervously with zip of the leather jacket slung over her arm. But then she steeled her spine and mentally pulled on her big girl knickers. After the events of last night, she really had no choice—she needed a job. Now.

  So why look a gift horse in the mouth? Even an incredibly hot, intimidating gift horse who apparently owned a tattoo parlour?

  Okay, yeah—she should leave.

  But as she turned to scurry off home—not that it would be home much longer if she couldn’t pay the bloody rent—the shop’s front door open a crack. A girl’s head poked out of the gap, her short, choppy hair dyed a screaming pink. “Hey,” she said. “Are you waiting for Cash?”

  “Um….” Bailey faltered, her mind scrambling.

  “Well, come in then,” the girl said. “I’m freezing my bloody tits off here.”

  “Right,” Bailey muttered. “Sorry.”

  And for some reason—because she was a pushover of epic proportions, clearly—she turned right around and marched herself into Fallen Tattoos.

  Stepping out of the icy street and into the shop’s cozy warmth was a treat for the senses—except her sight, which immediately blurred as her glasses fogged up. With a sigh, Bailey waited for them to calm the hell down.

  And then, when they finally did, she gaped at the magic surrounding her like a kid at a fair. Because, as dark and intimidating as Fallen seemed on the outside, inside it was a Christmas wonderland.

  The room was a foyer of sorts, holding a desk along with a comfortable seating area. Every spare surface was festooned with brightly-coloured tinsel, or fairy lights, or some combination of both, and a small Christmas tree stood proudly amidst the brown, leather armchairs and comfy-looking sofa at one end of the room.

  The festive cheer was even more incongruous when one considered the decor beneath: the room’s walls were covered in a variety of artwork, from hand-drawn tattoo designs—accompanied by photographs of the finished tattoos themselves—to bold depictions of animals, landscapes, and pop-culture motifs that were painted directly onto the wall. At various points around the room, there were framed posters exhibiting bright, cartoon-like pictures that reminded Bailey of the old-fashioned tattoos she’d see in comic books as a kid. Each image had a price beneath it, and the posters were all entitled ‘Flash’.

  “Wow,” Bailey breathed, taking in the brilliance of the many-layered contrasts. “This is…”

  “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

  Oh. Somehow, she’d managed to forget that she wasn’t alone.

  The pink-haired girl was smiling at her from behind the desk, her elbows resting against its dark surface and her striking face cupped in her hands.

  “Yeah,” Bailey smiled back, shifting awkwardly. “Um… Should I…?”

  “Oh, yes, sit down! Cash will be here soon. He usually comes in earlier than me. I don’t know what’s held him up today.”

  Nodding, Bailey unzipped her coat and settled herself down into one of the leather armchairs. It sank comfortingly beneath her weight, like the kind of chair you’d find in an old family room—or at least, the kind of chair Bailey imagined you’d find. Her experience of family wasn’t exactly traditional. But a girl could dream.

  “What’s your name?” The pink-haired girl asked. She had the kind of bright tone and staccato voice that young children used, full of hummingbird energy.

  “Bailey. What’s yours?”

  “Gemma,” she said. “Everyone calls me Gem.”

  “Ah. That’s cool.” In fact, everything about Gem was cool. Her short, pink hair, the silver studs through her nose and eyebrow, the countless mismatched earrings running along her earlobes. She wore a band tee cut up into a vest, and its short sleeves displayed a ton of colourful little tattoos scattered up and down her arms. There were words and phrases, symbols, fractured images—none of them seemed connected, but somehow they looked perfect together.

  Gem cocked her head to one side, the movement birdlike, and Bailey realised that she’d been staring. Her cheeks heating, she stammered, “I, um, I love your hair.”

  “Thanks,” Gem smiled, running her fingers through the choppy strands. “I like yours too.”

  “Oh.” Bailey raised her hand self-consciously to her plain bun. She’d had no idea what to do with her hair—or her clothes, for that matter—and now here she was in an old skirt-suit that was clearly unsuitable, her hair pulled back severely. But Gem was probably referring to her locs, rather than the bun. “Thanks,” Bailey said, fingering the leather of the jacket in her arms like a talisman.

  Another awkward silence descended.

  Looking around for some kind of conversation starter—or any sign of her brain, which she’d clearly left out on the street—Bailey’s eye caught on a little table beside her. A sloppy pile of magazines was splayed over it, their covers showing scantily-clad women with porcelain, tattoo-covered skin.

  Bailey chose one at random, flicking through the pages as her nerves increased. Why had Cash invited her here? He said he had work for her, and she definitely needed that—but what could she do in a place like this? She was a psychology undergrad and a part-time barista, not a tattoo artist.

  Her rapidly-moving fingers paused as her gaze snagged on a familiar pair of piercing green eyes. Bailey’s brows shot up as she recognised the very man she was here to see, smouldering up at her from the magazine page. Cash’s hair hung over his handsome face, a smirk tilting his lips. His arms were folded over his broad chest, corded with muscle and covered in ink.

  Wunderkind Cash Evans Returns As Hometown Hero, the article said. Bailey zeroed in on the opening paragraph.

  Cash Evans burst onto the international scene way back in 2010, and he’s stayed relevant ever since through a combination of fine-artistry, innovative techniques, and global touring. Now the versatile artist is back in his home city of Nottingham, opening his own studio: Fallen Tattoos.

  Bailey flipped to the magazine’s front cover, searching out the publication date. September 2016. So Cash was some kind of, what—tattoo superstar?

  She skimmed through the next paragraph, which described the shop, eagerly searching for more information on her enigmatic rescuer. But her focus on the magazine was interrupted by the sound of the shop’s door opening. She looked up in time to see Cash himself walk in, a black crash helmet tucked under his arm.

  “Morning, Gem,” he said, his voice low and weary. It was a little past 10 A.M., yet he sounded like he’d just finished a day’s hard labour.

  “Hey,” Gem said, looking up from her computer screen. “You have a visitor.”

  Cash followed her gaze to the seating area, a frown furrowing his brow. Bailey rose from her seat, clutching his jacket like a talisman under the full force of his glare.

  “Hi,” she said, stepping forward hesitantly. “Um… I brought your jacket.”

  His lip curled. The expression wasn’t a smile. “Is that all?” He asked.

  Bailey bit her lip. She had no idea why, but the sweet guy she knew from the coffee shop appeared to have disappeared; in his place was an intimidating bear. Perhaps the da
rk circles under his eyes explained his sudden attitude—he looked like he hadn’t slept all night.

  Yeah. That was all. He was just tired. Pushing her nerves aside, Bailey straightened her spine and forced herself to speak clearly. “That’s not all,” she said, her voice firm. “You mentioned last night that you could help me with… With my job situation.”

  Okay—was she imagining things, or had Gem’s jaw just dropped? If it had, the girl regained her composure in record time. She was now tapping away at the computer as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Yes,” Cash said. He stalked towards Bailey like a tiger after its prey. She had to force herself to stand still as he loomed over her, mere inches between them. He reached out a hand, and she held her breath as she waited for him to touch her…

  Only to exhale when he took the jacket she was holding out.

  “Thanks,” he said with a smirk. The knowing gleam in his emerald eyes brought a blush to her cheeks. Cash turned and headed towards the far end of the room, where an open doorway beckoned. “We’re looking for a receptionist,” he threw over his shoulder. “Come up to my office and we’ll discuss the position.”

  After a moment of indecision, Bailey scurried after him in her sensible heels. She smiled at Gem as they passed by the desk, only to falter as she saw the expression on the other woman’s face.

  Gem’s jaw had definitely dropped this time.

  Oh, dear.

  Chapter Four

  Bailey kept her eyes glued to Cash as they ascended the narrow staircase—which was a mistake, because his jeans were tight and his arse was tighter, and it all made her feel slightly… warm.

  Still, she followed him in self-conscious silence. He led her along the short corridor at the top of the stairs, then into a spacious office filled with cheap chairs, cheaper desks, and several thousand pounds worth of MacBooks.

  “Sorry about the decor,” he said, sliding into a wheeled chair behind the largest of the desks. It sat directly in front of a wide window and was flanked by two locked filing cabinets. “We need to get Gem to work her magic up here,” he continued. “But she’s so busy now.”