Beneath These Shadows

by Meghan March

  Angelo’s words started my internal clock ticking down as soon as we stepped into my apartment. My mind chaotic, I strode into my room and stared at all the clothes in my closet for a full minute before I realized I couldn’t pack anything until I decided where I was going.

  Spinning around, I headed for my office and the bulletin board of all my maybe somedays. Clippings from magazines, printed articles, postcards, and pictures of skylines covered it. Must Do lists for each city hung along the bottom.

  Just pick one, I told myself. But decision paralysis set in. What if this was my only chance to see a piece of the world?

  “Can I leave the country?” I yelled to Angelo.

  “Are you fucking nuts? No, you can’t leave the fucking country.”

  Disappointment slammed into me, but I shoved it down. Good-bye, Paris, Rome, Dublin, and Barcelona.

  Focus on the positives. It narrowed down my choices. I paced my small office, my gaze flicking to the bulletin board with every pass.

  “You got fifteen minutes, and I don’t hear any fucking packing,” Angelo called.

  “Stop rushing me!”

  “I’m not fucking around, Eden. We gotta move when your time is up.”

  “Fine. Now stop yelling at me.”

  Just pick a place.

  Pictures of San Francisco, Nashville, Seattle, and Miami all hung there, but my gaze zeroed in on something else.

  New Orleans.

  I’d seen ads on top of cabs for the last two weeks, advertising an upcoming Mardi Gras party at a club, and wished that someday I could see a real Mardi Gras parade.

  I’m taking it as a sign.

  I was going to New Orleans. I reached out to grab the Must Do list, but snatched my hand back. If someone came into my apartment and noticed it was the only one missing . . . wouldn’t that be giving away my location?

  I reached out again, grabbing the lists for both New Orleans and Nashville off the bulletin board.

  Spinning on my heel, I ran for my bedroom and stuffed my carry-on with all the clothes I could possibly make fit before exchanging my ID, phone, and credit card for five thousand dollars in cash from the safe bolted into the back of my closet. I stripped out of my trench coat, skirt, blouse, and pantyhose, and tugged on jeans, a polo shirt, and a lighter jacket.

  When I wheeled the bag into the living room, Angelo was staring at his watch.

  “You ready?”

  Ready to leave the tower and experience life without a bodyguard dogging my every step?

  “Yes. I’m ready.”

  When we pulled up to the curb at JFK, I gave Angelo a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Take care, big guy.”

  “Be safe, Eden. If you need anything—”

  He cut off his offer because he knew I couldn’t call him.

  “Thank you for everything.”

  When I got to the ticket counter, I pulled my new ID and credit card from my wallet. When I laid them on the counter, I got my first look at my new name. Elisha Madden.

  “I need a ticket on the next flight to New Orleans. One way.”

  WIPING BLOOD AND INK FROM the smooth, pale skin beneath my tattoo machine should have been calming, but today, the fine lines of the butterfly mocked me. I wanted this tat over and done with. I should have made Delilah take the girl, but we were taking turns on the flash work that got so much action during Mardi Gras season.

  The girl, whose name I couldn’t remember, kept glancing up at me from beneath her fake lashes in a way that was probably supposed to be sexy, but didn’t stir my interest in the least. I’d had enough party-girl pussy thrown at me in the last week to put me off the species completely. If it wasn’t a challenge, then what the fuck was the point?

  “How much longer do you think? I can’t wait to get back out and grab a drink.”

  Even her voice annoyed me. Too breathy and high pitched.

  “Ten minutes,” I said, trying not to breathe in the cloud of vanilla perfume wafting off her in clouds.

  “Is it cool that I’m going to go back to party after it’s done? I’ve never had a tattoo before, so I don’t know the rules.”

  I lifted the needle away from her skin as she shifted for the fiftieth time in half an hour. “You can do whatever you want. Care sheets are on the counter out front if you want to do it right.”

  Her lips twisted into a pout at my answer, but it didn’t deter her for long.

  “You wanna come?” Her glitter-slicked lashes batted again as she twisted around to face me. “My friends and I would show you a real good time.”

  “You quit moving and we’ll be done a lot quicker.”

  She returned to the position I’d asked her to take with a huff.

  What in the hell would make this girl think I was remotely interested in joining them? I’d done nothing but shut her down over and over when she tried to start a conversation. Customer service at its finest, right? My boss would probably kick my ass, but then again . . . maybe not. He had as little patience for this shit as I did.

  “Just think about it.” She didn’t move this time, but the plea came through loud and clear.

  “Got plans.”

  My short answer finally did the trick. She let me finish my work in silence, and the minute I taped the clear plastic over the tat and snapped my gloves off, I stood.

  “You can settle up with Delilah.”

  I had to get the fuck out of the room before her heavy perfume suffocated me, so I strode out into the main area of the shop. My sister’s laughter followed me as I headed straight for the front door and fresh air.

  “Can’t get any peace, can you, Bish?” Delilah tapped a pencil against her sketch pad as she grinned at me.

  It was her running joke that four out of five female clients would hit on me, and the fifth would hit on her. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she actually kept track of it. But she was the only family I had, and I loved the shit out of her.

  “Don’t go too far, hot stuff. I’m heading out to pick up our food in a few.”

  I flipped her off and ducked outside to suck in a lungful of fresh air. Well, as close as I was going to get in this town. Pockets of smokers congregated among the crowd, clouds wafting away from them, but the urge to light up didn’t hit. Damn, maybe I’ve actually outgrown that shit.

  I leaned against the window and cracked my neck on both sides as I watched the crush of people waiting for the parade to turn down Canal Street. I didn’t know or care which parade this was; I only cared that I was out of the shop and the next piece of flash that someone wanted inked on their body was Delilah’s problem.

  It made me wish my boss didn’t have a policy about blocking off time that appointments could otherwise have filled during these three weeks of the year. So instead of challenging artistic pieces, I had tourists wanting shamrocks on their asses and names on their arms.

  I scanned the crowd, trying to pick out the next one who’d walk through the door. I didn’t actually care who it would be. I only wanted the distraction.

  But I had no idea how big of a distraction I was about to find.

  I’D PICKED THE ROOSEVELT BECAUSE I figured I couldn’t go wrong with a Waldorf hotel, even though I’d never actually stayed at one. When the cabbie dropped me off, excitement warred with anxiety as I climbed out of the cab. Sucking in a deep breath as the bellman opened the door, I walked into the lobby covered with gold gilt and intricate tile work.

  I can do this, I told myself.

  But apparently I couldn’t. At least, not here.

  After I waited ten minutes in line, the front-desk clerk stared at me like I was an idiot when I asked for a room and informed him I didn’t have a reservation.

  “We don’t have any vacancies. I’m sorry, ma’am, you’re unlikely to find anything close to the French Quarter with Mardi Gras coming up next week.” His words, in that condescending tone, seemed to carry an extra punch to crush the excitement I’d been feeling.

  Mardi G
ras. How could I have forgotten?

  “Do you have any suggestions where else I could try?” I asked, trying to keep a positive attitude.

  The front-desk clerk was already looking over my shoulder and waving the next person forward. “I’m sorry, I really have no idea. Maybe someplace out near the airport?”

  Dismissed.

  I forced a smile and thanked him as I dragged my suitcase across the lobby. When I’d pictured all the traveling I would do while tacking things to my bulletin board, it had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to find something so simple as a hotel room.

  Making my way through the brass-framed doors, I stepped out onto a sidewalk that swarmed with people. Screams and cheers came from half a block away, and it seemed like that was the direction everyone was heading. CANAL STREET, the sign in the distance read. I heard the music next, and my frustration at the hotel clerk’s lack of assistance faded away when I realized I was going to see my first Mardi Gras parade.

  A wide smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. For the first time in my life, I’d be able to check something off one of my Must Do lists. This was living.

  With my suitcase trailing me, I tried to see what was happening in the street, but at five foot six, I didn’t have a height advantage on many. All I could see was the back of people’s heads as I reached the crowd.

  “I see a better spot across the street. Wanna go?” a girl dressed in a neon-green bikini top, tiny black shorts, and fishnet tights yelled to her friend who was similarly dressed. The other girl nodded, and I made a snap decision to follow them as they pushed through the mass of people. Nothing was going to stop me from seeing this parade.

  Avoiding elbows and shouts, I plowed through, lifted my suitcase, and ran across the street.

  My first clear view of the street showed the parade still a good hundred yards away. I dodged the people gathered on neutral ground and crossed the next lanes without incident. The crowd swallowed me up on the other side, and a shaft of claustrophobia speared through me when I realized I couldn’t see over them either.

  “Show us your tits!” The raucous calls came from every direction, and beads were tossed through the air like confetti.

  The Must Do list also mentioned catching beads on Bourbon Street (without showing my boobs), but before I could decide whether catching beads on Canal Street was a suitable substitute, a body crashed into me, catching me off guard. I lurched sideways, tripping over a woman wearing a pair of snakeskin boots that stretched up to her thighs.

  “Whoa, watch it!”

  I started to apologize, but her elbow flew out and caught me in the ribs, and sent me stumbling further.

  Holding on to my suitcase with a death grip, I reached out to catch my fall with my other hand, but my palm connected with something fleshy. My gaze zeroed in on my fingers, and I yanked my hand away.

  Oh my God, you cannot be serious.

  A penis, painted gold. Connected to a man who was completely naked but for the gold, purple, and green glittery stripes covering his soft body.

  “I gotcha, darlin’.” Slurred words accompanied the hands that gripped my arms and pulled me upright.

  The naked painted man is touching me. Ewww.

  Why couldn’t he at least be hot? Seriously, would that be so much to ask?

  Abort mission. Abort.

  Holding on to my suitcase, I barreled through the crowd and didn’t slow until I reached a break in the chaos at the mouth of an alley, once again behind the crowd blocking the oncoming parade. Crap. Focused on finding another place to stand that would give me a view, I didn’t see the man who reached out and grabbed the back of my pink-and-white polo shirt.

  “Hey! You don’t have any beads.” He jerked me around before a huge guy wearing a leather vest with nothing under it yanked me toward his hairy chest.

  “I can fix that for her,” the man in a similar vest said from beside him.

  “I’m not interested in any beads. I’ll thank you to take your hands off me now.” I twisted, trying to get out of his hold, but the other man grabbed my arm as beer splashed between us, splattering my shirt.

  “Hey, you need a place to stay, girl? I got room for you in my bed.” Hairy Chest released me to grab his crotch.

  I reared back, latching onto my suitcase as the other guy lunged toward me. I opened my mouth to scream, but a deep voice ripped through the crowd behind me.

  “You’re late for your appointment. I don’t like to wait.”

  Both men’s attention broke away from me as they turned in the direction of the voice.

  What the hell? Appointment?

  The voice came closer. “I haven’t killed anyone in a long fucking time, but I’m happy to change that if you don’t get your hands off her.”

  Immediately, both men released me, and apprehension crawled up my spine.

  “Sorry, man. Thought she was someone else.”

  “Fuck off. If I see you assholes around here again, they’ll find you floating facedown in the Mississippi.” Heat met my back, and the voice rumbled low in my ear. “Come on, cupcake, let’s go.”

  My gaze landed on the two men who were now raising their hands and backing away, tripping over themselves, actually.

  I didn’t want to turn around. If they were afraid of the voice behind me, how much scarier did the body it belonged to have to be?

  Then again, he’d run off two guys on the pretense of some appointment. What was that about? The wall of heat dissipated behind me, and I found the courage to turn around.

  The blue-and-red neon lights of the sign attached to the marble building on my right read VOODOO INK.

  A tattoo shop?

  Immediately, my attention caught on the back of the man striding toward the door.

  A tattoo appointment?

  People stepped out of my unlikely rescuer’s way as though he were a force of nature unto himself.

  His brown-and-gold-streaked hair was twisted up in a knot at the back of his head, and broad shoulders stretched the back of a black T-shirt with the same logo on the back. Ink covered every inch of his visible skin.

  He was a man-bunned, tattooed giant.

  A man-bunned, tattooed giant who had saved me from being assaulted by drunk, grabby men.

  The space he’d left on the sidewalk filled with people, threatening to swallow me up again, and I made my decision based on nothing more than a shred of instinct.

  I followed him.

  THIS IS A BAD IDEA. NO, not a bad idea, a terrible idea.

  Misgivings of every shape, size, and volume buzzed to life inside me as my hand landed on the doorknob. I didn’t have a tattoo, and more than that, I’d never even thought about getting one. Girls like me, the kind who watched the world from the outside looking in, didn’t go to places like this.

  Before I could decide whether to twist the knob or walk away, the door flew open and I jerked back. A brunette stormed out, wearing only ripped jean shorts and a push-up bra with enough padding to turn her boobs into cannons.

  “What an ass. Who turns this down?” She wasn’t talking to me, at least not until she almost collided with me. “Good luck with that prick. Maybe he goes for the good-girl vibe you got going on. His loss.”

  My gaze lifted over her shoulder to see the back of the man-bunned giant inside the shop, and no one else.

  I didn’t bother to reply that I wasn’t trying to get him to touch me because she was already melding into the crowd that I was trying to escape.

  But she did make my decision easier. The chime jangled as I slipped through the open front door and shut it behind me. The giant didn’t turn around for several long seconds.

  One look at his face, his arms, his hands, his . . . everything, and I knew I should walk right back out that door.

  If there could be a universal picture of dangerous as hell embodied in the male form, the man-bunned giant would be it. Muscles rippled beneath the black T-shirt as he lifted a hand to his beard-covered face.
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br />   The world had apparently decided to throw me a bone. He was gorgeous, and I hadn’t accidentally grabbed his penis. Go, me. I could definitely see why she was pissed he wouldn’t touch her.

  Unfortunately, the world had bestowed all that . . . man . . . on me. Also known as someone who needed to start at the beginner level, not the more man than you could ever handle in three lives level.

  I’d had two crushes in my life, and one of them didn’t count. Gianni was replaced as my security when he “accidentally” grabbed my ass as he helped me out of the car, and Angelo had seen him and reported the incident to my father. It was the closest any guy had gotten to third base, and I’d gotten a cheap thrill. Unfortunately, that thrill had been killed when it had come out he’d stolen some of my panties. Ick.

  Before Gianni, there was my aunt’s yard guy, Marcello. For three years, he’d trimmed and mowed and edged while I drooled from the window. Compared to this guy, Marcello was a gangly child, and my lady parts were sending out an SOS from disuse.

  My brain snapped back into the present as my rescuer’s green eyes, almost emerald, scanned me from the soles of my Sperrys to the top of my blond head.

  “Where the hell were you headed? The country club?” His voice seemed even deeper and louder in the confines of the black-walled tattoo shop.

  “I wouldn’t wear jeans to a country club.” My response was instinctive, yet ridiculous. It wasn’t like I’d spent much time at the club, but even I knew they wouldn’t let you in wearing jeans.

  His lips quirked as if he might smile, but they smoothed back into a lush line.

  Lush? Wow, Eden. Simmer down.

  Why had I thought following him in here was even a fraction of a good idea? Scratch the fact that my body thought he was the most delicious thing it had seen since that piece of triple-chocolate Almond Joy cheesecake Angelo had brought me last week when he picked me up from work. Apparently my body was waiting for the notification from my brain that this guy was beyond out of my league.

  “I can just go.” I made a lame gesture toward the door. Getting a tattoo in New Orleans wasn’t on my Must Do list, anyway.