by Faye Avalon
And one of these days, maybe she’d teach him to take a full yoga breath that didn’t end up with them lying naked between the sheets.
Or maybe not, she thought as she fell joyfully into his kiss.
* * *
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Corrupted
by Cathryn Fox
Cuffs
by Cara Lockwood
Holiday Hookup
by Jamie K. Schmidt
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Cuffs
by Cara Lockwood
CHAPTER ONE
MAGS MCHENRY MIGHT not believe in true love, but she sure as hell believed in hate at first sight. It was a cool autumn afternoon on the near west side of Chicago, when she saw the corporate suit who walked into her tattoo parlor and instantly fell into serious, heated hate. Sure, the man was good-looking: dark, wavy hair rolling back from his forehead, a chiseled chin that could cut glass and those vigilant green eyes. But him winning the genetic lottery only made her hate him more. Privilege and entitlement rolled off him from his expensive, custom-made suit and designer silk tie to his Italian leather lace-ups. His clothes screamed money made by soft hands.
She watched him from the corner of her eye as she paused in her work, tattoo needle in midair above the shoulder of Angus, a big, beefy bar bouncer who lay reclined on the leather client chair, arm out, patiently waiting to have the outline of his eagle tattoo finished. Angus had his eyes closed and earbuds in, listening to whatever death metal he was following this week, and hadn’t noticed they had company.
The suit meandered around the lobby of her joint as if he were measuring it for new carpet. She didn’t like the way he studied the wall of her tattoo art—her creations—and frowned at the line of skulls flanked with roses near the bottom row. He glanced at the expensive smart watch on his wrist, which irked. If he was going to judge her work and find it wanting, he ought to at least give it his full attention. Not that she cared for the skulls in particular, anyway. She far preferred to tattoo birds. Birds were her specialty: eagles, hawks, falcons—even sparrows. She’d been told more than once that her detail in the artwork made it look as if the bird were real, caught frozen in midflight.
The suit’s pocket jangled an obnoxious ringtone, and he reached in for the brand-new, too-expensive-for-most-mortals phone and pressed it to his ear.
“Quinn,” he said, briskly, all business. He listened a beat. “Look, you know we can handle seven figures,” the suit said, far too loudly, as if he wanted everyone to hear how important he was. “We can handle eight. Or nine, for that matter.”
What the hell was nine figures, anyway? Mags hadn’t ever been more than a thousandaire. Money made people assholes, though. That was a fact she’d learned in her twenty-eight years on this planet. “We’re not your normal bank.”
Bank, one of Mags’s trigger words. If possible, she fell into deeper hate. Figured he’d work for a bank. He looked like the type who didn’t mind foreclosing on single moms or wounded vets. Mags glanced around the front of the shop, ready to yell for her counter guy, John, to escort this guy out, but John was nowhere to be found. This was the second time her new hire had ducked out for a smoking break, and it was barely two in the afternoon. Good help was hard to find.
Ignore the suit and he’ll go away, Mags thought as she refocused on the eagle tattoo in front of her, her attention entirely on the artwork she was creating on Angus’s shoulder. Angus lay on the leather recliner in the small alcove near the lobby of her shop, complete with a sink, fresh needles, and three walls for privacy with mirrors on each one, which came in handy now that she could keep an eye on the suit without turning. A wave of her own blue hair fell into her face, and she flipped it away with a twitch of her head. She needed to pay attention to Angus, one of her best customers. She’d covered his right arm in ink and now was busy working on making the left look the same.
She heard the suit end his call and could feel his sharp gaze on her back. She wasn’t going to look up. She was going to ignore him. Except that he languidly paced the lobby of her shop, like a tiger in a cage, barely restrained power in each step. Why did he feel so predatory? She wondered. It couldn’t just be the tie. And why did she care? She was tracking him out of the corner of her eye, telling herself it was because she didn’t trust him. Not because she was just a little bit curious about why he’d come.
Also, it seemed the suit was taking an interest in her. Staring, even, watching her closely. Why? Did he get off on watching tattoo artists work? She couldn’t imagine why else he seemed to be locked onto her. Ignore those intelligent green eyes, she told herself. Ignore that jawline so strong and chiseled it could probably whittle wood.
“Excuse me?” The suit was talking. To her.
Ignore him. She focused on the wing of the eagle as she saw him move behind her, his reflection in the mirror in front of her.
“Excuse me?” His voice was rich, like chocolate—smooth, too. She felt the baritone in her toes. Also, since when were suits so...tall. Broad. Intimidating. “Sorry to bother you.”
You’ll be sorrier if you keep trying.
“I’m looking for Mags McHenry?”
She let out a frustrated breath. He was just like the other strangers who came looking for her by name alone, surprised to find a blue-haired Asian woman named McHenry. It was her adopted name. She’d been taken in by a sweet old Scottish couple who’d been truer parents than her own, whom she’d never known.
“I’m Mags.” She raised her rotary tattoo tool and glanced back at him just in time to see the bloom of surprise on his face that he quickly hid behind a brilliant white smile, perfect even teeth. Lord, she ought to just change her name to Chan or Ling. Then she wouldn’t have to explain. Of course, she kind of liked throwing people off. Liked it when they stumbled over themselves to apologize—or even better, when they argued with her. As if she wouldn’t know her own legal name.
She inwardly dared the suit to start something. She almost wanted him to.
But he didn’t argue. Didn’t push back. His sharp green eye
s held something...dangerous. Intelligence? He wasn’t some empty suit. She got that impression right away. She ignored the warming sensation in her belly. So the man was good-looking. So he was tall and broad in the shoulders, but with a tapered waist that told her he was probably no stranger to the gym. Hell, he looked like he belonged on the cover of some damn men’s health magazine. She didn’t care. He wasn’t her type. Her type was bad boys in leather jackets covered in tattoos, with or without hair, and fists crisscrossed with the scars they bore from their share of scrapes. She preferred men who didn’t own a tie, much less know how to knot one.
“Gael Quinn.” He grinned, a half smile, all too confident in the crease of the dimple in his cheek. Well, the Irish name suited him. No one likely challenged his Kelly-green eyes and jet-black hair, told him no, really, what’s your real name? Or looked past him when calling his name from a restaurant wait list. She couldn’t imagine anyone looking past him, really. Looking like a romance hero brought to life, a McDreamy and McSteamy rolled into one. Look at that damn high-voltage smile. He no doubt used it to get those status-seeking Lincoln Park Trixies to fall into his bed. Well, he was a helluva long way from Lincoln Park. She wasn’t an empty-headed single looking for a rich man to buy her things. She found his striking good looks just annoyed her.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Mags swiped at the slight sheen of blood on Angus’s shoulder and returned to her work.
“I called. About the Shaded Moon album tattoo? Talked to John about it? He said I could come in today for a consultation. I hope that’s all right.”
No, it wasn’t all right. John hadn’t bothered to tell her someone had called. But then again, how could he? He was never here, she thought bitterly.
“He should’ve told you I don’t do the Shaded Moon album.” Not anymore. For a while, everybody had wanted one of those. The album had been a hit a year ago, showcasing the falcon, midflight, she’d created for the band. The lead singer’s favorite bird. Mags had done the work and sold the rights to it for cheap because she thought the musicians had been her friends, but then she learned they were making money hand over fist by putting her image on T-shirts, hats and everything but bumper stickers. Mags didn’t like that she’d had no say in how her art was replicated, that they’d not even bothered to ask her permission. Because they’d intended to do that all along, even though at the time she’d drawn it, they promised they wouldn’t. The betrayal still burned.
“You don’t?” Gael seemed surprised. But more than that, taken aback that she was telling him no. Clearly, he was used to getting what he wanted. Not this time. “You don’t do this art?” The suit actually pulled up a picture of the cover art on his phone. As if she didn’t already know what it looked like: peregrine falcon, midflight, its belly dotted with gray and brown, its dark wings expanded, yellow talons poised to snatch up its prey. Why did he care so much about it? The bass-heavy, borderline metal band didn’t seem his speed.
“No, I don’t.” She sighed, feeling bone weary all of a sudden.
“I have to have this tattoo. Money is no object.” He reached for his back pocket, ready to pull out his wallet. Of course, a man like him would think money solves everything. Mags finished the very last line of the eagle tattoo on Angus and sat back to admire her work. Nice job, if she did say so herself.
“Keep your money,” she said, and his hand froze, midway to pulling out the expensive leather bifold, which somehow looked miniature in his big hands. The man had the build of a lumberjack, not a businessman. Not that Mags noticed, she told herself. “Like I said, I don’t do that tattoo. Go to another shop. They’ll help you with your midlife crisis.”
He didn’t rise to her bait. “I don’t want another artist. I want you.”
The sound of his voice, the confident, deep bass, plucked a string that vibrated through the center of her chest.
“I’m confident we could reach a mutually beneficial agreement.” Was he talking about tattoos or sex? It was hard to tell with the man whose sensual mouth seemed to tease her. Who cared if the suit was sexy? He was still a suit.
Mags tried to dig into her basket of witty retorts to shut the man down but found it strangely empty.
“Are you?” she managed, hoping for heavy sarcasm, but instead, she sounded uncertain.
Her stomach growled instead, a little too loudly. She’d skipped breakfast, and her stomach was telling her lunch should’ve been an hour ago, now that it was close to one o’clock. But when she got in the zone, like she did with Angus, she didn’t think about anything else but the job at hand. Now that she’d finished Angus’s tattoo, her stomach told her it was time to focus on the important things, like food.
She pulled her attention from the man and his mutual benefits and tapped Angus on the shoulder to let him know their time was done. Angus’s eyes flicked open then, and he pulled out his earbuds and saw the suit for the first time. He glanced at Mags. One nod from her and Angus would see the man out. Not gently, either. It’d be a shame if the man’s good looks were marred by a one-way trip to the concrete. Angus slowly wound up the cord of his earbuds and sat up. He sneaked a glance at his shoulder.
“Damn, Mags. You outdid yourself.”
“Glad you like it.” She gave Angus a genuine smile and could feel Gael studying her as she leaned back on her stool, unlocking its wheel with her left foot and kicking backward as she whipped off her surgical glove with a snap. She tossed them in the nearby trash can. She stood and stretched herself, her back and upper shoulders stiff, all the while aware of Gael’s unblinking gaze. “You know what to do to take care of it, yeah?”
He nodded. With all the tattoos he had, he could probably write a book on new-tattoo care. Then he refocused his attention on the suit. To the suit’s credit, he met the man’s stare and didn’t look away as Angus walked into the expanse of the lobby and into the sunlight that warred with the fluorescent lights. Not easily intimidated, then. Interesting. She would’ve thought he’d run scared when Angus stood and stretched his beefy shoulders. Angus was six feet four, weighing in at over three hundred pounds, pretty much the opposite of svelte. He worked as a bouncer at the biker bar on the wrong side of town. Yet, now that Angus straightened to his full height, she saw that he only had an inch, maybe, on Gael. Angus was broader, but that was mostly fat, Mags had to admit. Gael had more muscle on his lean frame. Angus pulled out a money clip and rolled off four $100 bills. Mags didn’t ask where he got that kind of cash. She didn’t care. Mags took it with a nod of thanks.
“Uh... Mags.” Angus rubbed the back of his massive neck as he lingered on the black tile of the lobby of her shop. “There’s something else, too.” The big man wasn’t looking her in the eye. He seemed almost to squirm. “I’m supposed to pass on a message. From Clint.”
Clint was Mags’s on-again, off-again friends-with-benefits partner. He was a bartender at the bar where Angus worked, and the two men were friends. Clint and Mags had most recently been on again in the summer. A casual, no-questions-asked relationship. The perfect kind, in Mags’s opinion. Except now she had a feeling that bad news was coming.
“Clint’s, uh... Well...” Angus really did not want to get to the point. Mags felt the suit lean in, attention piqued. Great. Now she was his entertainment, too.
“Just spit it out, Angus. It’s okay.”
Angus took a deep breath, his brow furrowed. “He’s cuffed. He wanted me to tell you.”
Mags felt surprise at the disappointment that poked her belly. She was kind of expecting this, but still. The news didn’t land well. Cuffed meant going monogamous. It was that time of year again. Everybody did it. Fall setting in, winter coming fast. Nobody wanted their Chicago beds cold and empty for the polar vortex months.
Angus was still talking. “It’s that blonde waitress. Elena.” Angus’s shoulder slumped. “They’ve been seeing each other, and...”
Mags
held up her hand. “I don’t need to know the details.” They weren’t any of her business. She and Clint had never been exclusive. Never were going to be exclusive. What he did with his time away from her bed was his business. Still, she was going to miss the way he fucked. Hard, fast and unapologetic, just like he rode his Harley. She knew they’d eventually go their separate ways, so why did his decision to move on sting? Because it did.
It was probably because up until now, Clint had done everything she asked him to. She’d kind of felt like she had the upper hand in the relationship. Now she felt blindsided. Especially since it was November. She hated November. For a lot of reasons. None of which she wanted to think about right now.
She tried hard to press down the hurt that threatened to bubble up to the surface. What the hell did she care if Clint jumped into bed with Elena or anyone else? She wasn’t going to marry him. She wasn’t going to marry anyone. She’d promised herself that a long time ago.
“He’s a damn coward for not telling you himself,” Angus said. “But I think he’s a little afraid of you.”
Mags threw back her head and laughed. “Good,” she said, thankful for small favors. She knew he didn’t have the courage to tell her himself. Because she would’ve ordered him to quit being stupid, and he probably would’ve listened. The fact that he’d sent a lackey to deliver the bad news just told her that he was really serious about it. That he didn’t even want to give Mags the chance to change his mind.
Angus glanced over at Gael and then back at Mags. “If it’s anything, I’d never treat you like that. If, you know...” Angus stared at his feet, color rising in his cheeks. Mags suspected the big man had a little crush on her. For his sake, she ignored it. Mags would never go for Angus. He might be a big bruiser on the outside, but he was a giant teddy bear on the inside. He’d fall in love with her in two weeks flat, and then she’d have to live with breaking his heart. No way. She wasn’t going to do it.
