Heart of a Tattooist: Dark Romance MC Club Alpha Bad Boy Obsession (Tattooist Series Book 3) (7 page)

Cara stared at Mitch, sure she had either lost her mind or that he had lost his. “I’m sorry, but could you say that again?”

He grinned. “I have a friend who’s doing a video later this afternoon. It’s all honky-tonk bars and rock and roll. He put out a casting call for women with tattoos. Sadly, only a few answered and none of them were just what he was looking for.” He pointed to her sexy arms. “He needs someone with some star quality, which you definitely have. You need some publicity so you can get back to work. Now wait before you answer. I called up a few folks and it seems that all the guys who would give a shit about Junior are in jail, and staying there for a very long time.” His words were coming out rushed, like if he didn’t say them fast enough she might stop listening. “It turns out Junior wasn’t anyone’s nephew either; he was just some lowlife that hung out around the club a lot. Didn’t even have a bike. Big Jerry lets everyone call him ‘Uncle’; he didn’t have any personal ties to Junior.”

“Really?”

“Even if he did, it doesn’t matter because he’s riding right toward a life sentence. No way is he ever making bail either.”

Relief filled her. Was it really over?

Then anger set in. Had her old boss really been such a coward that he would let her get raped rather than help her out?

Yes.

And she had been on the run for what amounted to no reason at all.

She jerked her thoughts away from there and tried to decipher the rest of it. “I don’t know how to be in a video.”

“Do you know how to dance?”

She grimaced. “Awkwardly. Dancing isn’t my strong suit.”

“I doubt it’ll matter. Think about it, Cara. A cameo in a video for a song that’s already in the Top Ten on the country charts, and rapidly crossing over to the rock charts? This is just what you need to help boost visibility and get you back in the public eye.”

Mitch had a point there, and a damn good one. She had been gone for a matter of mere months, but months in the tat world was like years in other professions. She sighed. “I don’t want to be seen as a sexpot, Mitch. I want to work.’

“That’s the awesome part. He actually wants a tattoo as well. So there you go. He’s agreed to do the video with you tatting him up in the video.”

Mitch had set this up for her. She knew it. She looked away. “I don’t need you to do favors for me, Mitch.”

He scoffed. “It’s not a favor for you. I did it because I’m hoping to keep you here. Nashville’s a growing city, and it’s got a few shops. The best one would probably be more than happy to take you. If you take a job here we can see each other more. I hope you want to see me again, anyway. So you see, it isn’t for you at all. It’s for me, because I’m selfish enough to want you to stick around.”

He was a good man… An idiot to want to fall for her, but a good man nonetheless.

Except… she wasn’t a good person. She crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive gesture she wasn’t even aware of. “I see. Look, I know…I wasn’t always such a mess. I don’t want to be a mess either. It sucks. I can take care of myself. I will admit I spent everything I ever earned. Unlike guys like Hawk or a few others, most tat artists are not exactly swimming in spare cash. I can make my own money, though, and…”

“And all I did was tell you about someone who is dying to have you work on him, and wants you to do it on-camera, which would most certainly give you a better edge.” He was mad. It showed in the way his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched and then loosened. He looked sexy as hell in the mornings too, with his hair slightly mussed and his jaw lightly covered by stubble.

The hard throb of desire that hit her made her have to lick her lips to wet them before she could speak. “I’m not your ex. I didn’t show up here hoping you’d be willing to shower me with shit; I’m not that way. I’ve always taken care of myself.” To her horror, tears stung her eyes.

Mitch stared at her, and shook his head. “You sure as hell aren’t April. If you were, you would be flipping through maps trying to find the nearest haute couture store and asking me of you could pretty please have some pretties. Oh, and by the way, could I help your poor old mama with a new car.” His large, muscular arms crossed over his tight chest. “Do you think for a single second that I want that again? I know you are capable and independent and can earn your own way. Hell, that’s part of why I’m so drawn to you.”

He was definitely pissed. She stared at him hard. “So you’re saying you just want me for my money?’

He gawked at her. Opened his mouth and closed it again. Ran his hands through his hair and then roared laughter. “Damn it! Do you always have to have the last word?”

She shrugged, pretending to be coy. “I’m afraid so. I’d love to stay here, Mitch, but let’s be reasonable. I don’t have money to move and, no, I don’t want you to help me with that.”

“Well, you could always stay here. No strings. I could always issue you a lease or you could just find another place to live. Hopefully neither of those things will happen, but I don’t want you to think that if you
are
here you have to sleep with me. That’s not the deal.”

She was stricken by his kindness and his desire to be with her. He was really pulling out all the stops and that was so seductive, so very, very seductive, but she had to remember exactly what that would entail. “Let me ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“How much does it pay? This whole video thing, I mean?”

“Five grand. That’s with the ink. It’s also going to be more hours off-camera than on. Oh, and you’ll have to wear whatever wardrobe gives you.” He grimaced and added, “Knowing Cay, I would say you’re going to be dressed like some horny teenager’s farmer’s daughter fantasy in cowboy boots, a tied-up checkered shirt and cut-offs.”

She was amused. She didn’t want to be. The stakes were just too damn high. But she was anyway. “I see. Five grand would certainly rent me a place.”

Mitch nodded eagerly. “It would. You could even buy ramen noodles and a few cans of tuna.”

She choked on laughter. “No thanks to that last. I have eaten enough ramen to last me a lifetime. Speaking of food, how about I make some breakfast—that is, if you have any food here.”

Mitch shook his head. “Sorry, that’s a no. I really don’t stay here often. I prefer my house. I usually only stagger in here to sleep and shower then head back to the studio. However, there are plenty of restaurants within walking distance.”

“Do you ever eat a real meal?”

“Define a real meal.” His grin was infectious. “I cook, you know. Just not here. I need to know if you want the job because, frankly, being on-camera means you might have to skip the Pancake Pantry.”

“I see,” she said in her driest voice. “Well then. Yes, I do. What do I get for breakfast?”

His lips twitched and he said, solemnly. “A green juice and prayer.”

“Oh, hell no. Forget it. My body sort of automatically rejects anything even remotely healthy. And green juice is
gross
.”

Mitch sputtered laughter. “I had to drink it for almost two straight years. And people wonder why I quit the show.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “How I wish I could.”

“You might be causing me to rethink this whole thing you know.”

“Oh, it isn’t that bad. That is if you think green juice is the way to be both healthy and fit.”

“I think the way to be healthy and fit is to eat and exercise,” she said balefully.

“Ah, spoken like a woman after my heart.”

The words sent a little shock through her. Was she after his heart? She didn’t know.

All she did know was that she truly wanted him, and badly.

Cara wiped her sweaty palms on the back of her shirt. She had agreed to the shoot, but now that it was actually happening she was almost breathless. She had been videoed tattooing before, but had not done that to earn money. Usually it was for the person whose tattoo she was working on.

Well, in a way it is.

The thought helped soothe her, but only slightly. Mitch had vanished earlier and she was growing both irritated and worried, and the small breakfast she had eaten was long since gone. She grabbed an assistant and asked, as politely as possible, for a snack. The woman ran off and came back with a slim sack of almonds and a warning to her not to get any stuck in her teeth.

Cara gave her a bland smile, but she had to wonder what the hell the woman was thinking. How could she eat almonds
without
getting them stuck in her damn teeth?

That was a really good question, and one she didn’t have the answer to. She wanted to beat her head against the nearest wall or run right out of the building, but since most of the walls were flimsy constructs and she was currently attired in a pair of shorts so short she was afraid to even lean a little, a pair of utterly ridiculous cowboy boots, and a skin-tight tank top, she was pretty sure the last thing she wanted to do was go outside.

Especially since the place where they were shooting in was some industrial back alley of a place. The kind of place that would make a great setting for a chainsaw-wielding serial killer with a real hatred for posturing country music hunks like Cay Walker.

She didn’t like him on sight. He was arrogant and cocky, and beyond good-looking. His black hair hung in deliberately disheveled waves, and his tight white t-shirt drew attention to his admittedly handsome face and well-developed upper body.

A pair of ripped jeans so tight she could practically see the outline of his cock and a pair of completely hideous black cowboy boots completed the outfit.

Someone had tried to clap a hat on his head and he had shouted for them to leave that to the old farts, as he was still young enough to have hair on his head.

She took a few deep breaths, tore open the snack pack and devoured the nuts, running her tongue over her teeth and then drinking a glass of water to make sure there was no trace of the things on her teeth or stuck anywhere in between.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror and almost laughed. The eyeliner was black, as was the lipstick. Extensions had been added to her hair and she looked like a cross between a badass bitch and a crazed cowgirl.

The director called her to her place. Cay plopped down in the chair they’d brought in, and she quickly prepped his arm and pressed the stencil of the design he wanted to it. They were going to film him with the outline, the stencil anyway, on and then film it being filled in. There was a whole storyline involved and she was slightly amused by that too.

She had an hour to get the outline done. That was pushing it, but she could manage. Cay looked up at her and drawled, “Don’t hurt me darlin’, okay?”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s just a stencil, dude. The real pain won’t start until the needles come out.”

He gave her another of those cocky grins.

The director yelled, “Okay, let’s roll it!”

She took her place. She was supposed to be tattooing him, according to the storyline, and he was going to walk out of the chair and away. She checked the gun again. The plug was not in the electrical strip and all she had to do was hold it close to his skin.

She did. The cameras began to roll and canned music began. He mouthed words and the camera cut in on the stencil, making her swear silently.

It was heavy and dark and wouldn’t fool anyone who knew tats, but show business was show business she supposed.

He started twisting and turning in the chair then got up in time to fake wail out the hook. The name of the song was “Tattooed on My Heart,” another thing that made her want to chuckle. It was pretty corny.

Hell, he was corny.

The director yelled cut and Cay came back and flopped down in the chair. He gave her a winning smile and said, “Let’s do it, darlin’!” with so much enthusiasm she did laugh.

“Absolutely,” she said and plugged up her gun, loaded in the needles and then said, “Look, I need to wash your arm again. You’ve been sweating and being grabbed and groped by your girlfriend.”

Cay answered with, “Oh she’s just a model. Gotta love the models for these things. It’s one of the perks of filming these damn videos.”

“Is that right?” She started the gun and started working on the outline.

Cay said, “Hell yeah. I mean, we get plenty of groupies, but still, most of them are just regular girls. Not like those,” he jerked his chin toward the stunning brunette clad in a pair of shorts even shorter than the ones Cara wore. “That’s a thoroughbred right there.”

She gave him a thin smile and started working faster. Wiping away the thin runnels of blood quickly and making sure that the plastic she had asked for was still around the chair.

She couldn’t look away and she didn’t want to. The make-believe tattoo shop was lurid, to say the least, all dark lighting and sleazy-looking corners. The neon sign that heralded the ‘entrance’ to the supposed shop flashed and flickered, casting an occasional odd shadow nearby.

“’Course, I guess you already know all that. Our girlfriends have to get it, that we have to kiss these women and so forth. Well, there’re a few guys with wives that just hang out in their videos singing and playing guitar while some actor guy gets to scoop on the hot models.’

“That’s a shame,” she said in a neutral tone. Her tone was neutral but her feelings were anything but. Did Mitch hit on the women he did videos with? Did he engage in a little groupie groping, or go even further? She hadn’t even considered those things before Cay had said something, and she was annoyed he’d brought it up.

She set those thoughts aside. Millions of people would see this and if she fucked up, all they would see were her mistakes. That was all she needed.

She worked steadily, refusing to think. The lights were hot despite the dimness, and her head ached as the time wore on.

The director finally called out, “Let’s get the shots of the ink going in!”

The cameras pulled in close. She ignored them, intent on the shape of the tat she was working on. Sweat ran down her body and the tank grew slightly transparent and clung to her body. She didn’t dare look up any more than she had to, or lift her body. She was sure her nipples were visible below the thin and sweaty tank, and she was in no mood to be turned into another of Cay’s ‘thoroughbreds’.

Time slowed to a crawl. Someone started the music up again and the model came prancing up. Cara was grateful that what she had on was at least similar to what she had worn by choice the day before. With the noted exception of the awful boots, which were making her feet sweat so terribly she was sure she was going to lose a toe.

The model danced around, shaking her shoulders and sending her hair flying everywhere. Cara stopped, lifted the gun and said, “Guys, come on. She can’t be on top of fresh ink. He’ll get a shitty infection.”

The model turned feral, “What’re you trying to say, bitch?”

Great, just what she needed. Cara rolled her eyes. “It’s not you, believe me. It’s the air and blood-borne pathogens. Personally I wouldn’t touch this guy unless someone dipped him in bleach. I’m wearing gloves and playing in actual blood. If you keep messing around right here you might jostle my hand, or send dust or spores or whatever the hell else is in the air right into the cuts I’m making in his skin. One of you is going to get really sick. I’m just saying.”

The model backed away.

The director said, “Shit. Damn it, Cay, we didn’t think of that.”

No shit, assholes. Cara shook her head and went back to tattooing. “I can clear-wrap it after you get all the shots you need of it. Then she can do whatever she needs to do and it won’t cause any damage.”

Cay said, “You sort of called me sick.”

“No, I said you were skeevy. You are, by the way, but that’s not my issue. My job is to make you look good, and I’m doing that. Don’t fuck this tat up for a music video.”

Cay sulked; the cameras took a few more shots. The model sipped iced coffee and the crew stood around looking bored, while Cara took a quick glance down at her breasts to make sure the top had not gone completely see-through. To her relief it was still opaque right over her chest.

She added shading and detailing. Cay swore a few times. A few crew members laughed and chatted. The seam of the shorts chafed her labia through the slim thong she wore below and she had to focus hard, drawing her concentration down to a hard bead to keep from letting all those things bother her.

Finally, it was done. She stepped back. Immediately the camera was in her face, sweeping up and down her body. She looked down to see her nipples straining against the tank top and she swore angrily under her breath then grabbed her equipment, and began cleaning and bandaging Cay’s arm in clear wrap as she had promised.

When the tat was done the model, who had been standing there looking both bored and pissed off, came prancing back up. Someone cut the music back on and she gave Cay a little lap dance then strolled away, striking a sultry pose in the fake doorway before vanishing in a puff of fog from a machine hidden nearby.

Cay grabbed a guitar, gave it a few fake licks, and mouthed the last words of the song before sinking back into the chair in what was probably supposed to be a tragic pose. Cara shook her head and began stripping off her gloves, putting them and the bloody cloths carefully in a bag before throwing it away and beginning to clean her gun.

A few of the crew wandered up. Soon she was talking what she knew best—ink. Her laughter was real and genuine, and she found herself really regretting that she didn’t have a shop to work in. A few of them gave her their cards and told her to call them when she decided where she wanted to work out of. A few even suggested the same shop there in Nashville, and she said thanks and then finished her cleaning before ducking back into the little changing room to get out of the clothes.

She moved the curtain and then backpedaled, her face going red and her eyes hurriedly closing to ward off the sight of the video model giving Cay a rather impassioned blowjob.

Cay gave her a grin and the model didn’t even bother stopping. She quickly lurched back out into the main room. One of the crew said, “Oh, did you walk in on them? Should have told you they headed back that way. Sorry about that.”

It was no different than L.A. Or New York.

She had wanted to believe that Nashville was different. That the people there were different, but they weren’t, and Mitch was a famous man with a lot of female fans, and he had probably gotten more than one blowjob behind the curtains of a music video shoot.

And just where the fuck was he anyway? There had been a few other models there earlier, playing some part along with the cock-sucking one behind the curtain. They’d vanished too.

Anger hit, hard. Behind it came jealousy.

She grabbed her stuff and stomped up to the director and asked, “Who do I see about my pay?”

“Oh, I’ve got a check for you.” He went to a book and ripped a check out then handed it to her. “Mitch said to tell you he’s over at the studio and he’d be here as soon as you’re done, so if you want to call him…”

“Yeah, no.” She stormed past him, stuffing the check in the pocket of the too-short shorts as she went. Her feet slid and ached inside the ridiculous boots as she headed out the door and stood on the sidewalk, gulping in long lungsful of air.

The air braced her but did nothing to assuage her emotions.

She had to get out of there.

Had to.

There was no way in hell she could care so much about Mitch and whether or not he was stuffing his junk in some other woman, but she did. She was angry as hell, so angry she was thinking the most juvenile of thoughts but she could not help it. She was awash with emotions and the most prevalent ones were jealousy and hurt, and she didn’t know how to cope.

With everyone else she could put on a mask and make them see only what she wanted them to see. Mitch somehow managed to rip away all of her defenses, which left her unprotected and vulnerable, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t want to feel so exposed, she didn’t know how to handle it anymore—or if she ever did.

She started walking. Her hair blew back from her face and she groaned as her foot came down. She had a huge blister forming under her toes. Just what she needed.

“Hey!”

She didn’t turn around. Mitch called again and she walked faster. “Damn it! Cara!”

He raced up to her, the sound of his boots hitting the asphalt loud in the otherwise still and humid night. Tears rolled down her face but she just walked faster, trying to outpace him.

He drew abreast of her and she broke into a run. Mitch swore again and trotted up beside her. “Are you exercising or trying to kill me?” he shouted and she wept harder, her arms and legs pumping as she ran faster.

“Damn it! Cara!” He grabbed her arm, breaking her stride, but her feet kept going like the feet of a puppet suddenly cut loose from their strings.