Indelibly Intimate

  Indelibly Intimate

  Regina Cole

  Quinn LaBrea got ditched. Her jerkwad ex-boyfriend trashed her credit and left behind a mountain of debt. Worse, his initials are tattooed on her thigh, an ugly-ass reminder of her utter failure at life. Not to mention her horrible taste in men.

  Hamilton Dean—“Hammer” at his tattoo shop—may be an unlikely white knight, with his piercings and bad-boy persona, but he takes one look at Quinn and knows exactly what she needs. A new tattoo to cover the old one? Easy. A place to stay when her power’s cut? Done. A night filled with hot, sweaty sex and mind-blowing orgasms? Hell yeah.

  Addicted to Quinn’s touch, Hammer brings her to the Inktastic Tattoo Convention. In his booth where anyone could see, alone in the hotel, anywhere and everywhere, Hammer has to have her. But he wants to give Quinn so much more than mindless pleasure and multiple orgasms. He offers her forever, if she has the courage to take it.

  Indelibly Intimate

  Regina Cole

  Dedication

  To Dawn, who never fails to make me feel like a “real” writer. Thanks, love.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks and adulation in spades to: Scotty Lamm, my husband and rock. Heather Mosley-Beers, my partner-in-reading and best sister. My mom and dad, for always supporting me, even when I’m a total bonehead. My fabulous coworkers at the day job, who make me feel like a rock star with every new release. My kickass editor, who puts up with more crap than she should from me, Carrie Jackson. And my incredible crit partner and even better friend, Denise Tompkins. You guys rock my socks, even when I’m not wearing any.

  Chapter One

  If Quinn LaBrea ever caught hold of her scumbag ex-boyfriend again, she’d give him two choices—grovel like hell or leave the country.

  “You don’t understand. That bike isn’t here. It’s under Guy’s ass somewhere. He hasn’t been here for six weeks.”

  The lady from the collection agency had a voice like a carton-and-a-half-a-day smoker. “Ma’am, your name is on the loan, which makes it your responsibility.”

  Quinn shoved her damp bangs away with a heavy sigh. “I know that but there’s not a lot I can do. Since he’s gone, I’m not even able to pay the rent, much less give you two thousand dollars for the bike he ran out on me with.”

  The scratchy-voiced woman didn’t sound sympathetic. “The amount due is two thousand three hundred seventy-two dollars and sixty-eight cents. Until this amount is paid in full, you can expect to hear from us. Daily.”

  Static buzzed and the line went dead.

  Quinn dropped the phone over the cradle. It clattered to the carpet beside the couch. She left it there as she stalked back to the kitchen. If the battery in the phone died, they couldn’t call her and bitch anymore.

  The dishwater had grown chilly while she talked to Polly Smokes a Lot. Quinn ran a gush of hot water into the plastic pan and resumed washing her breakfast dishes. The act of scrubbing congealed oatmeal and egg bits from her green plastic plate wasn’t as cathartic as she’d hoped. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the only green she could claim was the damn plate. Maybe she could send the plate to the collection agency.

  Stupid asshole Guy. Even with that less-than-charitable thought about him, a bolt of loneliness gripped her heart again.

  When the dishes were clean and put away, Quinn glanced at the clock. “Shit.”

  Her goldfish blew bubbles as she bolted past. They, at least, appeared peaceful and happy. Of course they would be. Tony wasn’t about to chew their asses out for being late to work again.

  Quinn dropped her bathrobe at the end of her unmade bed and yanked her uniform from the closet. After donning the black-and-white-striped referee tee with “Buzzard’s” in bold yellow letters across the back, she pulled on black shorts. She looked down to button them and, as she did every day, grimaced at the tattoo on her thigh. Guy had done it a few years ago. The tail of the “Q” connected to the “G”, and the word “forever” was declared in script beneath them.

  “Forever or six years, whichever ends first,” Quinn said to herself as she yanked a brush through her damp hair. She pulled the red-brown length of it into a messy topknot then blew her thick, side-swept bangs dry. Slapping on some makeup only took a moment, jamming her feet into her Nikes a moment more, and then she was out the door, down three flights of stairs and into her twelve-year-old Honda.

  The outskirts of the Baltimore suburb where Quinn lived were hopping at this time of day. Buzzard’s Sports Bar and Grill stood only a ten-minute drive from the apartment she and Guy used to share, but on a day like today it could take more than twenty. She glared at the clock as she tapped the brakes yet again.

  “Stupid traffic,” she muttered. Tony was going to hit the roof, if he hadn’t already.

  Sure enough, when Quinn finally shoved open the big metal door marked “employee entrance”, her boss stood there with his arms folded on top of his barrel-like belly.

  “You’re late.”

  Quinn ignored him, stowing her purse in the break room and grabbing her waist apron from a peg on the wall. Tying the long black strings into a double bow behind her, she pivoted to walk into the kitchen.

  Tony blocked her path with a sour expression on his swarthy face. “LaBrea, I said you’re late.”

  “Tony, I know. Couldn’t help it.” Quinn shoved past him and continued into the kitchen.

  “That’s the last warning I can give you, you know that. Next time I’ll have to fire your skinny ass.”

  Quinn hit the swinging double doors without turning. “You can’t talk about my ass, Tony. Remember the sexual harassment training?” She couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth from quirking up as he sputtered to find a reply.

  The scent of sizzling hamburger met her nostrils as she made her way toward the dining room.

  Yancey, the cook, winked at her from behind the pass. “Good morning, sunshine.”

  “Blow it out your ass, Yank.” Quinn winked back so he’d know she was mostly kidding and scooted out to claim her section. The lunch rush was getting started and she needed all the tips she could get.

  The other four waitresses were already there, scurrying through the tables like rabbits darting through underbrush.

  Kim tossed Quinn an armful of menus. “You’re late. They seated a six-top in your section.”

  Quinn adjusted her burden, sighing at her ponytailed friend. “I know I’m late. Not my fault. Guy strikes again.”

  Kim’s almond eyes narrowed and she crossed her thin arms. “Another collection agency?”

  Quinn nodded and headed out to her tables.

  Kim’s voice was as cold as the walk-in freezer Tony was forever tinkering with. “When I find that guy, I’m going to kill him. You know that, right?”

  Quinn smiled but didn’t turn back. Kim was incredibly loyal, and not a little fierce. If Quinn herself didn’t murder Guy, she had no doubt Kim would do the job.

  The six-top was, of course, comprised of a bunch of college-age guys. Not much tip to be made here, Quinn sighed to herself. Maybe one of them would turn out to be a trust-fund kid slumming. Hey, it could happen.

  She screwed a smile to her face and started passing out the plastic-coated menus. “Hey guys, welcome to Buzzard’s. My name’s Quinn and I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I start you off with some drinks?” She poised her pen above her order pad.

  The blond guy at the end gave her a predatory grin. “Well, Quinn, that’d be great. You can get me a Bud.”

  She tried to ignore the tension lining her spine at his smarmy, entitled attitude. A complete moron could tell he wasn’t twenty-one, even if his buddies hadn’t been trying to cover up their snickers.

  Glan
cing down at her order pad, she pretended to write. “All right, a Bud. Can I see some ID?” She crooked a brow at him and smiled innocently. He paled. Bingo.

  “I, uh, I mean, yeah, I… I forgot my wallet.”

  She wrinkled her nose in a knowing way. “Sure you did. Can I get you something else then? Chocolate milk in a sippy cup maybe?”

  The rest of the guys erupted in a chorus of mocking laughter while the blond at the end turned redder than the fake-leather booths across the restaurant. He glared at Quinn and folded his arms on the table.

  “Just a Coke,” he said, barely audible.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” Quinn knelt beside him as if he were a kid. “Can you speak a little louder, sweetie?”

  “A Coke,” he nearly yelled, and she jerked back a bit when a drop of spit hit her ear.

  “Okay, okay, no need to scream, you big baby. What about the rest of you guys?” The rest of the drink orders went much smoother once they figured out Quinn wasn’t such a pushover after all. She didn’t miss the glare the blond at the end gave her when she walked to the waitress’ station.

  “I heard that,” Kim laughed when Quinn started scooping ice into a glass. “You’re lucky Tony wasn’t walking the floor. He’d be bitching you out right now.”

  The sharp scent of soda hit the air as the foamy liquid streamed from the fountain into the glass Quinn held. “The underage punk was trying to order a beer. I didn’t do anything he didn’t deserve.”

  “Deserved or not, you know how Tony is. He’s not happy unless he’s pissed.”

  Quinn shook her head and finished loading the drinks onto her tray. “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t stop me from giving those assholes a hard time when they try to play me for a fool.”

  Kim winked as she picked up her own tray. “Just let me know if I need to spit in anybody’s burger, okay? I’m feeling a cold coming on.”

  Quinn didn’t even attempt to stop the snort of laughter that escaped her. She lifted her tray above her shaking shoulders and hustled back to the table of frat jocks.

  The lunch rush went by in a blur, as usual. Quinn’s section filled, with a good amount of turnover—with the notable exception of the six-top with Blondie and his pals. They sat there long after finishing their shared order of nachos. After their eighth round of refills, Quinn totally abandoned the polite waitress routine.

  Leaning against the back counter at the waitress’ station, Quinn glared at the table with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

  “All my other tables are gone,” she fumed at Kim as the other waitress removed her waist apron to leave for her lunch break. “If they don’t hurry the fuck up, I won’t get a break at all today.”

  Kim shook her head sympathetically, causing her silky black ponytail to bob. “I wish I knew what to tell you. I’d cover for you but Alex needs me to pick the kids up from practice. His car is in the shop.”

  “No, no,” Quinn said, standing quickly. “Go ahead. It’s not a big deal. Tell the kids I said hi.”

  After giving her friend a quick hug, Quinn waved as Kim disappeared between the double doors to the kitchen.

  Smoothing her apron across the tops of her thighs, Quinn pinned a pleasant expression on her face and headed back to the table for one more attempt to politely get rid of the guys.

  “I hope everything was okay,” Quinn said as she started picking up the trash they’d strewn around the table. Swine, she thought around her toothpaste-ad smile.

  “Hey,” Blondie said when she rounded the corner of the table where he sat. “Can I get some more Coke?” He turned back to the guy beside him, in the middle of some lame-ass story about a chick he’d “boned”.

  She looked down at his half-full cup. Her smile fell right off her face. “You want that in a to-go cup?”

  “Huh?” He turned back to her with a broad, sweeping gesture that caught the cup.

  Her breath sucked in with a gasp as the icy soda cascaded into her at waist-level, soaking her apron, the front of her shorts, making little brown rivers over the tattoo she glared at daily. The cold and surprise took her breath and she couldn’t do a damn thing but stare at her wet leg, that hateful tattoo shiny with liquid.

  There were no witnesses on Quinn’s side since the rest of the waitstaff had bolted for their breaks. Tony was in the kitchen and the hostess was out in the parking lot arguing with her boyfriend again. She sure couldn’t ask Blondie’s friends if he did it on purpose or not, but she’d go to her freaking deathbed convinced he’d deliberately knocked it over.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Blondie said. “I didn’t mean to do that. At least that faded tattoo’s none too fresh. Hey, it actually looks better now.” He snorted.

  Quinn slammed her lids shut. Her palms tingled with fire-like pain, an itch to slap the shit out of Blondie blacking out all rational thought.

  Her voice came out as cold as the ice atop the toes of her sneakers. “Pay your bill and then get the hell out of here. Now.”

  She didn’t move, watching as the guys yanked cash from their pockets and left it in a pile on the center of the table.

  When the beep of the front door signaled the guys had left, her legs remembered how to move again. She cleared that damn table as fast as she could, mopping up the puddles of Coke in record time. No matter how hard she fought the urge, her gaze kept straying to that stupid tattoo, a constant reminder of her lonely existence.

  She sniffed as she gave the table one last swipe with the bar towel. Shoving the lump in her throat down with a determined swallow, she gathered up her tip and shoved it into her apron pocket. Completely unsurprised at the lackluster amount they’d left her, she tracked down Tony, who was counting inventory in the pantry.

  She dived straight in, opting for total honesty. “Tony, I need the night off.”

  His double chin wobbled in surprise. “Why?”

  Quinn pointed at the sticky brown splotches on her socks. “A douchebag college kid got pissed I wasn’t into serving beer to underage guys. He retaliated by dumping a glass of Coke on me two hours later.”

  Tony rolled his eyes, scratching his belly. “Fine. Be here early tomorrow, LaBrea. I mean it.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn patted the back of Tony’s hairy hand. “I owe you one.”

  When she made it out to the sunny parking lot, Quinn had two plans. First and most important, go home and get a shower. Next? She had to break her cardinal rule by dipping into her secret emergency-cash stash.

  The Coke dig was bad enough but the comment about that hateful tattoo? She was done. That fucker would be covered tonight if she had to starve for a month to afford it. She couldn’t stand the reminder of Guy’s abandonment.

  The tattoo gun buzzed in the tiny room while the burly guy whimpered. Hammer tried like hell to keep from rolling his eyes.

  “You hanging in there, my man, or you need a break?” Hammer was grateful the customer wanted the koi fish tattoo on his back. He didn’t think he could keep the sarcasm out of his voice and off his face too.

  “Can we stop for a minute? I need a second to get some air.” The thin voice sounded odd coming from the large man.

  “Sure,” Hammer said and laid the tattoo gun on the tray table beside him. He admired the half-finished tattoo of a leaping koi. Clean lines, smooth, good. It would be one of his most impressive works if this seven-foot-tall baby could make it through the discomfort.

  Taking momentary pity on the guy, Hammer stood. “Did you pop a couple Advil beforehand like I told you?”

  The customer wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “No, I didn’t think I’d need it.”

  The latex gloves snapped as Hammer pulled them off. “I’ll be right back.”

  He let the door to his studio swing shut behind him as he moved into the lobby. Wuss or not, this guy would be wearing Hammer’s ink, and he’d be pissed as hell if this tattoo was ruined because of the dude’s pain intolerance.

  “Hey Lesli, I’ve got to run across the street.”

/>   The receptionist crooked a white-blonde brow at him. “Aren’t you in the middle of a tattoo?”

  Hammer nodded. “Yep. And I won’t be able to finish it unless I run a quick errand.”

  The afternoon light was golden with tinges of red, shining off the windshields in the parking lot. The early summer day had been mild but the evening promised a whisper of cooler temperatures. Hammer sucked in a deep breath as he walked to the gas station across the street, savoring the sweet taste of fresh air. He’d miss the sprawled-out atmosphere of the Baltimore suburb when he took his business into the heart of the city but his career demanded the change. If he was going to become a name, a major respected artist in his field, he’d need more clients than this area could provide.

  The sharp tang of gasoline wrinkled Hammer’s nose as he passed the pumps. A cute girl with long, slender legs leaned against the back of her beat-up old Accord as she filled her tank. Hammer let his gaze linger on the flare of her hip, the generous curve of her ass in the short skirt she wore. The front of his jeans tightened slightly and he shook his head as he gripped the pull-bar of the store’s door.

  Keep it together, man. Just because it’s been awhile doesn’t mean you have to mac on complete strangers.

  The ibuprofen inside the tiny convenient mart was way overpriced but to Hammer it was worth it to keep his client calm and still. He stood in line behind a wrinkled old man toting a six-pack of beer. The pimple-faced teenage boy behind the counter was obviously flustered and the line that now stood four-deep was testament to that.

  The bell above the door jangled. Hammer’s attention was drawn to the motion and he didn’t try to stop the lazy smile that curled his lips. The girl who had been pumping gas queued up behind him. She didn’t look up from the huge purse she dug through.

  A faded black tank molded to her breasts. Her bare arms were sun-kissed, giving her skin a healthy glow. The short white skirt barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, revealing a faded and unattractive tattoo. Hammer winced in sympathy at the sight. Bad ink shouldn’t happen to good people, and from where he was standing she was very, very good.