Inked Destiny

“Miss me?” he asked when he reached Emilio.

“Looking good, Derrick, looking good.” Emilio’s eyes dropped in a once-over that lingered at the crotch of very tight jeans.

Derrick preened. Not that he was interested of course. But he’d dressed to get answers and answers he’d get if there were any. Now for the flattery.

“You’re looking divine, absolutely delicious yourself.” There was a modicum of truth to be found in the compliment, though really, baggy grease-stained overalls did nothing for anyone. The boots on the other hand…

Heavy, rugged, manly. He might personally prefer heels when he wanted to look good, but he appreciated other footwear and what it said about the wearer. Put a naked Quinn in those same boots, polished to look like a soldier on leave or a policeman ready for some off-duty action…

Oops, there was a downside to tight pants but…

Use it baby. Use it.

He gave his jeans a tug and nearly laughed at the way Emilio’s chest puffed out. Cocky rooster thought the hard-on was for him.

“So what brings you around?” Emilio said.

This was the tricky part. This was where experience or having a taste for books with private investigator heroes would have come in handy. He bit his bottom lip, worried that maybe this was a mistake, one that would lead to Quinn being pissed or getting in trouble with Sean.

Emilio glanced over Derrick’s left shoulder, at the spot where a window allowed people in the office and waiting area to see into the garage. “Look. Whatever gives, my boss is going to come in and cap my ass for not working in about thirty seconds.”

“Okay. Okay.” Deep breath. “You know a guy named Marc Ruiz?”

“I know a couple of them.”

Derrick pulled the picture out of his jacket, unfolding it and showing it to Emilio. “This Marc Ruiz.”

“Why are you asking?” Was that a yes?

“I’m helping a friend. She’s trying to track down some guys she put art on. It’s for a book project, but it’s all hush-hush right now.”

Emilio looked down at the picture. “No. Don’t know him.”

How much to say without making this sound like a police investigation? Mentioning the rap sheep was definitely a no-no, but LA seemed safe enough. “My friend said he was a gang member in LA, it was the same one I thought you told me you had cousins in.”

“Like I said, I don’t know him.”

“Okay, okay.” Emilio sounded defensive, it might mean he did know but it might also be because the teen who’d been sweeping the floor at the other end of the garage was now a couple of steps away, the broom abandoned for a cellphone, and Emilio didn’t want anyone thinking he’d give out information about a gang member.

The teen fired off a burst of Spanish at Emilio. Derrick understood the gist of it, something along the lines of, “Boss just noticed you got company. Better send your boyfriend away.”

“Thanks, Drooler.”

Derrick shuddered. Drooler. What a street name. Pathetic. And the art visible on his hands and neck practically screamed gangbanger, or wannabe.

Derrick folded the sketch and returned it to his pocket. “See you around.”

Emilio stopped him from turning with a hand on his arm. Once there would have been a little zing but now, nothing. No tingles. No regret. No heat.

“You with someone?”

“Definitely taken.”

A delicious shiver went through him. Taken, that word embodied sex with Quinn.

The hand fell away. “Too bad. We had some good times together.”

It didn’t stop you from breaking my heart and tossing me away like trash.

No! Said and done. Over with.

The new Derrick did not dwell on past mistakes or past hurts. The new Derrick left without a backward glance, though he felt eyes drilling into his back.

* * *

Sheer joy, there was no other way to describe it. It exploded in Etain’s chest and spread outward the moment they pulled to a stop in front of Stylin’ Ink.

Bryce was visible through the glass, standing behind the counter, hand twirling in a hurry-up motion that whoever he was talking to on the phone couldn’t see. He smiled when he caught sight of her, and she returned it, feeling it all the way to her soul.

The men in the car with her were forgotten until Eamon stopped her with firm fingers around her wrist and a softly spoken command. “Wait. Allow Liam and Myk to exit the car first.”

Even that brief delay was almost more than she could stand. She couldn’t give this part of her life up. She’d slowly wither and die inside.

Back doors opened by beautifully lethal guards indicated a lack of danger. Eamon released her to get out of the car, Myk only barely managing to precede her into Stylin’ Ink.

“We’ve got ourselves a princess in the house,” Bryce called out, coming around to enfold her in a tight hug.

Her arms snaked around his lean waist, her grip as fierce as his. “Princess? You trying to ruin my kickass reputation by tagging me with that prissy nickname?”

“Kickass, yeah, if that means somehow managing to walk away after terrible shit has gone down.” He trembled despite the tough talk, whispering, “Fuck, Etain! Fuck!”

Guilt grabbed her by the throat, choking her words off as effectively as the Dragon did. She closed her eyes, cheek pressed to his until she was able to speak. “I should have come back to the fund-raiser, at least for a few minutes.”

“Forget that shit. You had busted up ribs.” His arms loosened immediately, a small jolt going through him. “You good?”

She hugged him tighter in demonstration. “I’m good.”

As good as she was going to be considering she was a freaking near-Elf who visited with a Dragon that may or may not be real.

Jamaal joined them, hands covered by blue latex, his arms bare, showing off muscles and art and making her face heat with the remembered image of DaWanda above him, her breasts in his hands.

There was a buzz against her senses, the nearly overwhelming awareness that he wore more than one of her tattoos. When he grabbed her up in a fierce hug, she balled her hands into tight fists against the thin material of his shirt, shivering not just at the prospect of invading his privacy, but at stealing his memories.

Fire slid through the ink on her arms and into her wrists. She would have wrenched herself away had she not been frozen in place, at least long enough to hear the Dragon’s sibilant voice. Sssafe. My gift.

As fast as the searing heat had come, it winked out. She tightened her grip on Jamaal, heart thundering. There had to be a way to prevent the hijacking of her body, though true anger and fear at the loss of control was obliterated beneath relief.

Jamaal was safe from her. She half expected the sigil representing servitude to blaze across her retinas.

He released her. Bryce said, “I cleared your schedule for the week.”

She gave Eamon props for not immediately telling Bryce she wasn’t coming back to work. Her throat clogged when reality settled in, that losing this might not happen by Eamon’s decree but by her own choice.

How could she continue to come here if it put those she loved at risk? How could she continue to apply ink when loss of privacy might be the least of the danger her tattoos presented?

Bryce interrupted the painful introspection with hands on her shoulders. “Thought you said you were