Heart of a Tattooist: Dark Romance MC Club Alpha Bad Boy Obsession (Tattooist Series Book 3) Read Online Free Page A
“Cara Van Tear? I’ve heard of her: Blond, beautiful, talented with a gun. Utterly heartless.”
He snapped, “She’s not heartless.”
“This isn’t about a tattoo, is it, Mitch?”
His fingers clamped down on the phone. “Does it matter?”
Dani said, “I charge a little more for some things than others.”
Mitch pressed his lips tight before talking again. “I’m sure you’ll be earning good money on this one.” He briefly filled her in on what had happened in Memphis.
Dani swore under her breath, “Yeah, that’s fucked…so she’s where? Atlanta? Okay, I’ll start there but the truth is she might have hopped the next bus out of Atlanta and gone anywhere. If she was tattooing she would be easier to track down, but I think I can manage it.”
“Keep me informed on what’s happening.”
“Will do.”
He hung up and leaned his head back against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. If anyone could find Cara, it was Dani. But that didn’t really ease his mind.
CHAPTER 3
Cara was beyond exhausted. The sun beat down on her body, hard, and the thick yellow glow drained her energy in a way that even the heat in Memphis had not been able to do.
The crowds mobbing the streets today, like too many days, were made up of sun-stricken tourists and cruise-ship passengers. They ignored her for the most part and she huddled deeper into the thin shade offered by the small hut-like building’s roof.
Her hair itched on her scalp and her skin, turned a deep golden-brown, itched as well from the continual wash of salty air coming in off the restless sea.
Key West was a madhouse. The narrow streets were fronted by bars, shops, and small houses painted in pastel hues. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper and the clamor of car horns and swearing drivers filled the air.
The homeless were everywhere, ignored by the millionaires who lived in ridiculously modern homes with exorbitant price tags. They were also ignored by the tourists.
Cara dropped a few quarters into a cup and kept going. She’d learned early that many of the homeless came from the Northeast, driven southward by the hope for a more hospitable climate.
They often starved in plain sight; she had recently been fired from a job at a little diner when the manager had caught Cara giving away the food that they were supposed to toss into the trash bins every night.
It was an insurance thing; her manager had told her as he had sent her packing. They couldn’t give the food away to the homeless because they might get sick, and sue. It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.
Being without a job wasn’t acceptable either.
She’d been hiding for months and she was sick of it.
Not tattooing was a hardship for her, not being able to bend her hand to the gun and make loveliness blossom on skin—that was beyond untenable to her.
So was starvation and homelessness.
She had to work, and she knew that she was taking a huge chance. That Junior had never gone to the cops was a fact. Cara kept close tabs on that. No warrants for her arrest, no reports to the Better Business either. Nobody said anything, and that was what worried her.
People who didn’t mention revenge or retaliation were from one of two categories of people: Ones who didn’t want it, and ones who intended to have it and were making sure they didn’t get caught or stopped.
She was betting that Junior and his friends were in the latter, up until that morning when she had been checking over the Memphis news again and run across a story about Junior.
He’d ended up dead on the street, gunned down by some dope dealers. Likely he had been trying to use his uncle’s status to score free meth or cocaine, or he had decided to be his uncle’s pincher—one of the people who terrorized local neighborhood dealers into cooperating or losing their product.
Either way he was dead and, whether that vendetta had died with him or not, she needed to work, and she needed money
He snapped, “She’s not heartless.”
“This isn’t about a tattoo, is it, Mitch?”
His fingers clamped down on the phone. “Does it matter?”
Dani said, “I charge a little more for some things than others.”
Mitch pressed his lips tight before talking again. “I’m sure you’ll be earning good money on this one.” He briefly filled her in on what had happened in Memphis.
Dani swore under her breath, “Yeah, that’s fucked…so she’s where? Atlanta? Okay, I’ll start there but the truth is she might have hopped the next bus out of Atlanta and gone anywhere. If she was tattooing she would be easier to track down, but I think I can manage it.”
“Keep me informed on what’s happening.”
“Will do.”
He hung up and leaned his head back against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. If anyone could find Cara, it was Dani. But that didn’t really ease his mind.
CHAPTER 3
Cara was beyond exhausted. The sun beat down on her body, hard, and the thick yellow glow drained her energy in a way that even the heat in Memphis had not been able to do.
The crowds mobbing the streets today, like too many days, were made up of sun-stricken tourists and cruise-ship passengers. They ignored her for the most part and she huddled deeper into the thin shade offered by the small hut-like building’s roof.
Her hair itched on her scalp and her skin, turned a deep golden-brown, itched as well from the continual wash of salty air coming in off the restless sea.
Key West was a madhouse. The narrow streets were fronted by bars, shops, and small houses painted in pastel hues. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper and the clamor of car horns and swearing drivers filled the air.
The homeless were everywhere, ignored by the millionaires who lived in ridiculously modern homes with exorbitant price tags. They were also ignored by the tourists.
Cara dropped a few quarters into a cup and kept going. She’d learned early that many of the homeless came from the Northeast, driven southward by the hope for a more hospitable climate.
They often starved in plain sight; she had recently been fired from a job at a little diner when the manager had caught Cara giving away the food that they were supposed to toss into the trash bins every night.
It was an insurance thing; her manager had told her as he had sent her packing. They couldn’t give the food away to the homeless because they might get sick, and sue. It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.
Being without a job wasn’t acceptable either.
She’d been hiding for months and she was sick of it.
Not tattooing was a hardship for her, not being able to bend her hand to the gun and make loveliness blossom on skin—that was beyond untenable to her.
So was starvation and homelessness.
She had to work, and she knew that she was taking a huge chance. That Junior had never gone to the cops was a fact. Cara kept close tabs on that. No warrants for her arrest, no reports to the Better Business either. Nobody said anything, and that was what worried her.
People who didn’t mention revenge or retaliation were from one of two categories of people: Ones who didn’t want it, and ones who intended to have it and were making sure they didn’t get caught or stopped.
She was betting that Junior and his friends were in the latter, up until that morning when she had been checking over the Memphis news again and run across a story about Junior.
He’d ended up dead on the street, gunned down by some dope dealers. Likely he had been trying to use his uncle’s status to score free meth or cocaine, or he had decided to be his uncle’s pincher—one of the people who terrorized local neighborhood dealers into cooperating or losing their product.
Either way he was dead and, whether that vendetta had died with him or not, she needed to work, and she needed money
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