Page 5 of Fool's Bargain

He bent over the railing and stared out at the ocean, his gaze distant as he watched a morning parasailer trail through the air over the water. “We both loved something else more—and it hurt us both to figure that out. She loved her work. I became no more than a model for her finest designs. She’d show me off, win awards, and then lose herself in the next project, forgetting that there was a person underneath the ink. I escaped into the water or to the mountains, or the air, wherever I could find peace, find myself.”

“Did she do all your tattoos?” How much time that must have taken, how much dedication on his part as well as hers. How much commitment.

“All but your favorite,” he said, smirking at me. He turned and pushed the back of his shorts down, baring the tan line at the top of his ass and the antimony symbol that rested at the base of his spine. It was only a simple black design, flat and unassuming with no apparent magic making it behave like it was alive. Yet I knew if I touched it, he would feel it all the way to his soul. So I did. I traced the circle at the top, then the curved cup that contained the circle, and finally the stem that pointed down the crack of his ass like an arrow. Every tattoo on his body stilled and sparks crackled beneath my fingertips.

When he turned around, his cock was hard and his gaze heated. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, that’s all yours, even though you didn’t put it on me.”

Swallowing, I took another look at the amazing artwork that covered his entire torso, each piece representing an element of the higher races, of the blood that ran in Bodhi’s veins and made him my perfect match. I pressed a hand over my left breast, feeling the dragon mark Rohan had given me come to life beneath and his awareness in my mind along with it. I gave him a mental shake of my head and he receded, leaving me alone with Bodhi and my thoughts.

“This is the only mark I have that links me to any of you. You all have mine.” I touched the matching mark that hovered like an alien bird on the side of his neck. “I want more of you. Marks that will live on my skin as permanently as Rohan’s mark. I can tell yours are special, and she’s even more special now that you’ve told me this. That she was so attuned to you, even for such a short time, makes me wonder if she’s bloodline. And if she is, I really do need to meet her.”

Bodhi’s brows shot up and he stared down at his tattoos. “I suppose it’s possible. We didn’t exactly keep in touch after we split up. The call from the higher races didn’t happen for more than a year after that.” His brows furrowed and his eyes grew distant. “That would be crazy if she is, wouldn’t it? But it would explain so fucking much.”

“We’ve learned a lot about bloodline matings this year. I think you all were bound by your natures even before the magic was awakened in your blood. You can only be truly happy with someone whose elements match yours exactly. That’s why you and I are a good match. And why Aella belongs with the Winds, or why Pete belongs with Callie, or Nadia with Neil.”

“You think Zarya and I might have been partly compatible? Whatever element runs in her veins was enough to draw us together, but not make us soul mates?”

“That’s the best explanation, if she is indeed bloodline. I’d like to meet her if you can find it in you to introduce us. If she’s bloodline that would solve the issue of the secrecy we’d need to visit a normal tattoo artist. As much as I liked the work Maddox did, it didn’t last and we can’t exactly go back and tell him what happened.”

It was always tricky working with humans, I’d discovered. Our unusual natures raised a lot of questions, and even an artist like the one I’d originally visited could only accept so much evasion of the truth. Maddox was talented, and discreet. He’d only grilled me for a moment when I’d produced a set of prepackaged needles that I’d charmed with my own breath beforehand and asked him to use, but I couldn’t return to him, since the tattoo he’d given me had faded to nothing within a day.

Bodhi sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He let out an agonized groan and his shoulders dropped. “Fine. I’ll take you to meet her but I’m doing so under duress. If she’s bloodline, you have to promise to find her a soul mate right away. I don’t want to risk Fate sending its hounds after her. And if you decide to let her tattoo you, I’d rather not be there, if that’s all right. Too much history, especially this time of year. The last time we saw each other was Christmas two years ago. Besides, I think my brain would explode being in the same room with both of you.”

Grinning, I wrapped my arms around him. “Thank you. I promise I will make it up to you.”

He squeezed me tight and kissed the top of my head. “I get to choose where it goes, all right? And I already know exactly how you can make it up to me, but not until after you get the tattoo.”

3

Zarya

If someone walked through my door and asked for another fucking Tasmanian Devil tattoo, I was going to snap. I thought the Looney Tunes had gone out of vogue in the eighties, but somehow they’d made a resurgence lately. I’d have given anything to do some mindless tribal blackwork for a change. At least those designs didn’t offend my artistic sensibilities. Getting lost in their intricate symmetry could even be therapeutic.

I needed something to distract me from the holiday music streaming through the door into my shop. It came from the restaurant next door and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I wasn’t so antisocial that I’d blast Evanescence back at them at full volume, though it was tempting. I loved where I worked and aspired to be a good business owner and a valuable member of the community. It had taken me the better part of a decade to evolve from a suicidal hot mess into a responsible adult with a lucrative career, but this time of year always brought me low. Unfortunately, it was early in the day, especially for me, so I didn’t have the excuse of holing up in my back room at my computer, working on new designs.

It was a weekday at the peak of winter break, so walk-ins were more frequent than usual, as evidenced by the pair of trust-fund babies who had just left after getting their poorly executed Chinese calligraphy tattoos fixed. Some other numb-nut of an artist had failed to clue them in that the characters they’d believed meant “endure” had really meant “fat bear.” They’d bounced out a moment ago, happy with the matching cherry blossom branches I’d given them to cover up the embarrassing mistake. They’d been chattering about some party they were heading to later in Hollywood, and the tickets one of them was hoping to score for the Fate’s Fools solstice concert at the Hollywood Bowl later tonight.

I busied myself cleaning up, considering yet again the idea of taking on an apprentice to take care of menial tasks like this. Or even advertising to the tattooing community at large for someone to share the shop with. My shop was located on prime real estate not far from the Santa Monica Pier, with the foot traffic to go with it, and I charged high rates for my original designs so I had no trouble affording the rent. It was just so fucking lonely, even with all the people who passed through my door every day, and it wouldn’t suck to have someone to at least share the loneliness with, even if we didn’t talk about it. The challenge was finding someone who could stand to be around me.

Evanescence wasn’t cutting into my dark mood the way it usually did. I blamed the season—the holidays always dredged up particularly poignant memories and left me maudlin and sad. Later tonight I’d slip into the bar down the street and drown my sorrows in wine or liquor and try to avoid those memories, which would inevitably rear their heads the closer I got to Christmas.

Cursing at my slow slide into sentimental musings, I stomped to the speaker docking station where my smartphone sat and flipped through the music stations on Pandora. I needed somethingdifferentif I was ever going to snap out of this funk, and preferably something not holiday themed.

One station caught my eye, something I hadn’t listened to in a while. I’d had a weird itch to hear Fate’s Fools again all day, and the mention of their concert made that need impossible to ignore. I tapped the screen. They had always been one of those bands who spoke to me, but who I tended to avoid because of the associations their music dredged up. But maybe the best remedy would be wallowing in those thoughts for a while until they ceased to have any meaning. Maybe I’d finally get over how things had ended on that Christmas two years ago, and I could reclaim my love of the music and finally forget the man I associated with it.

“Maybe I miss the music more than I miss Bodhi fucking Dylan,” I muttered, jabbing my finger at the play icon and filling my shop with the heavy bass beat of one of the band’s dirtier tunes as I went about cleaning up. It reminded me more of the good times we’d had and less of the actual breakup. If it hadn’t been for Bodhi, I might not have survived my demons long enough to find the success I enjoyed now. Despite the shitty way things had ended, I had to admit he’d helped me heal more than anything else—except for the tattoos themselves.

About an hour later, the door jingled, letting in a blast of holiday cheer that for once didn’t raise my hackles or incite a need to play gothic rock.

“I’ll be right with you! Make yourselves at home,” I called over the music, giving my vinyl-covered chair a final wipe down and surveying the space to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I still needed to restock a few odds and ends in my toolbox and I’d be ready for my new client.

An ornately carved folding screen separated my work area from the front of the shop, lending privacy and a sense of atmosphere to the otherwise sterile space. The reception area was cozier, decorated with Turkish rugs and a lot of filigreed hanging lanterns casting warm light on the original framed artwork that graced the walls in between handwoven tapestries.

I kept the cheap flash art in fancy binders that looked like ancient grimoires filled with magical spells. They were displayed on low carved-wood coffee tables surrounded by big cushions. Strategically placed signs broadcasted my rates for custom work. A small fridge was filled with complimentary bottled water for any customers who got thirsty, and I also sold protein bars for the overly ambitious client who forgot to eat before their session. The place was usually pretty laid-back, even when it got crowded after dark. I might break out the hookah later tonight, filling the place with the strong scent of indica, which attracted local customers as reliably as fresh-baked cookies.

My latest potential clients were nothing more than silhouettes beyond the screen, one tall and broad shouldered, the other a bit shorter. A man and a woman, apparently, which pleased me. I preferred working with couples as long as I was tattooing the woman. Solo men tended to hit on me, and when I tattooed men with their girlfriends present, serious animosity always floated off the women in waves—unless the woman was an adventurous soul. Those were the ones I flirted with. The guys always got a thrill out of it rather than getting jealous and I got my kicks with the reminder that I still had some allure to either sex. These two were holding hands, but they weren’t looking at the artwork, or even the binders of flash art. They were facing each other, the man’s back toward me, his body blocking all but the side of the woman’s face. She had a pretty profile, dark skin framed with straight, shiny black hair.

She let out a soft laugh and said, “It’s our song,” then started to sing along with the music.

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