Page 2 of Devilish Ink

No time to get this door open, I had to stand and fight my attacker.

I jammed my hand into my purse. The prick of my finger against the tattoo gun gave me a rush of much needed adrenaline. I felt brittle. At the point of bursting. Of falling apart. But with my fingers wrapped around the leather conformed to myfingers, I felt a wild fury rise up in me. I was tired of running, tired of being the prey. If I was going to die, I would die fighting.

I whipped around to face my stalker, holding the tattoo gun out in front of me like a weapon. I squinted through the rain, against the lights behind me that cast everything in front of me into a glare. I was the criminal now and I was stealing my goddamn life back. But instead of a guttural war cry, a desperate whimper escaped my lips.

The sidewalk was empty.

There was no one behind me.

The man in the hoodie hadn’t been stalking me.

Buthewas still out there.

I tumbled into the studio after finding the right key and slammed the door behind me, locking it up again. I leaned my damp forehead against the door, waiting for my heart rate to slow down.

A laugh bubbled out of me as adrenaline drained from my limbs.

Fuck, I was certifiable.

I pushed off the door and set about getting ready for my shift. The clock on the wall read five past. I was late. Mason would have left already to drop Rachel, his wife, off to work.

It was tempting to relax in such a place. The faint pink glow of the neon sign was soothing. The floral couches with lumps and bumps made me think of kind grandmothers whose kitchens always smelled of freshly baked cookies (something I knew nothing of firsthand).

Mason mentioned that this townhouse had been his nan’s before she’d passed. They’d turned the lower floor into Dublin Ink but Mason lived upstairs with Rachel. The boys’ art covered the walls and cocooned me in what I loved best of all in the world.

I had only just hung up my coat when I heard the door handlerattling. If it was a customer they’d ring the doorbell. Someone was trying to get in.

Oh God. My stalker washere.

I spun around, scanning the room for a weapon. I grabbed a fringed lamp and clutched it in two hands like a bat just as the handle stopped turning.

Keys jangled outside.

My stalker hadkeys.

Wait…he wouldn’t have keys?

The door opened and Mason barged in, halting at the sight of me.

A smirk stretched across his handsome face, raindrops rolling off his mohawk. “Is that a lamp in your hands or are you just happy to see me?”

A flush heated my cheeks as I lowered the lamp. He must think I’m a lunatic.

“I just wasn’t expecting…anyone…” I said lamely, as I straightened out all the fringing of the lamp shade. “I thought you were dropping Rachel off?”

A softness came over his eyes at the mention of her name. Something in me twinged; I wish someone—anyone—would look like that when they thought of me.

“I am. She just forgot this.” He grabbed two red sparkly nipple covers from the key bowl. Then winked before he disappeared.

I shook my head at myself as I unpacked my bag. On my workstation, I unpacked bottles of Panthera, my favourite Italian tattoo ink, my large notepad, and a set of pencils. I had just dumped out my bag in the back staff room when I heard a bell jangle over the door as it opened again.

I stepped back into the living room calling, “Did you forget something else, Ma—?”

The man who stepped into the doorway wasnotMason.

Outlined by the blurry streetlamp outside, he was tall with broad shoulders, filling the open door like poured concrete.

He stepped into the light and I caught sight of his face, his strong jaw and wide cheekbones. For a second I was just a woman appreciating an attractive man.

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