Page 2 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
Ipay the driver and climb out of the cab. I stand on the sidewalk, looking up at the building I now own. A suitcase with all of my worldly belongings sits at my feet.
I swallow, pushing down my nerves. What the hell had I been thinking? When I’d seen the value of the property I’d inherited, I’d assumed the place would be located in some upmarket, expensive part of London. How is it possible for a building to be worth so much when it looks like this? I’m not a snob, but both sides of the tattoo shop are covered in graffiti. I can’t believe my aunt allowed it to stay this way without getting someone to come and paint over it. I hope the apartment upstairs isn’t going to be in such bad condition.
Nerves roil in my stomach as I try to get up the courage to walk inside. Maybe this is all a bad idea and I shouldn’t have come. My father, who was British, had always encouraged me to use my British passport and visit the country he’d come from, but, other than a brief visit when I was about ten, which I can barely remember, I’d dug my heels in. I’d always claimed I had no need to see any other part of the world, that America had everything I could ever want and I’d been at home there, but I nolonger have that excuse. I don’t feel at home anywhere anymore. Not even in my own skin.
I pull my sleeves down over my hands in a nervous gesture.
I take a deep breath. I can’t stand out here all day. I’m already getting strange looks from people, and I’m scared someone is about to grab my bag and run off with it. I have everything I own in this suitcase. The idea of someone running off with it is a little laughable, however. It weighs a ton. I even ended up paying extra for the added weight, which cost me a fortune, but I figured, considering I was moving countries with only a bag, and that I’m now the not-so-proud owner of a crazily expensive piece of London real estate, I could afford it.
I appraise the building again. How the hell does a place like this go for so much money? I could buy a mansion and a whole heap of land for that sort of money back in the States. My friends told me I should sell the property and keep the cash for myself. Perhaps they were right. I’d be sitting pretty for a long time, but something prevented me from doing so. Maybe it was my father’s words, telling me how important it was for me to experience other cultures, or maybe it was the timing after everything that happened, or just a perfect storm of all three. I needed to get away for my own sanity and then this place landed in my lap.
Fate has been trying to tell me something.
I’m still trying to get up the courage to walk inside when the glass door of the tattoo shop swings open. A man stands in the entrance in a casual stance, his forearm resting up against the doorframe. He eyes me curiously, his gaze flicking down to the suitcase at my feet.
The man’s dark hair is spiked up and messy. A silver circle, which I can see straight through, stretches his earlobe. Tattoos run up his throat and down both arms. A tight grey t-shirt with the name of a band I’ve never heard of stretches across his broadchest, and I’m able to make out the shape of his pectoral muscles underneath. The sleeves of the t-shirt are also stretched, but I can’t see the skin of his biceps which protrude from the cotton. Every inch of him is covered in ink. My gaze flicks across the images, distinguishing one from the other. These aren’t cheap homemade tattoos—they’re detailed and every bit as beautifully drawn as a picture on a piece of paper. It doesn’t matter how intricate the artwork is, this guy looks scary, and the way he’s just standing there, staring at me, is intimidating as hell. Obviously, I’d already known the apartment, or flat as they call it here, is above the tattoo shop, but for some reason I hadn’t expected to be quite so taken back when I’d come face to face with one of the men who works there. He looks like he could have done a stint in jail.
No, I shouldn’t be so judgmental. Just because he’s covered in tattoos and has a weird piercing doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. He’s probably a total pussy-cat underneath all the muscles and ink. He might even be considered good-looking, if someone is into that kind of thing, which I certainly am not. Though by the look he’s currently giving me, I’m not sure he’s going to turn out to be a good person at all. He looks like he can’t decide if he wants to slam the door in my face, or wrap his arm around my waist and yank me against him.
I have to say something. My tongue is tied, and we’re just standing here, staring at each other. This is weird and awkward.
So I open my mouth and say, “Umm…hi?”
My voice comes out too high pitched and I cringe inwardly. I hope this apartment has its own entrance.
I don’t like thinking I might have to walk by this guy every time I need to leave.
3
ART
Istare down at the young woman standing outside the front of my shop. She’s a slip of a thing, barely over five feet, with big, dark, doe-eyes and silky brown hair. She makes all six-feet-one of me feel huge, and the suitcase at her feet dwarfs her.
The funny little squeak of a hello she gives only makes my frown deepen. For some reason, she seems to think I’ll know who she is.
Is she lost?
“Can I help you?” I reply.
She seems to have to force out her words. “Yes, my name’s Theresa Dawson.”
The woman speaks with an accent.
I cock an eyebrow. “Have you got some ink booked?”
She doesn’t look like the type of woman who has many tattoos. More conservative, in her white shirt and dark blue, boot-cut jeans and brown boots. I skim my gaze down her body and back up again. She might be small, but she’s perfectly built, beautifully proportioned. She has a generous set of hips and tits on her small frame. I find my lips curving in a smile.
She frowns at my expression. “Um, no. I believe you’re expecting me.”
I’m starting to get annoyed. “Clearly, I’m not. If you’re not getting inked, you’re in the wrong place, lady.”
“I don’t think so. This is fifty-eight Wilson Street, right?”
I glance at the door and the number beside it, as though I’ve suddenly forgotten the address. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“My lawyer should have sent a letter. I inherited the shop recently.”
My stomach sinks as I stare at her in disbelief. Where is the middle-aged killjoy I assumed had inherited the place?
