Blurred Lines: Tattoo Romance (Bodies Ink and Steel)

  Blurred Lines

  Scott Hildreth

  DEDICATION

  This book, entirely, is dedicated to my PA, Katrina Chadwick Wofford.

  She has a full-time job keeping me in line. And she never ceases to amaze me.

  Kat, you’re the best.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.

  All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  Blurred Lines 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at designconceptswichita@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com

  Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth

  Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth

  Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth

  PROLOGUE

  Dressed in khaki trousers, a neatly pressed long sleeve cotton shirt, and work boots, the man stood arrow straight on the porch of the modest home as he reached for the doorbell. After pressing the button once, he leaned rearward and waited. From his utility belt hung various tools, a leak detector, and a roll of duct tape.

  In a matter of a few seconds, the front door opened a few inches.

  Upon recognizing the man as an employee for the gas company, the woman opened the door a little wider. The man lifted his identification card with his right hand as he clutched his clipboard with his left.

  “Kansas Gas and Electric, Ma’am. We have a report of a severe gas leak in the area, and we’ve narrowed it down to the homes on this side of the block. I’ve got a leak detector, and I’ll need to check your water heater and furnace for gas leaks. I should just be a few minutes,” he said.

  She raised her hand to her mouth as she gasped. “Oh my.”

  Still dressed in her robe and slippers, her reservation to allow him to enter the home was soon overcome by the fear of the unknown. She leaned forward and pressed her head between the door and the door frame.

  “I’m sorry, I just woke up. The alarm…” She paused and gazed down at his boots. As she shifted her eyes upward, she continued. “I don’t know what happened. The leak? Is it safe?”

  The man shook his head. “No Ma’am, the leak has the potential to cause a severe explosion. That’s why I’m here. We need to get this resolved, and quick. One spark could cause this entire block to be nothing more than a memory. I should just be a few minutes.”

  “Oh, alright,” she said as she nervously pressed her hand against her unkempt hair.

  The man removed the leak detector from his belt and raised it in front of him as he studied the small display screen.

  “Come on in,” the woman said as she opened the door.

  Normally, she would be home alone this time of day. The alarm hadn’t gone off, and the morning sun through the east window caused her husband to rise from his sleep, one hour later than normal. In the basement her child still lay asleep, unaware kindergarten class had long since started.

  The man entered the home, quickly surveyed the room, and cautiously began to proceed walking toward the basement steps on his right side.

  “I’ll need you to show me where the water heater is,” he said over his shoulder. “I assume it’s here in the basement?”

  “Yes, it’s in the utility room,” she responded. “I’m sorry but it’s a mess down there.”

  A few feet before the stairway, he stopped and tilted his head to the side. The faint sound of the shower in the back bedroom was the only noise in the otherwise silent home. After a short pause, he turned to face the woman and cleared his throat.

  “Is there water running?” he asked.

  “Yes. My husband is taking a shower. He’s late for work,” she responded.

  The man nodded his head and slowly turned around. He knew there was no place in his intricate scheme for a man. There was no turning back now. A small kink in his plan, but not one he wouldn’t be able to overcome as long as he made quick decisions.

  With lightning speed, he slid the lanyard of the detector along his forearm and swung his open right hand over the woman’s mouth.

  Her silence was crucial to his complete success. Failure, in his mind, was not an option. Although the husband’s presence wasn’t by design, he realized it would allow him to reach his goal in a more expeditious manner.

  As he dragged the woman toward the back bedroom, his mouth curled into a shallow grin.

  After taping the woman’s mouth and binding her hands he walked confidently to the closed door which led to the master bathroom and positioned himself beside it. As the sound of the running water stopped, he held his hands at chest height and waited. He grinned and raised his hands slightly as he heard footsteps approaching the doorway.

  They never should have denied my promotion to detective. I’m smarter and more cunning than any of them, he thought.

  As the woman’s husband stepped through the doorway and into the room, he gasped at what he saw.

  And that was the last sound he would ever make.

  RILEY

  I pulled my car to the curb and stopped a hundred yards from the entrance, being careful to park in a location where no one inside could see what I was driving. I wasn’t ashamed of my car, and in fact, quite the opposite was true; but it wasn’t every twenty-one year old girl who drove an eighty thousand dollar car. It seemed as soon as someone realized what I drove, I was quickly labeled as a gold digger or a spoiled little rich girl, neither of which were true.

  My former boyfriend gave me the car as a gift, and as much as he probably expected me to return it after we broke up, I didn’t even consider it as an option. Putting a price on his abusive behavior would be impossible, but if I did, the car was a small price for him to pay for what he did to me over the four year period we were together.

  Each time he touched me he later swore it would be his last, and for whatever reason any woman believes what her abusive boyfriend promises, I believed him. At first, I suspect it was because I was young, immature, and filled with false hope regarding what he would offer me long-term. At the time he was protective of me - sometimes overly so - but it was comforting to have someone care enough to be conscious of where I was going and who I was seeing. Over the next few years, I matured slowly, and his abusive behavior continued. When my level of maturity rose to a level which allowed me to question his behavior as abusive, I quickly did so.

  Mentally, I drew a line in the sand on my twenty-first birthday, saying if the abuse continued, I would leave. He gave me the car as a birthday gift, and six months later slapped me
so hard he knocked me to the floor.

  The next morning I was gone.

  The car did remind me of him, but forgetting Stephen entirely was close to impossible, as his face was plastered all over billboards throughout the city. My best option for forgetting him was changing where I spent my time, who I spent it with, and getting a much needed tattoo depicting my newfound intention of flying solo for a long, long while. My first six months of single life was easy, and I hoped the future remained just as simple.

  There was very little risk in encountering anyone meaningful at ten o’clock in the morning at a tattoo parlor other than the overweight former sailor who I expected would tattoo the Latin phrase on my shoulder. As far as I was concerned, I should be able to go get a tattoo without exposing myself to anyone who would tempt me to be in another relationship. Although a relationship wasn’t something I was afraid of or opposed to, I felt it was something I needed to proceed slowly with.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Although my preference was to wear contact lenses, a severe scratch on my right eye - the result of his most recent slap - prevented me from doing so for at least another month. I removed my glasses, placed them on the passenger seat, and gazed into the mirror as I tossed my hair into a cute little mess.

  Not knowing for sure how long the tattoo might take, I chose my most comfortable jeans, an open neck tee, sports bra, and my Chuck’s. From what I had read on the internet, being comfortable was the most important thing about getting my first tattoo.

  I walked along the rows of shops, peering curiously into the windows of each one as I passed. Living under Stephen’s thumb for the last four years prevented me from seeing certain parts of the city; he preferred the more glamorous and glitzy east side to the artistic regions of down town.

  With the early morning sun shining directly into my face, I walked along the sidewalk and toward the tattoo shop. As the warmth of the sun combined with my nervous stomach began to make me feel slightly uncomfortable, the flashing neon sign in the window to my immediate right caught my attention.

  Blurred Lines.

  A quick glance through the window and into the shop revealed the back of someone’s head who was seemingly preoccupied with whatever he was studying. Having made my appointment over the phone and not knowing for sure what Blake looked like, I leaned into the door with little expectation of him being anything but a talented tattoo artist.

  As I pushed the door open he spoke over his shoulder without turning around.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  I nodded my head as I glanced around the eclectically decorated shop.

  The interior brick walls differed from the exterior brick in that they were covered with various pieces of painted canvas, framed watercolor paintings, and sketches on transparent paper. Dragons, winged serpents, snakes, flowers, and colorful fish surrounded me. As I seemed to lose myself in the colorful display of artwork, someone stepped between me and the wall I was ogling - well into my personal bubble.

  As I began to step rearward and separate myself from the invasion, I realized in a matter of minutes he would probably be piercing my skin with a mechanized needle, and although it was nothing more than a tattoo, the experience would probably be an intimate one, bonding us together in what I hoped to be a long-term client-artist relationship.

  And he meant no harm.

  “Riley, my ten o’clock?” he asked.

  I stood firm and shifted my focus from the dagger filled skull, nestled in a bed of roses, to the man standing at my side.

  Covered in brightly-colored tattoos from his neck to his fingertips, he stood before me rubbing his hands together. As our eyes met, he extended his right hand and smiled, revealing much whiter teeth than I was prepared for.

  He was far from the overweight sailor I had expected.

  “Blake, I’ll be doing your piece,” he said.

  I shook his hand, stared at his teeth, and smiled. “Riley.”

  He was tall and appeared thin at first, but as I studied him it became apparent his upper body was proportioned very nicely. The Vans tee shirt he wore - obviously one of his favorites - clung to his well-defined chest. Underneath his shirt, the definition of the cross he wore around his neck was apparent. I shifted my eyes along his body. Where the waist of the shirt met his belt, a few dozen holes adorned the faded black garment, clearly showing its age and his preference to wear it. Although I told myself not to stare, refraining from doing so was becoming increasingly difficult. He seemed to be, at least from what I was able to see, everything Stephen wasn’t. He was attractive, yet cute in a boyish sense where Stephen was demandingly handsome. Instead of an expensive suit, he wore a tee shirt, sneakers and jeans. His hair wasn’t cut perfectly, it was more perfectly un-cut. Instead of barking out orders, he stood and nervously rubbed his hands together. As I began reconsidering my recently adopted “single forever” mantra, I shifted my eyes upward until I met his gaze.

  “So, what have you got in mind?” he asked.

  Not knowing whether the slight growth of facial hair was the result of having hurried out of his house in the morning, or something he had done intentionally didn’t really matter, it was the perfect complement to his strong jawline and made him even more attractive. He was the exact opposite of what I had expected.

  I reached over my shoulder and patted my upper right back with my left hand as I nervously cleared my throat.

  “‘She flies with her own wings’, but in Latin,” I said.

  He nodded his head and grinned.

  “What?” I asked, feeling as if he knew something I didn’t.

  He cocked an eyebrow slightly. “You sure?”

  “Uh huh,” I responded.

  He coughed a laugh and pointed upward. “Pull your shirt down over your shoulder and turn around.”

  “What?” I asked as I pulled the neck of my shirt past my shoulder.

  He shook his head lightly as he twirled his index finger in a circle. I turned away from him and glanced over my shoulder, still wondering what he found funny about my request.

  “What?” I asked again as he stepped closer.

  I continued to peer toward him as he raised his hand. With my eyes fixed on his tattooed knuckles, he reached for my shoulder.

  He traced along the skin of my upper back with the tip of his index finger.

  “Here? Is this where you want it?” he asked.

  Goosebumps rose along my arm. I closed my eyes and inhaled a choppy shallow breath. A simple trip to the tattoo parlor was quickly becoming a difficult walk down sensuality lane. I attempted to swallow, opened my mouth, and murmured a response.

  “Yeah.”

  I wasn’t necessarily prepared for him to touch me when he did so. I really don’t know what I could have done to prepare myself, but whatever it was, I hadn’t done it. He leaned forward, and although I suspected it was innocent, breathed into my right ear as he spoke.

  “What I do to you is going to last forever, you need to be sure this is what you want before we go any further,” he said.

  You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?

  His warm breath against my neck caused me to shudder. I opened my eyes, gazed out the window, and did my best to respond.

  “Ah-lees Vo-lat Proh-pee-us,” I said.

  And the brief sensual moment I believed we were sharing was instantly severed as he began to laugh out loud.

  BLAKE

  Everyone has their own set of problems, and for me to claim I was anything short of normal would be a damned lie. Although I may not admit the extent of my concerns or issues with attempting to live a normal life to everyone, being honest with myself wasn’t difficult.

  Not really

  I was an addict.

  Anything that made me feel good had the potential of being a problem, and even realizing how broad of a swath the anything paintbrush covered, it was an accurate statement. Admitting my deficiencies allowed me to look at life through realistic eyes, identify pos
sible threats, potentially bite my respective lip, and turn away before I allowed myself to get into any more trouble.

  The last six months of my life had been difficult, but not impossible.

  One day at a time was my new motto, and although living it proved difficult at times, I did my best. My profession didn’t help matters, but I knew it would be impossible to find something I enjoyed more than owning my own tattoo shop. There was something about leaving a permanent mark on another person’s skin that being a cop, selling cars, or landscaping yards couldn’t compete with.

  Tall, well-proportioned, and cute in an odd “I don’t give a fuck what I look like” way, she stood facing away from me with the neck of her tee shirt pulled down over her upper arm. I glanced down at her ass. Prying my eyes away from it and attempting to keep from looking like a pervert wasn’t easy, but I was doing my best.

  Eventually I tore my eyes from her lower half.

  “Alis volat propriis.” It seemed I’d said the three words a thousand times in my short career of tattooing.

  “Proh-pee-us,” she said, mispronouncing the overused Latin phrase once again.

  I stepped around her and shook my head. “I’ve done a few of these. Ah-lis woh-lat proh-pree-is is the proper pronunciation. The ‘v’ is pronounced like a ‘w’, and there’s an ‘r’ in there. Believe me; it’s not proh-pee-us.”

  She scrunched her nose and stared. “Are you sure?”

  “I didn’t mean to laugh, it’s just that I’ve done like a hundred of these fuckers, and I’m quite sure, but let’s have a look,” I said as I motioned toward the monitor.

  I reached for the keyboard and typed “She flies with her own wings in Latin” into Google’s search window. The entire page filled with responses to my search, all spelling the phrase properly, and including an “r” as I had indicated.

  “Well, there it is,” I said as I waved my hand toward the screen.

  She leaned over the counter, squinted, and stared at the screen. The crack of her ass and a very attractive torso exposed themselves as her shirt climbed up her waist. Guessing her age at mid-twenties, I was surprised she had waited as long as she did to get her first tattoo. It seemed most girls attempted to pop their tattoo cherry at roughly 16 years old, using their parent’s consent as confirmation of their need to have their skin marked with whatever their adolescent mind dreamed up as necessary.