“Maybe one day, when I have more experience. For now I work with Slim at Rabid Ink.”

Ray nods. “I know Slim. He does good work.”

Unable to help myself, I brush my finger over the lightning bolt wrapped around his left bicep. His skin is warm despite the cool breeze, and stretched tight over hard muscle. “Who did your ink?”

His jaw tightens. “Got it done overseas. Long time ago. Been thinking it’s time for a cover. Get something new.”

“What kind of cover?” My business brain kicks in. Despite the fact that I am having an almost uncontrollable physical reaction to Ray’s presence—weak knees, racing pulse, damp panties, nipples so hard I’m amazed they don’t pierce my jacket—he is a potential client and I’m desperate for cash. Mom lost her job at the florist a few weeks ago, and Tag and I are helping with the mortgage, so our parents don’t lose their house.

A smile tugs at his lips. “Might need some professional advice on that.”

“Oh.” I am mesmerized by his smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile before. Nor have I ever seen his eyes so warm. He looks beautiful to me—so beautiful I want to capture that expression in ink.

“You got a card?” His fingers brush my cheek as he reaches to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.

Oh God. He’s touching me. Heat sizzles through my veins, numbing my brain and robbing me of the ability to move. Paralyzed with pleasure, all I can manage is, “Jacket.”

With an affected sigh, Tag reaches into my jacket pocket and then hands Ray one of my cards. “You don’t really need the card. She’s inked half the guys at Redemption. If you want to see her work, just ask around.”

Ray studies the card, then winks at me and places it carefully in his pocket.

“The things I do for you,” Tag mutters under his breath.

“Ray!”

Ray turns at the sound of his name and waves to a woman in the distance. “Gotta go. Shayla’s waitin’ for a ride.”

Ah yes. Ray and Shayla, a.k.a. Shilla the Killa. I’ve seen them together before. My heart sinks as he heads down the road. Well, of course he would be with someone like Shayla. She’s one of the top-ranked female MMA fighters in the amateur league. Hard where I’m soft. Strong where I’m weak. She’s smart, ambitious, successful, and has almost no body fat. If I didn’t have a potato chip addiction, I could look like her. I’m sure of it.

Ray’s gaze falls on me, focused, intent, as if no one exists in the world but us. “Later.”

Later? Yes! My heart does a happy dance, but I play it cool. “Later.”

Tag and I watch him go, and then I brace myself for the storm. But it doesn’t come.

“Ray’s not the right guy for you,” he says as we watch Ray and Shayla walk away. “He works freelance as a private investigator, and you know what PIs are like: they’ve got an edge to them. Always walking the line, thinking they’re above the law, and getting involved with the wrong people. He’s a hard man, and he’s got a lot of anger in him. He hides it well, but it comes out in the ring.”

“He’s thrilling to watch.” What Tag sees as anger, I see as passion, fierce and barely controlled, an irresistible aura of danger. He fights as if he’s trying to exorcise a demon, or maybe his past. And, oh God, those broad shoulders. Those narrow hips. That perfect, tight ass. And the lickable six-pack he’s got going on…yum.

Tag ruffles my hair. “He’s dangerous. Especially for you. I even heard a rumor he was with the CIA. Men like him easily lose control. I just want you to be safe, and that means staying away from guys like him.”

“Sure.” Yes, I want to be safe, but more than that, I want to be normal. I want to be able to look at a man like Ray and fantasize about taking him to bed with the hope that one day my fantasy could come true. Instead, I get panic attacks and flashbacks that reduce men to mush or scare them away.

“You can’t protect me from everything.” The unspoken words hang between us. A promise he made in a hospital waiting room seven years ago.

“I can try.”

Chapter 2

It’s all about prestige

“Got some good news for you.” Slim Jones, manager of Rabid Ink, perches on the reception desk while I hang up my coat. Our receptionist, Rose, a tall redhead with a diamanté nose ring and two full-color tat sleeves depicting birds of paradise, is already on the phone and gives me a wave.

“It’s eight thirty on a Saturday morning. Unless you’ve got a triple shot latte and a chocolate croissant hidden behind your back, there is no good news.”

He dismisses my grouchiness with an absent wave. A fedora-wearing hippie, tall and rangy, Slim took a chance on me years ago when I responded to his ad for a new tattoo artist. I had a portfolio full of drawings and watercolors from high school art class, and not one tattoo.

Although initially put off by his cavalier attitude, I soon discovered he was a very thorough and patient teacher. When I finally obtained my license, he gave me a full-time job, my own chair, and as many clients as I could handle. But only stencil work. The freehand jobs I dream of doing, he always keeps for himself.

“You’re getting a promotion. Jay got himself in trouble with some street gang and had to go into hiding, so his chair is free. You’re moving up to middle chair.”

I glance over at Jay’s untidy workstation, and his worn, red leather client chair, a cross between a lounger and a massage table. A giant print of a blue skull wearing a turban hangs on the exposed brick wall behind his scratched work cart, and his childhood collection of Hot Wheels lines the ledge beneath. His cart is a mess of cartridges, Kleenex, and assorted odds and ends—a huge contrast to my impeccably neat and tidy station.