All the Pretty Lies

All the Pretty Lies

“
Live, no regrets”

Her…

Sloane Locke has led a sheltered life.
However, with a history like hers, she can understand why her
brothers and her father want so much to protect her. She has gone
along with it for twenty long years, but those days are over. For
the girl who never makes promises, Sloane has made a pact with
herself that things will change on her twenty-first birthday. So
when the clock strikes midnight, Sloane strikes out to spread her
wings and break a few rules.

Him…

In addition to inking skin, Hemi Spencer
possesses many talents. Controlling himself has never been one of
them. It’s never had to be. He’s lived a life of indulgence for as
long as he can remember. Right up until tragedy struck. Now, he’s
nothing
but
controlled. He’s a man on a
mission, one who will let nothing and no one stand in his
way.

Them…

Nothing in their lives could’ve prepared
Sloane and Hemi for what they’d find in each other—distraction and
obsession, love and possession. But the one thing they can’t find
is a future. Neither one has been totally honest. And they’ll soon
learn that the devil is in the details. In the details and in the
lies.

How far will two people go to live in the now
when the now is all they’ve got?

A Novel

By

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright 2013, M. Leighton

Cover photo by Conrado

www.shutterstock.com

http://mleightonbooks.blogspot.com

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under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any
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author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any
resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or
occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines
are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously.

Live every day like it’s your last. None of
us are promised a tomorrow.

Boast not thyself of tomorrow, for thou
knowest not what a day may bring forth.

Proverbs 27:1

CHAPTER ONE- Sloane

“Ohmigod, I can’t believe you’re going
through with this,” my best friend Sarah says as I pull open the
glass door to the tattoo parlor.

Although I would never admit it to her, I
actually get a little chill when I step over the threshold. I’ve
never been into a tattoo shop before, so I don’t know what the
others are like, but this one is pretty intimidating. The music is
loud, the counter is black and every fixture in sight is chrome. I
swallow my sudden burst of nerves and push myself forward.

It’s reassuring that this place, The Ink
Stain, comes very highly recommended. And it’s easy to see why when
I let my eyes run over the amazing art work that covers the
walls.

Somebody’s got some talent!

“Are you sure you want to do this, Sloane? I
mean, your dad will kick your ass if he finds out,” Sarah
continues. When I stop suddenly to look back at her, she nearly
runs into me. “Shit!” she exclaims, pulling up before we bump
chests. She was busy examining the walls, too.

“Number one, Dad can’t kick my ass. As of …”
I glance around the neon-lighted interior of the shop, looking for
a clock. When I find one that’s in the shape of a skull with cross
bones for hands, I squint to read what it says. “Seven minutes ago,
I’m officially beyond the control of the thick-headed Locke men.
And this is my first act of independence.”

“More like rebellion,” Sarah snorts.

“Semantics,” I say with a dismissive wave of
my hand. “Either way, I’m getting this damn tattoo and nobody’s
gonna stop me.”

“Are you sure it’s…safe? I mean…”

I see the concern in her eyes and I love her
for it.

I give her my softest smile. “It’s fine,
Sarah. Seriously.”

With one final, reassuring nod to her, I move
forward to approach the shiny black counter. I ring the bell for
assistance.

While we wait for someone to come to the
front, I walk along the borders of the room, admiring the sketches
on display. As someone with the heart of an artist, I can even
better appreciate the skillful hand and eye behind the charcoal
renderings.

A deep voice interrupts my study. “Can I help
you?”

I turn toward it, ready to explain what it is
that I want, but the words die on my tongue. Of all the works of
art on the walls, none compares to the one I’m staring at now.

I see his features in separate bursts, like
strobes of light striking the backs of my eyes. Angular, masculine
features seem to be carved in stone—slashing brows; luminous eyes;
high cheekbones; chiseled mouth. And it’s that mouth that I’m
looking at when his lips curl up at the corners. I’m staring. I
know it and he knows it. “See anything you like?”

My eyes fly to his. They’re dark and teasing,
and I blush accordingly. “No,” I say automatically. When I see one
pierced brow shoot up, I realize how my answer must’ve sounded. “I
mean, I already know what I want.”

His other eyebrow rises to meet the first and
I feel my cheeks burn. I have no doubt they’re the color of ripe
apples by now.

“I love a woman who knows what she
wants.”

My mouth drops open. No one has ever flirted
with me. All the guys I’ve ever known have been terrified of my
family, so I have no clue how to react to banter like this. Other
than to blush, much to my dismay.

Frick!

Obviously amused by my discombobulation, he
chuckles. The sound is like black silk, sliding over my skin in one
cool, smooth swipe.

More heat rushes to my face. I’m honestly
afraid of what I must look like at the moment. I don’t know what to
do other than look away, so that’s what I do. I glance down,
breaking contact with his disconcerting eyes as I reach into my
purse for my sketch. I take a deep breath, using the search as an
excuse to regain some modicum of composure. When I locate the piece
of paper I’m after, I walk wordlessly toward him and hand him the
folded square.

He takes it from me, his eyes touching mine
for a fraction of a second before he turns his attention to the
paper. I watch as he unfolds it then studies it for a heartbeat
before he notices that it’s upside down. After he rights it, he
pulls it in for closer examination.

The overhead light shines down on his face,
hiding much of his expression. His long, thick lashes cast a shadow
over his eyes and his brow is puckered in concentration. I wait
patiently for him to finish.

With a single nod of his head, he glances
back up, his eyes clicking to a stop on mine. From across the room,
I couldn’t see what color they were, only that they were dark and
compelling. But now I can see them clearly. They are the deepest
blue I’ve ever seen. They pierce me like steel and leave me as
breathless as midnight.

“This is good. Who drew it?”

My heart swells and flutters around inside my
rib cage. “I did.”

For an instant, I see appreciation flit over
his face, but it disappears quickly as he fires off more questions.
“Is this to scale? And are these the colors you’d like used?” he
asks as he turns to walk back toward the shiny countertop. “I’m
Hemi by the way.”

Hemi.

What an odd name. “Hemi? Isn’t that something
on an engine?” I blurt.

When he glances back at me, I get the
impression that he’s amused again. “Something like that.”

Hemi. Like a big engine. I can see that. He
seems fast. And powerful.

“I’m Sloane. And yes, the sketch is to scale
and in the colors I’d like used.”

Hemi nods again as he steps behind the
counter, reaching beneath it for some papers. “And where did you
want it?”

I don’t know why I feel like blushing again,
but I do. “Ummm, I’d like to have the half-open oyster shell on my
right hip, toward the back and have the butterflies coming out of
it and flying up my side. Sort of around toward the front.”

He’s still nodding, but now frowning as well.
“Hmmm,” he murmurs. “Let’s get these forms filled out and then I’ll
take you back and have a look. I’m not working on anybody else
right now.”

“O-okay.”

Hemi explains to me what I’m signing—waiver,
release and consent to tattoo. It’s their way of saying,
Hey, if
we screw up,
you’re
screwed! You’re eighteen or over and
have given us permission to permanently mark your body. If you
don’t like it, tough shit. Thanks and have a nice day.
But
still
,
I don’t hesitate to sign them. I know what I’m doing.
I experienced a little chill when I first walked in, but now, after
meeting Hemi, I feel like I’m in good hands. Warm, capable
hands.

Or maybe I’m just bedazzled.

Either way, I sign them quickly. I’m anxious
to get to the next part.

I slide the papers back across the counter to
Hemi and lay down the pen. He takes them, shuffles them into a neat
pile and then sets them aside before he looks back up at me.

“Ready?” he asks. He might not know it, but
that question holds so much more meaning than simply whether I’m
ready to get a tattoo.

And so does my answer. With a single,
emphatic nod, I reply, “Yes.”

He tips his head toward the doorway through
which he came. “Then let’s do this thing.”

He starts toward the next room and I turn to
grab Sarah’s hand. I meet with resistance.

“Oh, no, no, no! You’re not dragging me into
this. I’ll pass out, sure as shit.”

“What?
I’m
the one getting poked with
a needle a zillion times. Why would
you
pass out?”

“Sympathy. That’s why.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Sarah, don’t be
ridiculous. I want you to come back with me while I do it.”

She twists her hand free of my grip. “I love
you, Sloane, but this floor is probably the perfect place to get
Hepatitis.
You’ll
be in the chair.
I
won’t. If I go
down, it’ll be face first in someone else’s blood. So thanks, but
no thanks.”

“Sarah, there’s no blood on the floor. It’s
not like that.”

“How do you know? This is the first tattoo
parlor you’ve ever been to.”

“So? Look at this place. It’s spotless. It
even
smells
clean, and you know that can’t be easy with all
the drunk, smelly people that no doubt come through here.”

“You’re just making my point for me. Nope. No
way. I’ll be waiting for you right…” she says, backing away from me
toward one of the chrome-and-leather chairs that line one small
section of the wall. “Over…here.”

“Fine. Miss this significant life moment.
It’s all right. I’ll still love you.”

With a heavy, loud-as-I-can-make-it sigh, I
turn toward the door. Hemi has already disappeared into the next
room, so I make my way slowly forward.

I hear a frustrated growl from behind me.
“Fine.” The word is followed by the
clomp clomp clomp
of
platform-shod feet stomping toward me. “So help me, if I pass out
and get some sort of face fungus, you’re paying for all my doctor
bills and any necessary plastic surgery.”

I smile broadly and loop my arm through hers
when she stops at my side. “I won’t let your face touch the floor.
I promise.”

“You don’t promise. You never promise,” she
observes, eyeing me skeptically as we enter the next room.

“No, I just don’t make promises I can’t keep.
This one, I can keep.”

We stop and look around the room. There are
two other people getting tattoos. They both look up at us. They
don’t look like they’re being tortured. In fact, one of them looks
kind of sleepy. Or drunk. Either way, it makes me feel a little
more at ease about the pain I just signed up for.

I tug Sarah forward and we make our way
through the room. The overhead lights are still bright, but they
are strategically placed over the three reclining tattoo chairs. It
makes the rest of the space look intimately dim.

I walk toward Hemi where he’s standing at a
little cubby against the back wall. It’s occupied by a small
cabinet with a mirror over it, a rolling cart of some sort, and an
empty tattoo chair.