Inked by an Angel (2 page)

“Hey, Kierstan,” the big biker guy said, his voice strangely friendly as he smiled at Kyle.

The girl glanced up from her magazine. “You’ve been gone long enough, Michael. Where’s the pizza?”

Michael?
Sweet Baby Jesus in His manger! Kyle felt the pulse behind her right eye and wished the decadent crimson velvet chair would swallow her whole as her heart wanted to beat a frantic rhythm straight out of her ribcage.

Jed glanced up from his dragon masterpiece and set his buzzing needle aside. “Yeah, Mike. Pizza?”

The big guy actually flushed. “Aw, guys. I’m sorry. I forgot. I’ll run next door and grab it.”

“You better.” Kierstan stood and sauntered over to inspect Jed’s work. Even Kyle felt the heat from his irritated glare when she got too close.

Then, just before Michael walked out, Jed looked over in Kyle’s direction, seeming to remember that she was still there. Damn. She was hoping she’d disappeared. His piercing blue eyes pinned her to her seat and she felt like a mosquito forever frozen in prehistoric amber.

“Oh, Mike?” he called.

Michael stopped, his thick chain thumping against his leg, rattling Kyle’s ears. “Yeah?”

“Don’t forget the extra cheese.” He turned away, breaking the contact. He inclined his head in Kyle’s general vicinity. “And your accountant’s here.”

“What the hell do you need an accountant for anyway?” Jed asked after Ms. Goody Two Shoes left the studio.

Michael looked up at him, his brows furrowed. “What? You don’t have someone do your books for you?”

“Well, yeah . . . , but—”

“But, what? It’s gettin’ on tax time and I need her. Besides, what’s wrong with Miz O’Neill? She seems like a fine CPA. Smart. Attractive.” He smiled.

“Smart, maybe. A little uptight, don’t you think?” Seriously, the girl looked fresh from the convent.

Michael didn’t look at him as he finished putting away his ink and cleaning up his workstation. “Maybe. But, Jed, she’s an
accountant.
She does numbers. What would you expect?” He looked over with a mischievous wink. “You never know what’s underneath that uptight façade. Probably an undercover freak. Tats. Pierced out the wazoo. Whips. Chains. She’d probably rock your little world.”

Jed laughed. “Yeah, right. My lily white ass.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun to think about.” He locked up his cabinet. “She’s a very sweet lady, though. Be nice to her.”

“I’m always nice.”

“
My
lily white ass.”

Jed’s footsteps echoed in the silent studio. As he locked up and turned down the lights, his thoughts turned back to his conversation with Michael. He hated to admit he was curious about the bookish Ms. O’Neill. It wasn’t often he ran across someone like her. Outside of his mother’s country club anyway, and he wasn’t a regular at that particular establishment. He’d learned early on that his mother was about the only person there capable of seeing beyond his appearance and he only went occasionally to please her. Just thinking about their dress code made him want to choke.

He stepped outside and took a deep breath of the crisp night air scented with the tang of Italian spices from next door. Gabriella, Papa Turoni’s daughter, and Jed’s future bride-to-be if Papa had his way, waved as she hauled out a sack of trash. Jed waved back. She was nice. She could cook. But she was built like a linebacker and wasn’t interested in her daddy’s matchmaking attempts because she batted for the home team. She just hadn’t told poor Papa yet. Unfortunately, everyone else in town knew.

Jed’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t had anything to eat except a slice of the pizza Mike brought in earlier. He palmed his keys with indecision, until Gabby opened the door to go back inside and the spicy fragrance hit his nose again.

It was late. Maybe Papa was gone. He sighed and started walking. He pushed open the door and his mouth immediately began to water.

The small, wiry old man behind the counter perked up the minute he saw him. “Gentry! Is good to see you!” He flicked a not-so-subtle glance toward Gabriella who was now wiping down the counter behind him. “What can we do for you? The pasta is very good tonight.”

Jed studied the guy and the romantic hope shining in the chocolate brown eyes behind the thick lenses of his ancient glasses. Poor dude. He smiled, noticing that Gabriella had skirted away to the stock room. Her dad did a piss poor job of containing his irritation.

“That girl. She’s never going to get married if she keeps hiding herself away.” He leaned in, his Italian accent thickening. “I know she’s no supermodel, my Gabby, but she’s a good Catholic girl with a kind heart. She’d make a good wife to a nice boy.”

Like you.
He didn’t have to say it. Funny thing was, Jed had no idea why Papa Turnoni thought he was such a catch. Most daddies would tell their daughters to steer clear of the likes of him. Hell, he’d probably tell her the same thing. He was damaged goods with a rebellious spirit. His body was a testament to that. He lived and breathed it every day and he’d embraced that part of himself the first day a tattoo needle hit his arm.

Rather than give Papa false hope, he nodded benignly and made a show of studying the menu. “She is a nice girl.” He checked his watch. “So, listen, I’ve had a late night. Can I get a couple Stromboli to go?”

Disappointment clouded Papa’s eyes, but he nodded. “Sure, sure. Coming right up.”

Finally, Jed was able to make his escape with his meatball Stromboli and duck out without having to propose to Gabby. As he crossed the parking lot, the little light-up angel sign next to his shop caught his eye and he frowned. A friggin’ day care. Were they out of their mind putting that there? He’d tried to talk them out of it, but the owners were insistent it was the best spot available. Whatever.

Not affording it another thought, Jed unlocked his baby, a fully restored ‘67 Shelby Mustang, settled into the custom leather seat and let the engine purr her sweet magic. He turned down the AC, popped in his Foo Fighters CD, and cranked up the volume. He’d just backed up and entered traffic when his cell phone rang.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, man, what’s up?” Noble’s deep and stoic voice greeted him.

“Just leaving the shop.”

“Wanna stop by for a couple beers? Maybe meet my new accountant?”

“That a joke, Tonto?”

There was no smile in the big man’s voice. “Why don’t you come over and find out, my pasty white brother.”

“Fuck you.”

“See ya in a few.” Noble laughed and hung up.

Jed stopped to pick up a six pack and a box of Twinkies, the dessert of champions, and headed over to Noble’s house, having decided he would be charitable and share his Stromboli sandwiches. He pulled in behind Noble’s big black truck, parked, then made his way up to the door and knocked. He tucked the beer beneath his arm and gave the door a swift kick to hurry Noble along as he glanced to his right at the vacant house next door. It had been for sale for several months and the yard was now overgrown to a small jungle.

Noble swung open the door and grabbed the beer with a smirk. “Not that fancy foreign shit again?”

“Whatever. I buy it. You drink it, asshole.”

Jed stepped inside and shut the door. “So, where’s your accountant? Setting up your sex swing in the bedroom?”

Noble shot him a confused frown from the kitchen as he shoved the beer in the fridge after grabbing one for himself and leaving one for Jed on the counter. “What?”

Jed popped the top and took a big swig. “Nothin’. Just something Mike said earlier. He thinks Miss Uptight Accountant might be an undercover sex freak or something.”

Noble grabbed the bag and pulled the sandwiches out. “Hmmm.”

“What do you mean ‘
hmmm
?’”

Jed waited while Noble unwrapped his sandwich and swallowed his first mouthful before asking again. “Well? What do you mean?”

“I mean, haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘still waters run deep?
’
” He wiggled his brows suggestively.

“Yeah, I guess you’d know,” Jed murmured to himself. “But, there’s no way those waters run nearly deep enough. Did you get a good look at her granny get-up? Jezus. Even my grandma dressed better than that. I just don’t know if I trust waters quite that still and . . .” He glanced over with a smirk. “Boring.”

Noble quirked a smartass brow. “And, what, you’re so great with the alternative?”

Jed knew he’d better let that one go. Noble knew too much and he wasn’t in the mood to rehash his shitty love life.

“Besides,” Noble continued after another large mouthful. “I happen to know the true measure of a woman is not her clothes. It’s her shoes. And that one was wearing ‘fuck-me’ heels.” He grinned. “Hoo, doggy.”

Jed shot him a glare. “What the hell? You been reading Kierstan’s
Cosmos
or something? Jeez, dude. You goin’ soft on me?”

“Nope. Just observant. So,” Noble said, effectively changing the subject and bringing them both back to the meatball Stromboli and beer. “How’s your mom?”

Jed sat down at the kitchen table and decided he’d give his friend a pass on the whole high-heel issue. “She’s good.”

“You still going over there every few days?”

The two men exchanged a look. In the years they’d been best friends, they’d perfected the wordless conversation. In the days and weeks and months after Jed’s father died, they’d both been worried about his mother. Hell, she’d practically been Noble’s mother, too, during their teen years. So, Jed had checked on her daily at first. Sometimes more than once a day. Now, over a year later, she’d found some semblance of emotional balance and he’d been able to back off.

He shook his head. “Nah. Just once a week usually unless she needs something.”

Noble nodded and brought his beer to his lips for a long pull.

It didn’t need to be said that he could do all the household chores and visit a thousand times . . . he could never give her what she truly needed. Her heart back. And it killed him that his father had done that to her.

“Will you marry me?”

Kyle stared down into Charles’s eager face and felt . . . nothing. Absolutely friggin’ nothing. Shouldn’t a girl feel something when her boyfriend of seventeen and a half months proposes to her with a—she looked closer—two-carat princess-cut diamond?

In the middle of the hoity-toitiest country club in town, no less?

Her mother sighed happily and she could practically feel her father’s proud beam. Over Charles’s shoulder, she caught sight of her brother and he gave her a saucy wink.

Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Wasn’t this what she wanted? What she wouldn’t give right now for a crystal ball to tell her future. She needed to know if she could be happy as Charles’s wife.

“Kyle?” he whispered. “Are you gonna make me beg? I’m on my knees here.” He looked around at everyone out of the corner of his eye like he was suddenly nervous for the first time that she might actually say no. He shifted uncomfortably and sweat began to bead on his upper lip. “Kyle?”

She swallowed and looked back down at the ring, willing herself to feel something. Anything.

Her mother cleared her throat and someone across the room coughed.

Kyle’s eyes flew to Charles’s. She lifted her left hand, shaking, to his. “Okay.”

“Yes?”

She nodded.

“Thank God,” he whispered under his breath as he slipped the ring on her finger. The band slid around precariously. “We’ll get it sized,” he assured her. He rose to accept her father’s handshake.

Kyle sat there like a mummified statue. The ring felt like a lead weight on her hand. Her mother patted her shoulder and pasted on her country club smile. “Took you long enough to answer him,” she hissed under her breath.

“Yeah, well . . .” Her eyes darted around the room seeing no one in particular.

“People are staring,” her mother admonished. “Smile. You’ve just landed the catch of the century.”

Yes, of course. All tied up with a neat little bow. The frumpy little daughter of the beauty queen somehow, someway, miracle of miracles, snagged
the
guy that was so far out of her league it wasn’t even funny. It should be a made-for-TV movie.

Her lips pulled across her teeth as she tried to smile and her stomach clenched painfully. She caught her brother’s eye. He grinned, seeming to be truly happy for her. Was he so clueless? Of course he was. He was practically a clone of Charles. Another one of those “perfect” guys all the mothers wanted their daughters to marry. Kyle felt like a dud. Maybe she had been switched at birth. Maybe there was a beautiful girl out there in a trailer park somewhere feeling like she didn’t belong. Maybe she’d always dreamed of country clubs and cotillion balls.

Breathe. Breathe.
She sucked in air as she felt panic begin to build.

Her mother’s inane chatter filled her ears as the country club biddies began to surround them. She searched the crowd for her father, hoping something in his usually distant personality would calm her. He loved her in his own way. Didn’t he? Frantically, she searched for him as the air was sucked from the room and she felt the ring on her finger wanting to consume her hand like a pit of quicksand.

Her father was nowhere to be seen. She jumped up from her chair, knocking it back several inches. Her mom and the women, who now all strangely looked just like her, stared at Kyle with varying degrees of pity.

Her vision began to tunnel and her chest felt like a hippopotamus had taken up residence there. She sucked in a strangled breath. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She rushed to the restroom, splashed water on her face, and studied her pale, ghost-like reflection. That’s when it hit her. Just when she had decided to get on with her own life, make her own way, she had veered back onto her mother’s course.

But she loved Charles, right?

“Mrs. Charles Benson, Jr.” She tried out the name, trying to forget that her mother had handpicked him for her.

She tried to smile again, but it looked forced. “I’m an engaged woman now.” She looked again.

“Holy Mary . . . ! NOOOOO!” she cried.

Her brand new engagement ring had just been washed down the drain.