Page 2 of Wicked Takeover
Lauren had. She wasn’t a lonely, frightened kid any longer. She was a desperate adult and had to make a fast decision on this. It would be foolish to wait too long. She didn’t know anything about tattoos, much less managing a tattoo shop. Selling it might take a while, and she was running out of time. Especially in her precarious employment situation.
She’d interviewed earlier today. While she had been inside the conference room, answering a barrage of questions about what she’d been doing during her unemployment, three more candidates had shown up, looking self-assured and nearly bored, because they probably still had jobs.
Time to get on with her life and trying to turn it around. She’d managed before and had to hang onto hope, which was all she had left. Too bad it didn’t pay the bills. She left her hot vehicle and wilted at the heat that was worse without the car fan blowing on her. It was only May but already in the mid-eighties with punishing humidity. Dingy clouds blanketed the sky. A few tourists milled about, their complexions ruddy from sunburns or the steamy air.
Lauren double-checked the attorney’s letter for the parlor address. It was only fifteen miles or so from where she’d grown up and lived now. Frank had been so close all this time…yet still so very far away. This area of West Palm Beach was known as Northwood Village, a historic area with hip watering holes, ethnic restaurants, and funky shops. Storefronts boasted neon-colored facades: fuchsia, coral, yellow, and lime green. Bamboo chairs with bright blue and pink cushions invited patrons to take a load off.
An artist had set up her easel on the sidewalk. Sweating worse than a disgraced politician, the woman painted away and smiled at the casually dressed people who passed. A few passersby flicked their attention to Lauren’s navy business suit, white blouse, and sensible heels, which oddly enough made them glance away. In this world of tees, shorts, and flip-flops, it could be they were afraid she was selling religion.
She checked the numbers over the doors and trudged down the surprisingly lovely walkway. Tropical plants and flowers in riotous colors fluttered in the sultry breeze. Lauren slowed at a Jamaican restaurant. Heavenly garlic, beef, and curry chicken scents floated past. Her stomach rumbled.
A departing patron opened the door. Reggae music and laughter poured out.
Those inside for lunch were young. Months ago, she might have gone in there, enjoyed a meal, and had a good time even if it was by herself.
She wouldn’t do that today, tomorrow, or who knew for how long into the future. For the time being, she was counting pennies. She continued on and then stopped abruptly. Across the street stood a detached building painted bright red with black lightning bolts zigzagging across it. Waxy green plants surrounded the structure. A mural of a young woman wearing teeny-tiny cutoffs, a tank top that dipped low in back, and with her glistening raven hair pushed to one side graced the front door. Emblazoned across her shoulders was a tattoo that read Wicked Brand.
A bold sign…but surprisingly unique and artistic.
Lauren didn’t know if Frank had painted that or even if he’d been an artist.
She stepped closer.
A young woman exited the parlor. She looked to be in her late teens, wore an outfit remarkably similar to the young woman in the mural, and had a Barbie doll build. Huge breasts, no hips, impossibly long legs. Her features were lovely and Latina, possibly Cuban, her auburn hair worn in a ponytail. Her youthful skin was tawny, most likely from the sun, and bore no tattoos. Unless the scant clothes she wore hid them.
She jogged down the street. Her low-top sneakers slapped the pavement.
Lauren envied the young woman’s energy and figure. Maybe she’d paid for her boob job by posing for the mural. Those babies couldn’t be real. Upon reaching the front door, Lauren warned herself not to expect too much from the inside. Possibly crappy furniture like you’d find in an auto repair shop, along with biker types: shaved heads, tattoos to spare, low-slung jeans, crude language, and weapons.
She should have let the attorney handle this.
Before she chickened out, she slipped inside and lost her breath as the cold air washed over her. Few things in life felt as nice as the chilly temperature in here. Latin music pumped from the sound system, its beat strong and sensuous, though not loud. More like the volume you’d hear in a high-class restaurant. The black tile floor sparkled with cleanliness, as did everything else, the air bearing a faint cinnamon scent. Three black leather sofas were to the right in the spacious front area. Photos of tattoos hung on the stark white walls, along with various tees and posters for sale. Everything in order and surprisingly nice.
No one was behind the glass-and-chrome front counter displaying ornate belt buckles for sale. Other than her, the place appeared deserted. It was always possible the young woman who’d just left worked here, maybe as the cashier, and had stepped out for her break…without leaving a sign that said she’d be back soon and failing to lock the front door.
Little wonder this place was barely hanging on.
The photos drew Lauren as a train wreck would. She touched her throat. Someone had tattooed a man’s tongue with Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam. The details were incredible and weird yet strangely beautiful.
A woman had her eyelids tattooed with large, cartoon-like irises. Even with her eyes closed, she seemed to stare.
Lauren edged away from that creepy picture and stopped at a tattoo of a monster’s head on a man’s groin. The guy’s amazingly long cock was inked to look like the monster’s tongue. She leaned closer and sucked in a breath. Even his balls had tats on them.
She didn’t want to know how much that must have hurt.
A door shut inside the parlor, and she spun around, surprised to see a guy striding down the hall, his attention on the clipboard he held. Okay, so someone else was here.
She guessed him to be in his early thirties, a mountain of a man, possibly six-three, no fat on his hard body, only smooth, bronze skin and slabs of muscle.
Her mouth watered.
He wore faded jeans and a gray sleeveless tee. His bulging biceps sported tats. The one on his right arm was a band of thorns. The design on his left arm had a tribal look about it, possibly Celtic—a series of thick black swirls that intertwined.
Lauren pressed her toes into her shoes to keep from swaying or edging closer.
His hair was shoulder length, like a pirate’s, and a dark brown color. Those thick, silky locks encouraged her to ease the strands from his gorgeous face. Masculine. Decidedly Latino. Virile to the extreme. Even though it was barely two o’clock, he already had a five o’clock shadow and more testosterone pumping through him than the law should have allowed.
She bet he was uninhibited. Alpha to the core.
