Zane (Inked Brotherhood Book 3) Read online

  I halt.

  Zane’s here.

  He’s standing with his back to the wall, arms folded over his broad chest, his almond-shaped eyes on me, hot and intense. His Mohawk is tall as ever, and the silver studs in his ears and the hoops in his brow glint. I scan him from his exotic face to the faded black T-shirt stretched over his muscled chest down to his ripped jeans, and I struggle for breath.

  Gah. He’s too handsome to be real. Too handsome to be interested in me. And yet here he is, and I can’t miss the bulge on the front of his jeans. He’s obviously hard, and the realization makes me feel hot. The tips of my breasts tighten painfully.

  What is it about this boy that makes me lose my train of thought? Deciding I want to break through his defenses is one thing—but what he does to my body even with one look should be illegal.

  “You came,” I blurt, and instantly wish I had swallowed my tongue instead.

  He cocks his head to the side, eyes heavy-lidded. “Almost,” he whispers, and oh God, the boy is sexy as hell. “You have an awesome voice. Never heard anything like it.”

  My face flames. “Thanks.”

  I step off the stage, and he grabs my hand, steadying me. His fingers are callused and warm, his grip like steel.

  “Hey, Koko, you okay?” Luke calls out.

  “Fine. Just need a moment backstage. Yeah?”

  “Koko?” Zane arches a dark brow at me.

  “Yeah, the guys call me that.”

  “I prefer Dakota.”

  God, me, too, especially when it’s Zane saying it in his low, warm voice.

  Besides… ‘Koko’ brings back too many bad memories. I’m not that girl anymore, the girl who trusted Collin and almost died for it.

  I head toward the small backstage room, and he doesn’t release my hand. He follows me inside and closes the door, then turns the lock.

  Before I ask what he’s doing, he slams me back against the wall, his muscled body pinning me, so that I feel every defined ridge and plane of his chest. He’s breathing hard.

  Speaking of hard… The rod of his erection is trapped sideways inside his jeans, and its heat seeps through the fabric, branding my flesh.

  “What are you doing to me?” he breathes, his strong hand trailing down my neck and slipping the strap of my blouse off my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

  I should stop him, but his fingertips send electric shocks down my spine. He lowers his face toward me, and my lips part in anticipation. He’s going to kiss me, I think, as his breath brushes the corner of my mouth—but he doesn’t. He trails his mouth over my cheek, along my jaw, under my ear. The touch of his lips—hot and soft—tortures me, arousing me more and more, as he bares my shoulder and draws patterns on my skin.

  I struggle to swallow a moan, my nipples pressed against his chest, tiny pinpricks of pain and pleasure. His hand tangles in my hair, tipping my head back for better access, and his mouth brands my neck, sending electric discharges right into my core. Fire coils low inside of me.

  Oh God, I think I’m about to come just from his lips on my neck and his fingertips on my shoulder. I have to do something to stop him. Stop myself.

  I place my hands on his chest. “Ink me, Zane,” I whisper.

  His mouth leaves my neck, and when he looks down at me, his eyes are so dark with need they seem black. His breathing is ragged. “Don’t.”

  “I want it.” It’s more than a game now, more than familiar teasing. I need his touch so much it’s scary as hell. I’m throbbing everywhere, and I feel wet between my legs. This has never happened to me before. It’s as if the ground has been yanked from under my feet. It’s like freefall, and I hate falling.

  “Tell me what you want.” He braces an arm on the wall by my head and licks his lips. He doesn’t kiss me. Why won’t he kiss me?

  “You know what I want,” I say.

  He leans closer again, his male musk scent surrounding me. How can I think straight when my hands are on his rippling abs, his mouth is inches from mine, and his hardness keeps pressing into my belly?

  “What you want,” he drawls, “is for me to fuck you against the wall until you scream.”

  I gulp. “No,” I lie, because the image… God. “What I want is a dragon tattoo.”

  Immediately, like every time, his face closes off, his defenses slamming down hard, turning his eyes into flat mirrors. “And I said no.”

  “Please, Zane. I want your ink on me.”

  His intake of breath is sharp, and under my palms, his heart is racing. “My ink.” His nostrils flare. He looks like a tiger about to pounce. “On you.” His erection is more insistent now. He likes the idea.

  “Yes. I love your designs, and I really want—”

  He pulls away and turns me around. I yelp in surprise as he pushes me flush against the wall and draws my wild hair to the side. “I’ll ink you all right,” he whispers, and something fine and cool touches my bare shoulder.

  I shudder. “What are you doing?”

  “Inking you,” he bites out the words, and the sensation tickles. He’s drawing something, I realize, but what? With what?

  “Zane…”

  “It’s not permanent, don’t worry.” His hand is sure, the lines flowing on my skin, faster and faster. Then he’s drawing letters, and I squirm, trying to see what he’s doing, but his other hand is pressing the small of my back, keeping me still. “Almost done.”

  How did we go from almost kissing to ‘almost done’ and ‘not permanent’? What is he doing? I struggle again, and this time he releases me. He’s holding a ballpoint pen in his hand, and he throws it on a table in the corner.

  “What did you do?” I demand, trying to see over my shoulder, going cross-eyed with the effort.

  “Inked you,” he bites out the words and turns around, yanking the door open. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  I gape at his back, and then he slams the door behind him. Oh shit. Is he upset with me for insisting?

  A mirror beckons from across the table, and I move, so I can see my back. There, on my shoulder blade, is a magnificent bird of paradise, its tail trailing on my neck. Below, in a flowing script, it says, ‘inked by Zane.’

  Son of a bitch. I clap a hand over my mouth, laughing. He inked me, and as he said, not permanently.

  God, he’s getting under my skin. He comes to hear me sing, he touches me, almost kisses me—yeah, the ‘almost’ is killing me—then draws on me, and leaves.

  What does it mean? What does he feel? Was he upset? Did drawing on me turn him on more?

  Is this an invitation to see him again, or a goodbye gift?

  Because I want to see him again, badly. The more I hang around him, the more intriguing he becomes. Besides, he’s gorgeous. I want to know how he kisses and what he tastes like. I want to put my hands and mouth on every lickable ab and divot on his chest and check out his package.

  Just the thought makes my mouth water. Oh crap, he’s right. I do want him to fuck me senseless.

  What am I going to do?

  ***

  When I slink out of the backstage room, pulling my leather jacket on, nobody’s on stage. The crowd has thinned out, hanging out at the bar and back tables. The large TV on the wall is on, showing a concert.

  Where is Zane?

  My cell vibrates in my pocket, and I ignore it, still searching for a tall Mohawk, and just when I think I’ve spotted him with a group of people behind the bar, my cell rings again.

  I frown as I pull it out and glance at the screen. Then I roll my eyes, but not in earnest. Deep inside, I’m pleased for the call, if not for the timing. “Yeah, Mom?”

  “How did it go, baby girl?” Mom sounds breathless. She always gets so excited when I sing and would be here if she could. But she’s babysitting my cousin Mary’s kids tonight and can’t come all the way to Madison.

  “It went fine, Mom. Thanks for asking. How is everyone back home?”

  “Great, honey. We miss
you. When are you coming to visit?”

  I chew on my lower lip, staring at the back of Zane’s head. He’s talking to a girl. A curvy dark-haired girl who’s practically shoving her tits into his face. She giggles, and even from here I can hear the high-pitched sound. It sets my teeth on edge.

  My heart takes a nosedive.

  “Honey? Koty?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I mutter and instantly regret it. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “You all right?”

  “Just tired,” I lie as the girl steps even closer to Zane—and he doesn’t pull back, instead letting her lean in, whisper something in his ear.

  Crap.

  “I’ll let you rest, then,” Mom says. “Everyone says hi. Jody, Evan, Percy, Madeline.”

  “Thanks.” I feel real bad for blowing her off, but I feel as if my heart will stop beating. Which is ridiculous. I barely know Zane.

  “Did you know Aunt Carolina is organizing an exhibition? Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Yes, it is,” I say. Aunt Carolina had cancer, but she’s been out of the hospital for a few months now and is already back to her active self. “Give her my love.”

  Just then Zane distracts me again by turning around and leaving the bar.

  Leaving the girl behind. She looks as surprised by this turn of events as I am, her mouth literally hanging open.

  Well, well. Relief swamps me, although a small voice in my mind wonders if he’s just off looking for another girl to satisfy him.

  ***

  The next few days are warm and humid. Bella, my current roommate, keeps complaining about the weather. It makes her hair frizzy and her skin break out in rashes, and she just isn’t happy with anything right now. I think, secretly, she just doesn’t want me to move out, doesn’t want her life to change. While Scott, her boyfriend of four years, lived in Chicago, Bella had her own life here. But now he’s moving in with her, and they’re thinking about getting married and having children and the whole shebang.

  Which means I have to find another place to stay. And it’s fine. I’m happy if she’s happy. A bit uncertain, but happy.

  I can’t imagine trusting and loving someone so much you’ll follow them, plan a whole future with them and leave your old life behind.

  Not again. Not anymore.

  Today is Thursday and warmer than ever. Sweat trickles down my back, tickling. I’ve been working on a project for a client—I do posters and business cards and stuff like that for a fee, and it complements what my parents give me. Graphic arts is what I’m studying, after all, and it’s good practice. I upload the files on Dropbox for my client to download and close the lid of my laptop.

  Can’t put this off any longer. I must pack. I’m sorting through my clothes when Bella wanders into my room, a mug in her hand.

  She looks at the suitcase I have opened on my bed, and her eyes go round. “Found a place to stay?”

  I shake my head and rub the back of my neck. I’ve pulled the longer tufts of my hair up to cool myself, but it isn’t doing much.

  “What’s that on your shoulder?” Bella steps closer. “A drawing?”

  Oh right. After hooking up with sexy guys, other girls have hickeys. I have a ballpoint pen drawing. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s pretty. Who’s the artist?” Bella is studying graphic design, like me, and has an eye for art.

  “You don’t know him,” I lie and pull my blouse up, so she can’t see the signature. Zane is quite known in the local tattoo scene.

  “Are you getting a tattoo and not telling me?” She narrows her chocolate eyes at me. The silver stud in her tiny nose catches the light.

  “Maybe.” A dragon. By Zane. One day…

  “It’s too warm. It’s a day for ice cream,” Bella says and sighs but then wanders away without saying if she would like to go have some or not.

  So I go back to gathering my stuff, packing it in cardboard boxes, sorting through things I’ve hoarded over the years. I’m a hoarder. I hang on to memories. Saving mementos, putting them in files and shoeboxes, makes me happy. It’s as if I can keep the moments intact.

  Nonsense, of course, and I do my best to throw away old receipts and postcards and souvenirs. I can’t take everything with me. Wherever it is I’m going. Because, let’s face it, I haven’t put much energy into finding a new place.

  Oh, I’ve asked Zane, but we both knew it wasn’t gonna happen. He probably already has someone else in mind. Not that he doesn’t like me. I think he does. He finds me amusing, and he wouldn’t mind dipping his fingers in my cookie jar, but that’s the end of it.

  I catch myself staring at the far wall, my lips pressed together tight, so I force myself to resume packing. What Zane does is his own business. Maybe he’ll move in with one of his buddies. Though… Erin, from what I gathered, is something of a mother hen. Maybe that’s what he’s looking for?

  Whatever it is, it’s obviously not me. He made that clear.

  Hot and cold. Desire and anger. I chew on my lip as I close a box, sitting cross-legged in my bedroom. He was the first to get the dragon tattoo, according to Audrey, who asked Asher. Zane had it inked when he was thirteen, too young to need a mark on his body to convince himself he could survive.

  But survive what? Nobody can tell me—or, rather, those who can, won’t. Like Asher, Dylan or Rafe. Whenever I ask, they clam up.

  Who is his family? Does he have siblings? Where do his parents live? Hm… I should ask Audrey, maybe she knows.

  Where is the dragon tat inked on his body? What are the designs tattooed on his forearms? What other tats does he have and, what do they mean to him? How did he come to be a professional tattoo artist before he even turned eighteen?

  Ugh, I want to scream with frustration. I want to know all about him.

  Uh-oh. No, Dakota. Don’t.

  First things first. Find an apartment, find a roommate. I should have another look at Craigslist and also go check the boards on campus again. If I don’t find something, I’ll have to sleep on the couch and be the third wheel. Not sure my friendship with Bella can take it.

  My cell chimes. It’s Audrey. ‘Picnic in the park!’ the text reads. ‘Coming?’

  Oh hell yeah! It’s summer! I won’t let this moving crisis distract me from the fun of it. I missed having fun long enough to appreciate it. Hell, I missed walking. I missed running and dancing and hoping for the future.

  All that’s now behind me. I want to run around and look at the water, eat ice cream and lounge in the sun. Wear my new bikini and get a suntan.

  The thought of the lake, all that water, twists my stomach into a knot of unease, but I ignore it. I don’t have to even get my feet wet. And I’m over my fear. Well, mostly.

  “Hey, Bella!” I get up and peek around the door into the living room. She’s reading a book—something about men and women relationships. “Park picnic with Audrey? What do you say?”

  She drops her book, squeals and jumps up. “Oh, yes! I’m dying of heatstroke here. Ice cream!”

  I laugh. “If you were dying to go for ice cream, why didn’t you say so?”

  She rarely does. Bella is like that—waiting to see what the other person wants, first. It’s endearing in a way, frustrating in others.

  “I did drop a hint, didn’t I?”

  I roll my eyes. “Drop it harder next time.”

  Yeah, the day is looking up.

  If only Zane would come, too… I can imagine him dressed only in surfer shorts, his naked chest gleaming with sweat, those defined abs in full display…

  Nah, he won’t be there. He works until late at night at the tattoo shop anyway.

  But, hey, a girl can dream.

  Chapter Three

  Zane

  My heart hammers. My brain is blank. I’m leaning against the counter in my booth in Damage Control, staring at a text message that arrived on my cell an hour ago. It’s from Matt, Emma’s husband.

  ‘No change.’

  Just two words, but they
hit me like bullets. I feel paralyzed. This last therapy was supposed to be great. It has saved people. But not Emma, not my sister.

  The doctors will save her. This is Emma, the one who stuck with me through foster care, who took care of me when things got rough, who found me when she turned eighteen and took me in, in her tiny apartment with her noisy roomies. It was home for the very first time.

  They have to save her. They will save her. They’ll try another treatment. That’s what Matt told me the other day. He’s holding out hope.

  I should be doing the same. I should find my hope before I visit them this weekend, because we’ll have to talk about all this, all that my mind refuses to even consider.

  “Zen-man.” It’s Ocean, one of the other two tattoo artists of Damage. His light blue hair is sticking up in spikes. “Your customer called to cancel. He’ll make another appointment for next week.”

  I blink at him, his words echoing in my ears. “What?”

  “Zane.” Tyler appears at the opening of my booth, glaring at me. “Get out.”

  “What the fuck’s wrong?” I glance around my booth, trying to detect a fire, a leak, anything that might call for such a demand.

  “Your customer cancelled. You look like hell warmed over. Go out. It’s summer. Go do something fun.”

  “Fun,” I repeat, my dark mood spreading like an oil spill. “Screw you, Tyler, and leave me the fuck alone.”

  He grunts, exchanges a quick look with Ocean—what the hell?—and leans against the wall of the booth, making it creak. He gazes at me impassively.

  Shit. I rub a hand over my face. Why can’t I be civil to my friends anymore? I should at least try. “Look, I’m sorry, fucker. Didn’t mean to yell in your face. I just… got work to do. Designs to finish.”

  Tyler nods, his eyes never leaving me. “I called Ash. He’s passing by to get you.”

  “Get me. What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he is driving by to get you and take you to the park, where I’ll join you later with Erin. They have beers and sandwiches and music, and I hope they throw you into the lake to lighten you up a bit.”