Inked Destiny

Twenty

Pass it,” Sleepy Ruiz ordered, mood shifting from generous to pissed as Puppy kept sucking on the pipe.

That’s how Puppy had gotten tagged with the street name. Beer, meth, didn’t matter what was being offered, he was like a cachorro on its madre’s tit.

Puppy gave up the pipe. Sleepy took a long draw. “Motherfuck, this is good stuff,” he said, getting the flash that made his dick go instantly hard.

He took a second hit before passing the dope to Puppy then picking up the cellphone and looking at the picture Drooler sent from the shop. It was making him crazy not knowing who this guy was and why he was asking around about him.

The only thing he could think of was that it had something to do with Lucky. Fucking Cathal Dunne must have made Lucky talk. Using drugs maybe. Or torture. Lucky would never have given up a homie otherwise.

Lucky wasn’t a coward. An order came down and he’d take care of business. The only way he wouldn’t, especially when Jacko did the asking, was if something bad happened.

Sleepy speed-dialed Drooler. “Come on, man, answer your fucking phone.”

But he knew Drooler wouldn’t if his uncle was out in the shop. Drooler wouldn’t even text; he wouldn’t risk his tio’s temper. The man wouldn’t use his fists there, but he’d sure as fuck use the heel of his boot on any phone he caught being used while someone was on the clock.

He got voicemail. “I’m dying here, ese. Call me!”

He put the phone on the couch and held out his hand for the pipe.

Puppy made a little whimpering sound, like they were littermates and he was getting knocked off the teat. Motherfucker might already have been blooded a couple of times, but he wasn’t going to lose the nickname anytime soon.

Sleepy sucked the last of the meth into his lungs, feeling energized, ready to hunt down the guy asking around about him and beat out some answers.

The cell chimed. Drooler.

“Yo, homie,” Sleepy said.

“Emilio didn’t want to give anything up. He said he wanted to stay uninvolved.”

Sleepy lunged to his feet. “He’s going to change his mind when I get there.”

“Chill. Chill. I worked it. You’re going to love this. Might even get some money out of it. Guy was just doing a favor for some tattoo artist friend of his. Supposedly got a book deal going down and needs pictures of the guys she’s put art on.”

“She?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I think Emilio said she. I’m outside on break. I go in to ask, I won’t get back to you for a while.”

“Don’t bother man.” She. There was only one she who’d ever put ink on him, and he felt the burn of those places like they’d suddenly come alive and were trying to drag him down and make him feel like a loser.

Bitch. But his eyes skittered to the crystal pipe on the table.

He’d shaken the habit off once. Even come up to San Francisco to stay with an older sister to get clear of the gang scene. Homies down in LA didn’t appreciate him covering those tats. Fuck him for letting Justine talk him around to it. But hanging with Lucky who was in tight with Jacko and on his way to being made had smoothed that shit over and now he was sporting new art showing the tie to his boys.

Etaín. That was who covered up his old gang tats. “Emilio give you the guy’s name?”

“No. But somebody else said Derrick something. Said he was a tattoo artist, too, worked at a place called Stylin’ Ink.”

Stylin’ Ink. Yeah, seems that was the place Etaín worked too.

“Thanks, homie.” He took off his shirt and made the muscles ripple, picturing himself in a book.

Cathal pulled to a stop behind Sean’s Hummer, tension like a vise grip squeezing him, and not eased by the constant presence of the ominously silent Heath. Guard? Or bodyguard? The distinction was important.

He’d made himself go by Saoirse earlier, made himself walk past the alley where he’d left Cage to deal with the body. He’d subtly watched his newly acquired companion for a sign Heath knew what had happened but had gotten no hint as to what the Elf thought. Why now and not last night?

A stab of guilt came and went for not swinging by Stylin’ Ink after his meetings. And then a sharper stab because it was a relief to be away from the supernatural.

Yeah right. He caught himself rubbing the tattoo on his left arm. When he concentrated on it, he could feel a low hum. Confirmation Etaín was alive? Or warning he was in the presence of someone not human?

He got out of the car, pulling his cellphone from his pocket and dropping it onto his seat. Probably overkill given Sean’s electronics, and the high probability of there being a powerful jammer in the Hummer. Heath also left the car but didn’t make a move to follow him.

“What have you got for me?” Sean asked.

Christ. Now the dancing began. “How about an update first.” In case Sean decided he wanted no part in this when presented with the would-be killer’s phone.

“Derrick give you anything on last night’s meet?”

“If he’s at Stylin’ Ink, he might have told Etaín something, but I haven’t seen or talked with him since he left with the sketches.”

“Okay. Long things made short. We narrowed it down to seven persons of interest, including two that are possible but not probable given they’ve supposedly fled the country. Today I scratched another three off the list.”

“That from your police meets?”

“More like from my superior skills of investigation, and the reason you pay top dollar and are damn lucky I’m willing to work for a Dunne.”

Cathal managed to suppress a grimace but apparently he had another tell given how quickly Sean said, “You want to go ahead and just spit it out? Or are we going to play dodge ball here?”

He pulled the cellphone, now wrapped in a bar towel, out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the console between them. “It’d be better if you don’t know how I came by this. Plausible deniability and all that. Best guess, it’s a burn phone. Only been used once.” This time he did grimace. “There may or may not be any recoverable prints besides mine.”

Sean made no move to either pick up or uncover the phone. “This tied into your father’s business?”

Cathal felt like scrubbing his hands over his face. But a lifetime of experience told him it wouldn’t make any of this go away. It never had. It never would.

“How do I answer that?” Part stall. Part frustration.

“What about, ‘Why, yes, Sean, it certainly does. In fact it’s connected to that last matter you involved me in. And yes, it comes as a surprise to me too that instead of being cunning and patient, my father and uncle are apparently batshit crazy.’ Does that work for you?”

“Yeah, yeah it does.”

“And how do you fit into this equation?”

There was only one place an honest answer would lead. Fuck. He’d known it would go down like this, but he needed a neutral party. More than that, he needed a friend he could trust, not that he’d break from his lifelong conditioning to communicate through subtext rather than laying the truth out in cold light. “Violence breeds more violence.”

“And sometimes violence is the only way to end things.”

It startled him to hear Sean say it, though it shouldn’t have. Sean had known what would happen to Brianna and Caitlyn’s rapists. He’d been a cop with an up close-and-personal look at how well criminals worked the legal system.

“They go after you?” Sean asked.

“Seems like it.”

“Hence the phone?”

“Yes.”

“If I get prints and a name associated with them, any point in trying to locate the owner?”

Moment of truth.

“Probably be better to concentrate on his associates.”

Sean sighed. “Do you know what you’re doing here? Ever watch CSI? Hear of a thing called forensics? Despite what you read in the papers or watch on the news, a lot of crimes do get solved.”

“Any blood on my hands came only from retrieving the phone.”

Sean flipped the bar towel open to reveal the cellphone. “Who’s the guy with you? One of your father’s goons?”

Cathal laughed at the thought of applying that word to an Elf. “One of Eamon’s men.”

“He clean?”

“Seems to have his personal hygiene under control.”

“You want to joke around, hey, it’s your dime. Far as I’m concerned, I’m still on the clock here and if you’ll remember, my rates go up based on an aggravation factor. So I repeat, is he clean?”

Meaning Eamon. “Do I know this for certain? No. But gut read, yes.” When you have centuries to accumulate wealth, and magic to make it even easier, why dirty yourself by dealing with human criminals? Hell, Eamon had probably purchased the Renoirs and Van Goghs from the artists themselves if he hadn’t gotten them as gifts for patronage.

Silence filled the car. Sean coming to a decision.

Cathal had an answer when Sean opened the console and pulled out a Ziploc bag, dropping the cellphone in it then sealing it and putting both back in the console. “No promises.”

Of results. Or that he’d pass those results on to Cathal if he did get them.

“Fair enough. Anything else on the killing in Oakland?”

“And by extension, the drive-by, though I guess we can no longer be certain who the actual target was there.”

“True enough.”

“Other than narrowing down the list of people Etaín thinks could have been involved, the only thing to come of my meets is some off-the-record speculation by more than one cop. Some of the Curs definitely have ties to the Black Guerilla Family. No surprise. And Anton Charles apparently seemed pretty tight with the BGF in prison. There have been some raids on pot-growing operations in Sureño territory, your basic bad guys stealing dope and money from other bad guys. It has been suggested to me that the bar hit and drive-by are payback but there are greater implications. As in, the Bay Area becomes a line drawn in the sand, and this escalates into a well-armed gang war pitting the Mexican Mafia and their Sureño soldiers against BGF and any of their allies, which would pull in the Norteños and La Familia.”

“The raids happen before or after Anton got out of prison?”

“There’s the rub. Both. Meaning who the hell knows if he’s the catalyst for this. It’s really all speculation. For all we know, a bunch of guys juiced on drugs decided to make a name for themselves and one of them said, ‘Hey, let’s hit the Curs.’ But the heat is on and I felt the burn of it hot enough I was tempted to pass on the names. I didn’t because I’m assuming here that Etaín’s going to take anything I come up with directly to her old man or brother, and that would give it a hell of a lot more weight.”

“That’s the plan.” Mostly. Except for the step in-between, where Etaín used her gift to find something the police could use.

Christ. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, torn between fantasizing about taking Cage’s offer of escape to Seattle and wishing Eamon would just take Etaín to his estate and force her to remain there until after the change and until all danger had passed. And the truth was, the boner he got every time images came of watching her with Eamon had the lock-down edging out sole possession of her. How was that for fucked-up given that Eamon might be just as happy to have one less human complication to deal with?

“Why am I getting the vibe that all is not rosy on lover’s lane?”

One of Sean’s damn hunches.

Cathal grimaced.

Sean laughed. “Hey, I never said doing the threesome thing was easy.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m going to take that to mean, not in a personal way but in an advice from Sean kind of way.”

“Time for the Doctor Phil impersonation?”

“There are those who actually seek my input.”

Cathal opened his eyes, paranoia striking when he checked the side view mirror and saw Heath leaning against the sports car’s passenger door. He didn’t have a clue what the Elf was capable of. For all he knew, magic could trump whatever high tech Sean used to combat the possibility of law enforcement eavesdropping. “I’m listening.”

Catching where Cathal’s attention was directed, Sean said, “Eamon have him watching over you, or just watching you?”

Sean and his damn hunches. “There’s the million dollar question.”

“And let me guess, you haven’t asked it.” Sean shook his head. “My total surprise at having you show up yesterday with Eamon and Etaín has been validated. You do know it’s hard for a guy to defend himself if he doesn’t know he’s been charged with something. Right?”

Sean tapped the console where he’d put the phone. “I take it you didn’t share this either? Honesty is the only way it works. Secrets are a relationship killer.”

Guilty of a lack when it came to the first. Guilty at keeping the second.

Anger crawled through Cathal. At Sean for pointing out the obvious, at himself because he could see the place when what was starting to work had derailed, when fear, the presence of the supernatural and a dead body had collided with ego and gut-twisting insecurity because he was a fucking human and Cage had so casually said You don’t call Eamon Lord, yet.

Until that, he’d been on his way home hard and hot and ready for a replay of what they’d done before he’d left for the club so Etaín could have her magic lesson. Yeah, the uneasiness had been there, something to deal with, but he had been dealing with it.

“You might as well walk away from the relationship right now.”

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

“Are you signaling me to shut up?” Sean asked.

“No. Just admitting to myself I might have fucked up.”

“Yeah, it happens,” Sean said on a sigh that made Cathal wonder why Sean was living alone on a boat. “It happens even after you’ve been together for a while. One last piece of advice then I’ll take down the Doctor Phil shingle you keep hanging out there for me. Beyond honesty and trust, the biggest pitfall to avoid is the two against one scenario, even when two people are in agreement and the third needs to either be brought around to the same point of view or accept being outvoted this time, which is highly dependent on knowing it won’t necessarily happen next time.”

Except in Lord Eamon’s world, his was the vote and the veto that mattered.

Only Cathal realized he didn’t entirely believe that anymore. It wasn’t so cut and dried as that. Didn’t it make sense for one person’s will to prevail sometimes, depending on the situation? Cage for example? Eamon knew what he was, had apparently even had dealings with him, while he…pretty easy to see Cage had an agenda, access to Etaín, but apparently one that didn’t require kidnap or extortion or he wouldn’t be sitting here with Sean right now given the freaky knife in Cage’s possession.

He’d been played perfectly, his weaknesses apparently obvious. Cage had planted the suspicion Eamon might want him dead and he’d glommed onto it though he’d declined his father’s offer of bodyguards minutes earlier.

He hadn’t considered himself in danger despite the drive-by or his family’s actions. Hadn’t thought it when he left Etaín and Eamon.

And then Cage had dangled the ultimate prize, Etaín, without having to share her. When he’d been rushing home to do just that, when he’d barely been able to concentrate at the club because of it.

He opened his eyes. Easy to blame Cage. Easy to parade out the discussion of servitude, and what he read into it every time Eamon made a reference to humans, but this was really on him. He’d told Etaín no regrets, but then lost track of what that meant. Keeping the attack and Cage a secret from Etaín and Eamon was like an open door to distrust and paranoia.

A quick visit with his father, then time to come clean. And afterward…hopefully kiss and make up.

Or make out. Etaín’s words after Eamon’s apology.

Cathal smiled. Feeling more light-hearted than when he’d climbed into the Hummer.

Sean reached out, turning up the volume of the police scanner that had been going in the background. Several blasts of conversation later he turned the sound down. “Drive-by shooting in Sureño gang territory here in Oakland. Victim status unknown. Shooter was African American. Second hit today. The victim of the first one is still alive. Time to get back to work and hope Etaín’s leads go somewhere and some arrests will keep this from erupting into shades of LA.”

“You’ll run with the phone later tonight?”

“As soon as I can. No promises remember? Quinn didn’t make it in today so I’m going to check out the names I handed off to him.”

Cathal froze in the act of reaching for the door handle. “Quinn okay?”

The question earned him a look, Sean picking up on vibes again. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s with his family. His dad had a chemo treatment this morning, apparently a rough one. I told Quinn not to sweat this, it’s easy enough for me to handle.”

Quinn’s gut burned. He hated feeling helpless. He hated the sense of waiting, the uncertainty of the outcome.

He snuck another look at his father sitting eyes closed, swallowed up by the recliner in front of the TV, his once muscular body now thin and gaunt. His strength depleted so he slept and woke, one History Channel program ending and another beginning as Quinn checked to make sure he still breathed.

“I can still kick your ass when you need it,” his father said, sensing the sneaked glance and the worry.

“You can try.”

His father opened his eyes and looked at Quinn, the love in them making his throat go tight. “Some treatment days are rougher than others. I’m going to change the locks if you’re going to hover every time there’s a bad one. Go bother your sister. I’m not going to throw in the towel today.”

Quinn pushed himself off the sofa. I love you, Dad. He said it with a touch to his father’s shoulder in passing, neither of them wanting things to descend into maudlin. “I’ll see what she’s up to.”

He detoured into the kitchen, drawn by the smell. His stepmother picked up a long spoon, brandishing it. “Don’t even think about touching anything on the counter.”

He grinned. “First Dad threatening bodily harm, now you.”

He closed the distance to get a better look at what Jada had going in the skillet. “How long until we eat?”

“Half hour. Longer if you get in my way.”

“Is that Hamburger Helper?”

She popped him on the shoulder, hard enough he was damn glad the tats were healed even if his mind shied away from exactly how impossible that was.

“It’s a secret recipe that’s been handed down in my family for generations I’ll have you know.”

No surprise considering her family owned several restaurants, including the one where she and his father had met. He gave her a hug. “I’m glad he’s got you.”

He’d been just shy of eighteen when his father married Jada, but he’d wholeheartedly approved, the race issue a nonissue for him. And then Jahna, his baby sister had come along, making going undercover so much harder. There’d been no way in hell he was coming back home wearing Aryan Brotherhood tats.

Jada slid her arm around his waist. “Your being back is good. He worried about you, not that he ever let on just how much. It scared him, the idea of one day having some stranger show up at the door delivering bad news. I hope this job with your friend Sean works out and you enjoy doing it. You don’t hear about private investigators getting shot or disappearing and turning up dead.”

“True enough.” Quinn hugged her, tempting fate by reaching for a slice of pear.

The spoon struck his hand with laser precision. “Hey!” he yelped.

“Out of my kitchen!”

“I’m going. I’m going.”

He jogged up the stairs, halting in the open doorway to Jahna’s bedroom. She said “Enter” without turning from her desk to look at him or pausing the flow of her pencil on a sketch pad.

Quick strides took him to where she worked and then he stood transfixed. Gaze traveling hungrily from magazine spread to the open pages of a book, to magazine, to book, to magazine, his attention captured and held in the grip of glittering bracelets with the commonality of gold.

Slender fingers waggled in front of his face. He growled and snapped with enough force his teeth clacked.

Jahna’s peals of laughter did what her gesturing couldn’t, released him to focus on her.

“Finally!” she said. “You totally spaced.”

“Inspiration for your next project?” He risked a quick glance at her reference material, pride in his talented sister keeping him from becoming ensnared again.

“I’m making something for Mom’s birthday.”

He’d been deep undercover for five long years. But some of the memories he cherished were ones of taking her to the craft store to buy beads and string so she could do up jewelry to give to her friends. Now she had a workbench next to their father’s, complete with machinery to grind and polish rocks, and he was betting not much about her jewelry-making was cheap anymore.

He leaned over her but she snagged the tablet and held it to her chest, hiding the design she was working on. “Sorry. Top secret. You know all about that.”

“What if I cover some of the cost? Could I see it then?”

“No can do. The work has already been commissioned by someone else.”

“Commissioned?” The word made him grin. “How old are you?”

She scowled. “Old enough to know you’re dissin’ me with that question.”

“Oh man. Home only a few days and already on my way to the dog house.”

“Like you could fit. Besides, Versace doesn’t even have a doghouse.”

Versace, hearing his name, got off the bed and pranced over to Jahna. She pushed her chair back and the Chinese Crested jumped onto her lap.

Gray skin with a smattering of pink patches, bald except for hair on his head, feet, and tail, he was a little king sitting on his throne. Cute, Quinn’d give him that, though petting him felt like touching a hot worm.

“I do have some availability,” Jada said, taking on an accent to go with a jewelry designer to the stars persona, “if you’re interested in commissioning me, for say, an engagement ring or something.”

Quinn’s pulse sped up in a rush of anxiety over the conversation he hadn’t yet had, the big reveal that the special someone they would meet, soon, was male. He needed to do it. Hell, in his heart, he knew they’d accept it and move on, but finding the right time…Hard to do with the worry over his dad’s health.

“Let’s just stick with or something. A piece for your mom, say, for Christmas. I’ll talk to Dad and see if he’ll throw in with me.”

Quinn’s throat tightened, an ache spreading through his chest with the possibility his dad wouldn’t be there for Christmas.

No! No! No! Positive thoughts only!

Derrick’s imagined voice cut through the fear and worry, bringing with it a surge of possessiveness and a whole lot of discomfort at not having line of sight on him. Not new feelings, but he was coping and it helped knowing Derrick was at work and safe at Stylin’ Ink.

“Got any suggestions about what she might like?” Quinn asked.

“Come with me.”

He followed Jahna to the stairwell. She freed Versace when he struggled in her arms, indicating his desire to see what was happening downstairs.

“Mom, can I show Quinn your jewelry?”

“Make it quick. The table needs to be set.”

“Okay.” She turned to Quinn. “There is a price for this consultation, you know.”

“My sister the shark.”

She touched the side of her head. “I will be working up here while you set the table.”

“Ever heard of multitasking?”

“Ever hear of prioritizing? Christmas is not that far away.”

He put his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll do the heavy lifting while you think.”

“So not funny.”

He laughed and followed her to the master bedroom. There were several old-fashioned jewelry boxes on the dresser, yard sale finds his father had restored.

Jahna went to the one at the far right, lifting the lid and filling the room with the sound of music. “These are her best rings. If you’re looking for the cheapest option, we could go with turquoise and silver. She doesn’t have anything like that.”

“Say money is no object.”

“As if.”

“So young. So cynical.”

Jahna shot him a scowl, ruined by a giggle an instant later. “I am trying to help you.”

She dropped the lid, silencing the music. “Okay. Real deal here. While you were gone Mom inherited an amazing necklace. I’m thinking a companion piece to it, probably a bracelet and definitely some earrings.”

Instead of opening a second jewelry box, she pulled the top dresser drawer out and stepped away. The sparkle and glitter grabbed his attention and held it. But it was only a short burst of infatuation lasting until she said, “Guess which one.” Causing his eyes to seek and find, and the moment he did, he caught himself wanting to steal it.

Jesus! Where did that come from?

“This one,” Jahna said, exasperation in her voice as she picked it up. He retreated when she held it out to him, sweat breaking out on his skin at just how loud, Mine, Mine, Mine pounded through his head like it’d become his heartbeat

What the hell was wrong with him?

“A companion piece sounds great,” he said, backing away another couple of steps. “I better get those dishes out.”

He turned and fled.

You got any shit left?” Puppy asked.

Sleepy glanced at the empty baggie next to the pipe. “Not right now. Maybe later. Let’s go over to Rosena’s place. I tell her you’re with me, maybe you’ll get a little pussy.”

Puppy bounded out of his chair like a starving mutt, then slouched, pretending it was no big deal to fuck Rosena. Sleepy laughed, feeling good.

His cell rang just as he got to his car. Drooler. “Yo, homie!”

“Can’t talk man, my uncle’s on the warpath. I’m sending you a picture from the newspaper in the office. If something is going down, text me. I’ll say I forgot I’m supposed to meet up with my probation officer. Later, ese.”

The buzz deserted Sleepy when he saw the picture. The guy they were supposed to off was standing next to Etaín. A mamacita like that wasn’t one to forget, and the two of them were in front of the shelter where Justine worked.

Motherfuck. There was no tattoo book. That was bullshit.

Sleepy slammed his hand on the car roof. Then hit it again, putting a dent in it.

He’d been right. That Irish pendejo had made Lucky rat before killing him. Now he was going to return the favor.

“Change of plans. You’re going to check out a place called Stylin’ Ink and see who’s there.” He tilted the phone so Puppy could look at the picture Drooler had just sent then flicked it back to the photo of Derrick. “One of these three people is going to talk. They’re going to tell us what went down with Lucky and where his body is. Then they’re going to die.”