Beloved Ink Read online

  BELOVED INK

  INKED IN THE STEEL CITY #8

  RANAE ROSE

  BELOVED INK

  Loneliness. Lust. Longing. They say bad things come in threes, and for Ben Blair, tattoo artist Hannah Nakamura is a triple-threat. Her beauty goes beyond ink, and beyond words, but it’s easy to see that she’s hurting. He’d have to be crazy to think she’d surrender a broken heart to him and his demons.

  He’d have to be even crazier not to try like hell to make her his, despite the pain of her past … and his.

  Book 8 in the Inked in the Steel City Series

  eBooks are not transferable. This book may not be sold or given away. Doing so would be an infringement of the copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are products of the author’s imagination and are in no way real. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Beloved Ink

  Copyright © 2015 Ranae Rose

  Cover image by Shauna Kruse

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  ABOUT THE SERIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OFFICER NEXT DOOR EXCERPT

  OTHER SERIES BY RANAE ROSE

  CHAPTER 1

  Hannah shivered as she walked through a haze of orange and blue neon light. Breathing deeply, she inhaled a scent that was guilty pleasure incarnate.

  Her hunger went from moderate to raging in the split second it took to walk inside the Primanti Bros. storefront. Maybe this would be worth waiting outside in the cold for after all.

  She’d spent fifteen minutes in line and had almost turned around and left. But she hadn’t eaten since lunch and it was almost nine at night; she’d waited too long to be in a hurry now. Today had been one of those days when she’d gotten too wrapped up in her work to realize how hungry she was.

  Lately, she’d been doing that a lot – purposely burying herself in her work, using busyness like a drug. It numbed a lot of things, not just hunger.

  The shop was packed, which was no surprise. All her new acquaintances seemed to agree that the cheesesteaks here were good.

  That was why she was here: to get a taste of life in Pittsburgh. To take a step, however tiny, toward feeling at home. Not because she’d become the sort of person who sought out cheesesteaks for companionship late at night.

  No way. She was assimilating to life in her new city; that was all. Checking touristy things off the list, because what else did she have to do when not at work?

  There were three other women at the Hot Ink Tattoo Studio: an artist named Abby, Zoe the receptionist and Mina, the manager. But they all had rings glittering on their left hands and lives of their own. It wasn’t like Hannah could just waltz in and demand that they accompany her on a girls’ night out.

  So, she sat alone at the bar, taking the only open seat. She sipped a glass of water, because drinking alone wasn’t something she wanted to do. Not yet, anyway. Her sandwich was unexpectedly enormous, and almost unbearably fragrant as she unwrapped the wax paper.

  It tasted just as good as it looked.

  Most of the other people at the bar were men talking sports – loudly. She ignored them and ate, zoning out as she thought back to her workday, which had consisted of two consults and the very first tattoo she’d done in Pittsburgh.

  She was mid-bite when a new customer sat down at the bar, just to her left. She hadn’t even noticed the stool was empty.

  Frozen with cheese on her face, she swallowed, set down her sandwich and grabbed her napkin.

  It was too late – the guy who’d just sat down had definitely seen her with cheese smeared on her cheek. She already felt self-conscious sitting there alone. Having an up-close witness to her awkwardness wasn’t pleasant, especially since he was undeniably attractive.

  She didn’t want to notice how hot he was, but it was hard not to when he radiated sex appeal and his elbow was resting just inches from hers. He was tall and dark-haired, with a sculpted build that drew the eye to every hard-won plane and swell. It was the kind of body you only got on purpose, a minor miracle born of sweat and dedication. An interesting-looking biomechanical tattoo peeked out from beneath one of his t-shirt sleeves.

  The bartender slid him a glass of water, and she tucked her elbows in by her sides. Couldn’t she have this one indulgence without some hot guy smirking at her?

  She was pretty sure he’d done just that, although watching him out of her peripheral vision made it hard to tell. And she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

  Gazing straight ahead, she finished the first half of her sandwich. Although she’d been starving just ten minutes ago, it sat in her stomach like a delicious lead weight. The second half was both tempting and daunting. Wrapping it back up and saving it for lunch the next day seemed like a good idea.

  Just as she touched one corner of the wax paper, a thunk came from her right, followed by a curse. Amber liquid flooded the bar, spilling over the paper and soaking her sandwich.

  “Shit!” The middle-aged guy to her right pushed back his stool, leaping away from his spilled beer.

  A mumbled curse came from her left as Hot Guy slapped a napkin down on the spill, holding his water in his opposite hand.

  Hannah tried to stanch the creeping flow with her napkin too, but it was too little too late.

  “Can we get a towel or something?” Hot Guy asked the bartender.

  “Can I get another beer?” Middle-Aged Guy demanded.

  “Maybe you should focus on cleaning up the one you just spilled,” Hot Guy said.

  Hannah shifted her gaze to the older man. He’d made no effort to clean up his mess. Judging by the look on his face, his primary concern was the wasted alcohol.

  “Relax.” He rolled his eyes.

  Hot Guy looked pissed. Probably because the beer had splashed onto the front of his blue t-shirt, leaving a stain. A deep line formed between his dark eyebrows, and there was anger in his even darker eyes. Hannah stared, daring to study his face closely for the first time.

  Anger didn’t hide the carved angles of his cheekbones, or the dark, thick stubble on his jaw. His face was too masculine to be pretty, landing solidly in unbearably handsome territory instead.

  “I’ve got your beer on my shirt, and you ruined her sandwich.” Hot Guy nodded toward Hannah. “That’s bad enough – no need to be a dick on top of it.”

  Hannah dragged her gaze away from his face and cringed inwardly, ready to push her stool back and get the hell out of the way if a fight broke out.

  “You’re the dick.”

  Hot Guy sneered, his soft-looking lips contorting. “You should buy her a new sandwich and leave.”

  Heat flared in Hannah’s cheeks. No way was she getting in the middle of this. “It’s not a huge deal. I wasn’t going to eat it now anyway.”

  Middle-Aged Guy gave Hot Guy a smug look, and she
regretted saying anything.

  The bartender intervened, slapping a towel down on the bar. He mopped up the mess within seconds and cleared away the fallen glass.

  “Can I get another beer?” the stranger on her right demanded.

  Hot Guy glared. “He ruined her sandwich. She needs another one.”

  The bartender looked down at the soggy second half of her dinner and whipped it out of sight. “We’ll get you a fresh one.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said, her embarrassment mounting. It was bad enough that Hot Guy had caught her with cheese on her face and her cheeks crammed full like a hamster’s. Now he thought she needed him to be the white knight who defended her dinner.

  “Don’t worry about it.” The bartender disappeared without acknowledging the drunk man’s demands for another beer.

  Hannah didn’t want to wait for a new sandwich. She just wanted to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Hot Guy asked when she pushed back her stool. “They’re bringing you a new sandwich.”

  “You can have it,” she said, watching the man to her right out of the corner of her eye.

  “No way – it’s yours. Why don’t you hang around until they bring it?” His gaze drifted past her, to the jerk on her other side. “Here, trade seats with me.”

  He stood, and she shook her head. She wasn’t about to be responsible for him getting into a fight.

  “I’m really not hungry. The sandwich was more food than I expected. There was so much meat – it was ridiculously thick.”

  Light flickered in Hot Guy’s eyes, and she bit down on her tongue as she realized what she’d just said.

  Ridiculously thick? God! What was wrong with her?

  She had a habit of putting her foot in her mouth when she was nervous, but this took it to a new level.

  The man across from her looked infuriatingly hotter when he was trying not to laugh. His dark eyes shone, and his full, sexy lips curled into another smirk above his ruggedly-stubbled jawline. He was young – under thirty, for sure – and wore only a t-shirt, despite the cold March weather.

  Probably so he could show off the flawlessly cut muscles in his arms.

  “You could always save it for later,” was all he said.

  Before she could reply, the bartender plunked a fresh sandwich down in front of her.

  She seized it, fingertips biting into the wax paper, and turned on her heel. Without looking back, she walked straight for the door, leaving the disaster zone behind.

  She was a few steps outside the restaurant when she froze, her stomach dropping.

  She’d forgotten to pay.

  Her heart launched into horrified palpitations as visions of being cuffed and carted off to jail ravaged her imagination. Over a cheesesteak!

  At this rate, she was in the running for the Idiot of the Year Award. Turning back, she started to weave her way through the crowd that’d formed a line going out the door.

  “Excuse me,” she said again and again, turning sideways and leading with her shoulder, trying to get back inside.

  People glared and mumbled uncomplimentary things under their breath, clearly thinking she was trying to skip the line.

  “Hey!” a guy in a baseball cap said, stepping into her path. “There’s a line!”

  “I’m trying to get back inside.” She attempted to step around him. “I forgot to pay.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “You—”

  She was close enough to glimpse her abandoned barstool through the window. Her heart leapt as the bartender approached her empty spot, probably looking for money. What if he called the cops?

  A hint of coppery flavor crept into her mouth, lacing her saliva with adrenaline. She was not going to jail over a cheesesteak. Absolutely not.

  A breeze kicked up, making the end of her long braid sway as she stood staring, frozen as she watched the bartender turn to Hot Guy.

  When Hot Guy pulled out his wallet and slapped a bill down, saying something to the bartender, she wanted to throw the half a sandwich she’d eaten right back up. Either that or disappear into the crowd, where she could hide in shame. Her legs felt like cement, but she forced them to move, taking the world’s slowest step forward.

  The jerk in front of her still hadn’t budged.

  “There’s a line,” he repeated. “What makes you so special that you get to skip it?”

  “I’m trying to get back in so I can pay. I—”

  “Well, there’s still a line.” He was like a broken record.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she said, her heart racing now. “Here!”

  She shoved her sandwich into his hands.

  He looked down, his jaw dropping, and took half a step backward.

  It was all she needed to maneuver her petite frame past him, toward the door.

  Once inside, she wound her way through the busy restaurant, toward the end of the bar where she’d been seated. She was only halfway there when she spotted Hot Guy’s empty barstool.

  What the hell? Her heart sped. How had she missed him?

  Someone bumped her shoulder from behind, jostling her, but she couldn’t look away. Then the bartender looked up and his gaze fell on her like a floodlight.

  No longer clutching her sandwich, she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Her feet, on the other hand, itched to turn and run from the mortifying situation.

  She glanced around for any sign of Hot Guy, eager to redeem herself by repaying him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  When she caught the bartender’s eye again, he shook his head and made a don’t-worry-about-it type gesture with one hand.

  Cheeks flaming, she turned and exited the building.

  There was no sign of Hot Guy outside. She scanned the crowd for a chiseled body in a blue t-shirt but was luckless. Eventually, she gave up.

  Shivering and disappointed, she couldn’t put enough distance between herself and the restaurant. She wished she could go back in time and erase the whole wasted evening. Stay home and unpack moving boxes, call in take-out. Instead, she hurried alone through the Strip District, guilt snapping at her heels.

  What was it with her? She was on a roll with the opposite sex, and it wasn’t a good one. It seemed like all her encounters with men lately were destined to end in embarrassment.

  So far, life in Pittsburgh wasn’t much different than life in San Francisco, save for the cold weather. Not exactly the fresh start she’d imagined.

  * * * * *

  Ben walked down the street with his sandwich in a bag tucked under one arm. The beer-chugging moron had made staying to eat more trouble than it was worth – not that he really cared. It was late, and he needed to get home and get some sleep before work the next morning.

  He scanned the crowd for any sign of a woman with a long, glossy black braid dangling between slender shoulders covered by an olive drab jacket too thin for March in Pittsburgh.

  He was still overheated from his evening session at the gym, but knew the petite woman in the cotton jacket had to be cold. Cold and God knew where, by now. There was no sign of her out on the crowded street – a fact that left him sorely disappointed.

  He would’ve liked to talk to her without an obnoxious jackass putting a damper on everything. She was beautiful in a way that had his body temperature elevated even now, keeping the chill at bay even though it’d been an hour since he’d left the gym. Making his way to where he’d parked his Mustang, he recalled every soft line that defined her pretty face, especially the alluring arch of lips brightened by red lipstick.

  Not many women his age wore red lipstick. He liked it – it was vivid and magnetic, the same color as the racing stripes on his Mustang. It’d been solid black when he’d bought it a couple years ago, but he’d painted those on himself.

  It was a 2012 coupe and still ran like new. Still shone like new, too, thanks to his obsessive washing and waxing. Painting cars for a living gave him an appreciation of the paint job and compelled him to keep it in good sha
pe. Right now, though, the only thing that mattered was that the car was a safe place to eat his cheesesteak.

  Climbing in, he locked the doors and slid the key into the ignition, but didn’t turn it. Sitting alone in the huge parking lot on Smallman, not far from the restaurant, he indulged in the sandwich he’d taken to go.

  He ate it all and almost choked on a hunk of bread when he remembered what the woman at the bar had said about too much meat, and it being too thick.

  He’d had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing in her face. He’d actually tasted blood.

  Laughing freely to himself now, he finished his sandwich and balled up the wax paper, hiding it in the console where his brother wouldn’t see it. Rolling his eyes, he imagined what Dylan’s reaction would be if he knew Ben had occasionally been picking up cheesesteaks after his gym sessions lately.

  Dylan thought his carefully calculated weightlifting and diet regimen was God’s gift to Ben. To be fair, Dylan also followed the regimen to a T.

  So did Ben, other than the dietary bullshit. Since he and Dylan were roommates, Ben had to choose between eating his cheesesteaks in secrecy or putting up with Dylan’s crap about them.

  Maybe Dylan could live off of eggs, chicken breasts, vegetables and brown rice six days a week, but Ben wasn’t about to condemn himself to that hell. Even if his taste buds had been deficient – like Dylan’s had to be – there was the fact that he was always hungry. He needed good old fashioned grease and fat in his diet.

  Maybe it was the medication. Or maybe it was the fact that he was a grown fucking man. Probably the latter. Either way, he wasn’t giving up red meat. If Dylan ever caught on to him, he could eat his heart out. He’d probably be hungry enough to do it, too.