Chapter One
005
Twenty-four hours earlier
 
 
 
 
Did it still count as a kidnapping if she went with him willingly? What if she wanted out of the car once she realized they weren’t stopping anywhere inside the Los Angeles city limits? If he simply refused to stop, would that decision automatically make him a felon?
Even at sixteen, Nicky hadn’t been easily intimidated. He couldn’t imagine her sitting quietly beside him as he headed off into the middle of Bumfuck mountain country, no matter how physically intimidating most of the population found giant Jackson Bledsoe of Sin City Ink. Nicky would remember good old Jack from when they were kids, when he’d been a six-foot-two-inch beanpole with elbows bigger than his biceps who had his ass beat by their foster father on a weekly basis.
She would try to run and he’d have to use the rope he’d packed in his trunk if he didn’t want her leaping out of a moving vehicle to gain her freedom. Because she would do something like that. She’d always been wild, and from what he’d observed in the bar earlier tonight, she’d only gotten bat-shit crazier with age.
Not that he was in a position to throw stones.. . .
What he was planning was more than crazy. It was stupid, criminal, and could completely ruin the life he’d worked so hard to build. He should start up his truck and get the hell out of here right now. Do not pass go, do not kidnap the only girl he’d ever loved, do not collect multiple felony charges.
“This is crazy. You realize that, right?” His best friend and business partner, Christian, echoed Jackson’s thoughts as he took a pull on his flask. There was whiskey in there tonight, if Jack wasn’t mistaken. Jack had decided to stick with a Coke while they staked out the staff parking lot of the bar. No need to risk a DUI as well as abduction charges. “You haven’t seen her in how long? Six years?”
“Eight.”
“And she didn’t respond to any of your letters?”
Jack’s teeth ground together. “Nope.” Not with words anyway. Instead, she had ripped every letter into tiny pieces and mailed them back to his address in Vegas. So she had responded, just not in a way that made Jack think she would be accommodating to what he had in mind.
“But you still think it’s a good idea to just show up where she works and ask her to go away for a long weekend so you can work on her tat?”
“Yep.”
His friend laughed as he clapped Jack on the shoulder. “You’ve lost it, man. You really are crazy.”
If he only knew.
But Jack hadn’t told Christian his real plans. No need to make him an accessory to a felony and ruin two lives instead of one.
“Hell, who knows? She might enjoy a little vacation,” Jack said, not believing the words even as he spoke them. “Or maybe I’ll be able to change her mind about the money. Fifteen grand isn’t chump change and she must need cash. Why else would she be working here?”
“Maybe she’s slumming.” Christian shrugged as his dark eyes scanned the parking lot of the bar where they’d finally found Nicky.
It wasn’t in a bad part of the greater Los Angeles area, but it was by far the raunchiest place still serving drinks in Pasadena. Most of the town had been converted into one big outdoor mall, purely PG stuff, but the Hard Way had managed to stay open. Probably because it was the one place in the sleepy suburb where a man could still hope to see some skin while he slammed back a few beers.
The oversize bar doubled as a stage for drunk college girls looking to add their bras to the collection hanging from the ceiling and the bartenders were scantily clad ex-porn stars from the Valley. They took turns dancing on nights when the coeds were hitting the books instead of the bars.
Except Nicky, of course. She was a lingerie model for the biggest fetish store in Los Angeles. Or had been at one time. Jack hadn’t seen any new pictures of the stunning natural blonde with the big hazel eyes for nearly two years. Not that he was a glutton for punishment who checked the Good and Trashy Lingerie Web site on a weekly basis or anything.. . .
God, what was he doing here? Obsessing over Nicky’s picture on a Web site or writing her letters was one thing. But tracking her down in person with every intention of forcing her to take a little trip up to the San Bernardino Mountains was certifiably insane.
Exactly. So get out of here. Now. Before this woman ruins your life a second time.
“I don’t know, man,” Christian said, his tone revealing his obvious appreciation of Nicole “Angel” Remington. “If she looks anything like she used to, it’s hard to believe this girl can’t get modeling work anymore. I checked out the Web site this morning. I’ve never seen real tits like that. No wonder you’re still hung up on—”
Jack silenced Christian with a look. No one talked about Nicky that way, even his best friend. It didn’t matter that she’d betrayed Jackson and broken his heart back when he was a stupid kid. He wouldn’t tolerate anyone treating her like a piece of meat, even if he was planning to do nearly the same thing himself.
But then, he’d earned the right to teach Nicole a thing or two about payback.
“Listen, Jackson.” Christian looked completely serious for one of the first times in their five-year friendship. “I know you’re a big boy and can take care of yourself, but—”
“Exactly, so get lost already. Before you get too drunk to drive yourself back to the hotel,” Jack said. It was twenty minutes until closing time. He had to get rid of Christian before then.
Christian sighed. “Well, if you ask me, you shouldn’t be wasting your time or your money on shit from the past.”
“I didn’t ask you. For your opinion, or your company,” Jackson snapped. In fact, he’d done his best to ditch his friend, but the other man had insisted on accompanying him to L.A.
“Easy, killer. All I’m saying is that we could be in Miami getting pussy right now instead of wasting time with a bunch of Los Angeles bitches,” Christian said, his Puerto Rican accent coloring the city’s name so it sounded like some exotic mecca. Which it was, in a way. At least for the two of them.
After three years as stars of the reality show Sin City Ink, they had quit the entertainment biz to go national with a string of tattoo parlors. The Sin City Ink locations in Reno and Vegas would stay open and be joined by new locations in Memphis, New Orleans, and Miami. Jackson and Christian were going to cash in on their celebrity status and cement their reputations as the best of the best, the people to trust when you were looking for more than your average ink, when you wanted certified body art.
“You’ve got a matching tattoo with the chick, Jackson, and she managed to cash in on it. That doesn’t mean she’s got a piece of you.” Christian barreled on, despite the warning look Jackson shot in his direction. “You were young. You made a mistake and got burned. Who cares if—”
“I care.” Jack took another swig of his own drink, the warm, sickeningly sweet Coke as foul as his mood. If he hadn’t already been determined to go through with his plan, what he’d observed tonight would have more than done the job. He’d only stepped into the bar for a few minutes, but it had been enough to see everything he needed to see.
Nicky still had the tattoo he’d given her the night before his eighteenth birthday, not that it was any surprise. She’d used the tat to make a name for herself and obviously hadn’t been impressed by Jack’s letters asking her to have the thing modified. After all, his work had been as responsible for her nickname as her angelic good looks.
The five-inch figure on her shoulder was the first of the angel tattoos Jackson had later become famous for, an exact match to the wide-eyed fallen angel on his own forearm. It was the only one of his tattoos he hadn’t sketched himself and the last remaining example of his father’s work. Adrian Bledsoe had never made a living or a name for himself before his death, but he’d been a real talent, a more gifted artist than Jackson could ever dream of being.
More than anything in the world, Jackson wished he could go back to that night when he was ten years old and grab more than one of his father’s sketches before he ran from their burning apartment. Maybe then he’d have more of his dad, the only real family he’d ever had, to hold on to and wouldn’t be so damned obsessed with this one tattoo. Or with the girl he’d once loved enough to share a piece of his soul with her.
Your soul? It’s just skin. You should know that better than anyone.
Ah, but there was the kicker. He should know a lot of things. But right now, all he knew was that he had to convince Nicky to let him cover the tattoo, to rework it into something no longer recognizable as the same angel on his own arm.
It tore him apart knowing she still sported the profession of his adolescent love on her shoulder. Once the evidence of his foolish belief in soul mates and happily ever after was erased, Jackson was certain he’d finally be able to let go of his obsession with his former flame and move on.
Cultures across the world recognized the mystical power of working permanent ink into human flesh. Jackson had never been one to believe art was anything more than art, but he couldn’t deny the connection he felt with the only person in the world with whom he shared the exact same ink. A connection that had haunted him for eight long years as he tried to forget about the last night they’d shared and the promises they’d made. Promises Nicky had broken as easily as she’d broken his heart.
Your soul, your broken heart. God. You’re right. You need to do whatever it takes to get this girl out of your system so you can stop being such a fucking pussy.
“Are you laughing?” Christian asked, obviously as surprised by the phenomenon as Jackson himself.
“Yeah.” He smiled and downed the last of his soda. “I was thinking about Delilah and her pussy lecture.”
“The one about the power of the pussy to give life and pleasure and how we shouldn’t use the sacred name of her holy vajay jay as an insult?” Christian asked, his contempt for their Vegas office manager’s feminist rants clear in his voice, though his expression softened perceptibly.
No matter how often his partner insisted his decision to transfer Delilah to the new Miami location with them was purely good business, Jackson suspected Christian had a thing for Dee and would gladly cut off a finger or two to get into her holy vajay jay. Too bad Delilah couldn’t see through Christian’s machismo bullshit to the extremely decent guy inside.
She actually seemed to have a thing for Jackson, and had asked him for drinks on more than one occasion. He’d always declined. Jackson didn’t mix business with pleasure. And even if he did, he didn’t feel anything but friendship for the magenta-haired manager. He’d never felt anything but friendship, or lust, for any woman. . . but one.
And it was high time he did whatever it took to get her out of his system. He was nearly thirty, for god’s sake. It was time to get the hell over his high school crush, and that wasn’t going to happen while they still shared the same ink. He’d tried everything he could think of to stop thinking about Nicky and their matching tattoos— hell, he’d even gone to see a therapist a few times— but nothing helped. Something had to be done. He was on the fast track to having everything he’d ever wanted and he wasn’t going to waste another eight years of his life fixated on the one that got away.
“Yep. That’s the one. Speaking of the power of the pussy, I think it’s time for me to head back to the hotel, see if I can snag a starlet or two at the bar,” Christian said. The two men got out of the truck, slamming the doors behind them. “You sure you won’t come back with me?”
“Nope. See you in a few days.”
“Or a few minutes, if she turns you down.” Christian paused at the door to his BMW roadster. “You know what, I think I’ll come in and watch this go down. See what she has to say—”
“No, you can’t come in. I don’t want to be recognized.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re giant Jack Bledsoe. People are going to—”
“You think people at a bar like this watch Brava?” Jackson asked, happier than ever that their reality show hadn’t been on one of the major networks. A certain degree of celebrity he could contend with, but being recognized everywhere he went would have driven him insane. “Besides, I’m undercover.” He pulled his hat lower on his face and tugged down the arms of his black sweater, concealing his full-sleeve tattoos.
Without them, he was a fairly average-looking guy with short dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and unremarkable features. Not ugly by any means, but his wasn’t the face that had kept female viewers glued to the screen for the three seasons of Sin City Ink. Christian was the pretty boy. If anyone was going to be recognized, it would be him. Jack doubted even Nicky would be able to guess his own identity, at least not right away. He’d shot up three more inches and gained about sixty pounds of pure muscle since the last time she’d seen him. Unless, of course, she watched the show. . . and had seen the kind of man he’d grown into.
Jack hadn’t allowed himself to think much about that, to imagine she might be sufficiently interested to follow his life. Thinking like that was a great way to let this situation get out of hand. He wasn’t here to make nice with an old friend— he was here to right a wrong and move on with his life. End of story.
“I’ll have my cell if you need me,” Jackson said, a grim smile on his face as he stood and shoved his wallet in his pocket.
“I’ll be in Miami by tomorrow afternoon, man. I won’t need anything.” Christian slammed the door to his roadster and rolled down the window. “Call me if you come to your senses and want to be on the flight tomorrow morning.”
Jack waited until Christian’s car was out of sight before walking around to the front entrance of the Hard Way. There was no longer a doorman on duty and the crowd inside had thinned considerably since ten o’clock. As he strode across the plank floors, the bartender with long black hair announced last call, but the clutch of men surrounding the bar looked far from ready to call it a night.
But then why would they, when Nicky was holding court on top of the bar and kept getting more and more daring with her dancing? No matter that state regulations expressly forbid the bartenders from stripping, Jack expected clothes to start coming off any second, an expectation obviously shared by the men surrounding her like a pack of dogs.
His hands tightened into fists on their own accord, his body itching to defend Nick the way he had when they were kids. Back then she’d been an innocent fourteen-year-old attracting the wrong kind of attention from the senior boys at school. They’d known she was a foster kid and had no one to look out for her. She’d been cornered behind the gym within three days of transferring to Carson City High.
Jackson had earned himself two weeks of detention for beating the shit out of the three football players who had decided it would be fun to pass around the new girl, but it had been worth it. No one messed with his foster sister again. He wouldn’t even allow himself to touch her until she turned sixteen, though she’d made her interest abundantly clear. But Jack had been nearly two years older and hadn’t wanted to take advantage, no matter how many nights he had lain awake with a raging hard-on, fantasizing about the girl sleeping in the next room.
Apparently she still had the power to inspire a similar reaction in him and just about any other member of the penis-possessing segment of the population. Jackson was going to have to watch his step. Pulling Nicky away from her pack of horny and delusional admirers was likely to make tempers flare. He couldn’t afford to attract that kind of attention. He needed to get Nicky out of here without anyone taking notice.
That meant he’d have to stay back in the shadows and watch, bide his time until she was finished with her performance, no matter how torturous a part of him found it to see Nicky bumping and grinding for a bunch of horny drunks.
Or how arousing the other part of him found it.
Damn, but she was even sexier than he remembered. The way she tossed her long hair over her shoulder, flashing those big eyes in a way that seemed to promise untold pleasure to every man in the room, made his entire body ache. It was going to be hellish to be trapped in a cabin with her for three days without being able to touch her, kiss her, be buried deep inside the only woman who had ever—
Who ever ruined your life. Focus, Bledsoe.
His inner voice was right. He had to focus because there was no turning back now. Soon he would be leaving Pasadena with Nicky by his side, either as his passenger or his captive. At least that choice would be hers.
 
 
 
Five more bucks from her regular Carl, three from the thirty-something Latino guy, and two from his girlfriend. Combined with the twenty she’d lifted from the frat boy too drunk to see what he was fishing from his wallet, the money she’d made in the past ten minutes brought Nicky up to an even four hundred for the night. It made it worth the anxiety she felt every time she took her turn on top of the bar. And it was more than enough to pay for an entire hour of very expensive attorney time. . . if she ever got the guts to hire the woman she’d met with last week.
She knew Derrick expected her to sign the divorce decree as it stood without a word of protest. He would probably bust a blood vessel if he learned she was even considering hiring representation to fight him in court. Her soon-to-be ex-husband was that certain of his ability to scare her absolutely shitless. But then, he had every reason to be sure of himself. She had rarely dared to stand up to him during their three-year relationship. Back in the beginning, however, there hadn’t been so very much at stake.. . .
But she couldn’t think about that now. Right now she had to concentrate on raking it in, doing whatever it took to part the men surrounding her from the last of their cash before her shift ended. And if that included getting a little creative, so be it. She didn’t particularly enjoy having some stranger suck a body shot out of her belly button, but what she enjoyed didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore except reclaiming her life from the man who held it hostage.
“Time for a shot!” Nicky forced a naughty smile onto her face as she pulled her shirt a little higher, baring more of her midriff. The little white schoolgirl top tied at the waist, combined with the shortest kilt she could find, was always a recipe for big tips. Cliché as it might be, dirty old men still went crazy for a schoolgirl uniform, especially if you were willing to lie down and let one of them suck alcohol off your stomach while wearing it.
“Pick me, Angel!” someone drunkenly called from the opposite end of the bar as she poured the cinnamon liqueur into the well of her navel.
“Not tonight, gentlemen,” she said, winking at the Latino guy’s girlfriend. “I’m in the mood for a softer touch.” A new song came over the sound system and Nicky clapped along as the blushing girl sidled up to the bar.
The roar of the men cheering as the petite woman held back her dark curls and suckled the Goldschlager from Nicky’s stomach was too loud for her to tell for certain, but the song sounded like vintage Rolling Stones. One of her favorite bands of all time. Hell, she might actually be enjoying herself right now if she were just getting a little wild on a Friday night, not playing the tart for a crowd.
It had been so long since she’d been able to just go dancing, to hit a club or a bar for fun with some girlfriends. Not that dancing at the Hard Way was torture. She’d never been particularly shy about her body, and her time as a celebrity lingerie model for Good and Trashy Lingerie had made her even less so. Still, she wished she didn’t have to be on display every night. At least not right now, not when she still felt so vulnerable.
Screw it. Suck it up and give the customers what they want.
Nicky hopped back to her feet and finished out the song with her usual flair, fueling just enough naughty into her moves to keep the men panting, but keeping it clean enough that the crowd didn’t get out of hand. It was somewhat of an art, but one she’d perfected in the past month. She worked up and down the length of the bar one last time, collecting another twenty bucks before the closing bell sounded.
“Happy Trails to You,” the bar’s signature closing song, began to play. Nicky stopped dancing, drawing sounds of protest from several of the drunker patrons. “See you tomorrow, gentlemen,” she said with a grin and a flutter of her fingers.
Always leave them wanting more.
“Hey, Angel, can you clean up the well?” Cassandra shouted from where she was loading the last batch of glasses into the dishwasher behind the bar. “I’ve got everything else ready to close.”
“Sure thing,” Nicky said, already feeling the familiar exhaustion that washed over her at the end of the night, once the adrenaline rush was over.
She pulled her shirt down and was preparing to leap from her perch when a large hand closed gently around her ankle. Her first instinct when customers tried to take looking at the goods to the next level was usually a slap on the wrist and then a kick somewhere more painful if they didn’t wise up fast. But for some reason, the feel of this hand was different, intriguing, electric.
Then she heard the voice that went with the hand and dry panties were a thing of the past. “Nice tattoo.” Damn. A voice like that, so deep it practically had its own reverb, was nearly enough to make her forget she’d sworn off men for at least the next ten years. Or twenty, depending on the day and how much time she’d had to think about Derrick.
“Thanks. It’s what made me famous,” she said, smiling down into the shadowed face of one of the biggest men she’d ever seen in real life.
He was six and a half feet tall, at least, and the way his arms and chest stretched out his sweater left no doubt he was strong enough to snap her in half without breaking a sweat. The very thought of something like that should have been enough to cool her rapidly heating blood, but it wasn’t. She was freaking hopeless when it came to big, strong, domineering men.
Even after three years with a dom who had made her life a living hell and taken away everything that meant something to her, a part of Nicky still fantasized about finding someone man enough to take control of her the way a real dominant would. The way she’d seen some of the men at the clubs treat their subs. With respect. Like they were people to be treasured, protected, and valued, not lower life-forms as interchangeable as sheets of Kleenex.
“Doubt it. I think you’ve got a few other things going for you.” His thumb flicked gently across the inside of her ankle, sending a sizzle of awareness racing up her leg. God, she’d never been so glad she chose heels instead of her fuck-me boots.
Though those could have been good, too. She could already see herself pulling this man into her tiny studio in South Pasadena and taking off everything but her boots. Then she’d turn around, lean over the bed, and show him how wet she was, how ready to take whatever he was packing in those black jeans. He wouldn’t say a word, or maybe he’d just tell her to spread her legs a little wider. Then he’d be behind her, large hands gripping her hips, thick cock spearing inside where she was—
“Hey, we’ve got to close up,” Nicky said, her voice betraying exactly where her thoughts had been headed. “But I know a diner not too far from here. We could get a coffee.”
“I’d love a coffee. My car is in the back lot,” her mystery man said, reaching a hand up to help her off the bar. “I could give you a ride.”
Oh, dear, she just bet he could give her a ride.
She hadn’t even seen his face, but he practically radiated sex. Controlling, demanding, completely-dominating-the-woman-he-was-fucking sex. The kind she’d been craving for nearly two years during her Derrick-imposed celibacy. Two years without even the comfort of another warm, human body, let alone the fucking she craved.
A good fucking— not lovemaking, not even gentle sex— that’s what she wanted. What she needed. Nicky was a carnal person, always had been. She needed it rough, hot, and primal, and it was past time for her to scratch her itch. Tomorrow she would be back here, working another double shift. But tonight was for her.
Or even better yet, for him. There was nothing she enjoyed as much as bringing a big man like this to his knees with pure, unbridled lust.
Nicky smiled, wishing she had the guts to skip coffee and head straight back to her apartment with a total stranger, but even two years of celibacy hadn’t made her that daring. Of course, she could at least clue this guy in on what she was hoping they would get around to doing after coffee.
Ignoring the hand he held out, she leapt straight into the big guy’s arms, looping her hands around his neck and her long legs around his thick waist. Hot damn. It looked like this guy was as big below the belt as he was everywhere else. And he was hard, hot, and ready, so erect she could feel him throbbing against her even through his jeans and her damp panties.
“Looks like we’re on the same page,” she said, breath coming faster as she flexed the muscles in her legs, urging her clit into even tighter contact with his cock. “And I really hope you—”
Oh. . . god. Why hadn’t she made sure she got a good look at his face before she started humping him like a nympho on roofies?
“Something wrong, Nick?” he asked, even as he set her down on the ground. Several seconds passed in awkward silence before she could remember how to form words.
And once she did, only one word came to mind.
Shit.
Shitshitshitshitshitshit!
Of course the first man she’d decided to sleep with since her breakup would be the one man she never thought she’d see again. It was Jack. And whoa if he hadn’t grown up in all the right places. Back in high school he’d been sweet, lovable, and sexy, but now he was. . .
“Why don’t we get out of here, Nicky? We can go for a drive, catch up. Get your things,” he said, his tone revealing there would be no argument.
Trouble. That’s what he was, trouble.
And damn her if that didn’t make her panties even wetter.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Jack,” she said, moving slowly behind the bar and concentrating on capping the well liquor no matter how much a part of her wanted to hasten to obey him. But then, she supposed some sub tendencies died hard. “We haven’t— I mean it’s been years and— I’ve just got a lot going on right now, and I—”
“It’s just a ride. And talk.”
“That’s not what it felt like a few seconds ago.” She blushed, cursing the shot of Jack Daniel’s she’d tossed back before her last turn on the bar. This was all the whiskey’s fault. She never would have jumped into a stranger’s arms and started rubbing herself all over him like a cat in heat without it.
She might have wanted to, but she wouldn’t have actually done it.
“That was a few seconds ago.” He smiled, and she caught a flash of the skinny boy who’d appointed himself her protector from the second they met, making her wonder how much he had really changed. “I came here to talk old times, not re-create them. Though I wouldn’t put up a fight if you decided you wanted more than talk. Seems we’ve still got the same chemistry.”
“Seems like it,” she said, finding it easier to return his grin. She capped the last of the well drinks and eased out from behind the bar, highly conscious of Cassandra’s eyes on her and Jackson. The other bartender had been giving her shit for weeks, begging Nicky to let her set her up with an eligible screw or two. Now Nicky could practically feel the “go for it” vibes surging toward her from across the room. Unfortunately, Jackson wasn’t any more her idea of eligible than the ex-porn star crowd Cassandra hung with. “But that’s probably not a good idea.”
“Some things are better with a stranger.”
“Yes.” She nodded, grateful he understood. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed, either. In fact, he was amazingly casual about the whole thing. If she hadn’t felt how hard he’d been, she would never have guessed he was interested at all. Which was a good thing. . . though she couldn’t deny a certain disappointment.
“But other things are better with an old friend.” He stepped a little closer, making Nicky tilt her head back to look him in the eye. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Come on, let’s go for a ride.”
“Go, Angel,” Cassandra said, flashing a knowing smile as she wiped down the bar. “I’ll finish closing up and Pedro’s still in the break room. He’ll walk me to my car.”
Nicky hesitated for the barest moment more. There was still a voice inside her that urged her to forget she’d ever seen Jackson, to grab her purse and call a cab to take her back to South Pasadena alone. But it was a quiet voice, one that couldn’t compete with her curiosity. Why was Jack here? Why had he tracked her down now, after all these years? She had to know.
Besides, Jackson was the most trustworthy person she’d ever known. Hell, the only trustworthy person she’d ever known. If he said he was cool with talk and nothing more, he meant it.
“Just let me grab my purse,” she said, strangely exhilarated by the thought of just taking a drive with this man.
But then, some of her best memories were of being in the car with Jack, racing down the desert back roads, imagining they were on their way somewhere, anywhere but back to Carson City, Nevada.