Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 123672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Okay, so maybe I lied a little. Perhaps I do love being a stone-cold killer, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I think it’s important for everyone to love what they do. After all, you wouldn’t want your surgeon falling asleep in the middle of your heart transplant because he was bored out of his mind. Enthusiasm in the workplace is important. Now, if Raquel had just a little bit of enthusiasm, perhaps we wouldn’t have been here quite this early.
God. I really hate it when someone fucks with my schedule.
Grabbing my backpack, I open it up and pull out my gloves before finding the pack of alcohol wipes. I get busy stripping Raquel out of her clothes and cleaning her body, making sure there isn’t an ounce of my DNA to be found. Not that Raquel’s body will even be found out in these woods, but I’m nothing if not thorough. Hell, I never even fucked her, but I’m not taking any chances.
I hum the tune of “Killing Strangers” by Marilyn Manson like it’s part of my own little personalized playlist as I scrub Raquel’s nails, cleaning out beneath them. She didn’t scratch me, but she did spend twenty minutes in the trunk of my car, and I’ve seen bastards get locked up for a lot less than a simple carpet fiber.
Like I said, I don’t take any chances.
I spend an hour cleaning her off before getting started on a grave. I move the thick bushes out of the way, holding the branches back with my backpack as I dig a hole beneath them. After tossing her body in and filling it halfway back up, I throw in the remains of an animal before finally filling in the hole. After patting it down, I take my backpack, letting the thick bush fall back into place.
Then after double and triple checking that I haven’t left a damn thing that could be tied back to me, I grab my shit and head out of the woods. My car is pulled off the highway, hidden behind the uneven terrain, and as I climb back in and jam the key into the ignition, I set my sights on somebody new, my gut telling me that this time, I’m going to find exactly what I’m looking for.
1
KYAH
The bell chimes above the door of High Voltage Ink, and I lift my head up from my latest sketch, one hand freezing over the tablet. A big, burly guy strides through the door, turning to the right to fit his muscled arms past the frame. A wide grin stretches across my face as his gaze lifts to mine.
“Careful, Viper,” I tease, having to raise my voice over the music playing through the small shop. “Any bigger and you’re not going to fit in my station.”
Viper grins right back at me, stopping by the reception desk. “That’d be a tragedy, baby,” he coos, ever the flirt. “Perhaps Big Jim needs to pull his head out of his ass long enough to see your potential and finally give you a bigger space.”
I laugh, not even bothering to respond, knowing Big Jim isn’t going to let that slide, and sure enough, his head lifts from the calf he’s been working on for a good portion of the day. “Perhaps you need to quit the roids, and then you won’t have issues fitting your double-wide at Kyah’s station,” Big Jim throws back at him, a wicked grin lingering on his lips. “Besides, if you think I haven’t noticed her potential, you’re dead wrong. I don’t keep people on if they can’t keep it real, and Kyah . . . You know she’s one of my best.”
“Know it?” Viper scoffs. “Why do you think I have her doing my ink and not you? Watch your back, old man. If you’re not careful, Kyah’s gonna take this place off your hands.”
Big Jim rolls his eyes, that cocky, too-sure grin settling on his lips. “I fucking hope so,” he says. “This’ll all be hers one day.”
My brows arch, and as I meet Jim’s gaze across the shop, he gives me a subtle nod, letting me know just how serious he is. My heart races, my mind momentarily falling out through my ass and splattering across the polished concrete floor. Getting to own High Voltage Ink one day is a dream of mine, but I’ve never allowed myself to have hope because, let’s face it, Big Jim is the kind of man to hold on to something until he’s lying on his deathbed, and even after he’s gone, he’ll continue to haunt the halls of this shop just to make sure I don’t screw it up.
Big Jim built High Voltage Ink from the ground up. It’s been his baby since before I was even a sparkle in my dead-beat father’s eyes, and he’s not about to let it slip through his hands. He’s like a father to me, and when I was a struggling kid, heading down a bad road at seventeen, he took me on, taught me everything I know, and from there, it’s only gotten better. Now at twenty-three, I’m one of the best tattoo artists Brooklyn has to offer, and I owe it all to Jim.