Dedicated Ink Read online

  She was there when he arrived, sitting in the same car he’d walked her to in Hot Ink’s parking lot, a newish but modest little two-door. Her pale blonde hair shone from behind the driver’s side window like a beacon, and he abandoned his own vehicle at the sight of it, a small sense of satisfaction welling up inside him as he approached the coupe. At least they could walk into the restaurant together.

  She almost looked surprised when she turned to face him, her blue eyes wide. She stepped out of the car quickly though, swinging stunning bare legs out onto the pavement and gripping a purse by its strap.

  His heart rate picked up a little as his cock stiffened halfway, rendering his normally comfortable jeans too tight. Damn, she looked amazing in the little black dress she wore, one that hit high enough above the knee to remind him how it’d felt to have her legs wrapped around his waist. His excitement was potent, but edged with guilt. She hadn’t even wanted to ride in his car; she probably thought that all he wanted was to get in her pants again.

  As much as he wanted it – wanted her – that wasn’t the case.

  “Hi,” she said, smoothing her skirt and pulling on the hem.

  “You look amazing,” he said, his gaze drawn to the colorful tattoos he could see peeking out from beneath the sleeves of her little jacket, which hit just above her elbows. The teasing preview brought back memories of a lithe body embellished here and there with ink, toned and tattooed.

  She smiled, but the expression quickly flickered and disappeared. “Thanks. You look great too.”

  They walked side by side to the restaurant, but he resisted the urge to reach out and touch her. She seemed wary; obviously, she wasn’t nearly as comfortable around him as she’d been that single, sultry night in late July. That was understandable, to an extent – this wasn’t some alcohol-fueled, half-anonymous encounter. But still … she seemed edgier than he’d anticipated, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there with him.

  The thought made him want to kick his own ass. Since that night, he’d thought about her often enough to want to see her again, even if it meant facing the embarrassment he felt over their initial time together. Now, he was faced with the momentous task of turning things around, of re-routing the course of their brief relationship off the path of nothingness it had begun on. He was willing to make the effort, to see if she wanted the same thing, because as casual as their first night had been, it had still been that memorable. He wanted more, and not just another few hours.

  He wanted to know her, to have more than just a taste of the woman who’d been slipping into his dreams ever since July and causing him to wake up hard and aching, wondering if he’d ever see her again. Two months was a hell of a long time to exist off of hot memories and wet dreams.

  “Have you eaten here before?” she asked when they were seated.

  He nodded. “Too many times for my own good, probably.” Rotating shifts took a toll on his biological clock. Though he rarely felt like cooking when he got home, he’d been making an effort to do so more often over the past few months – before then, he’d had every reason to want to delay coming home, and had grabbed dinner out almost every day.

  “What do you recommend?” Abby lifted a menu, making eye contact with him for the briefest of moments before dropping her gaze to the menu’s offerings.

  “Depends. What do you like?”

  “You name it; I like a little bit of everything.”

  “Well, in that case…”

  She ended up settling on the savory pot roast platter, which was, as far as he was concerned, the best thing the restaurant had to offer. He ordered the same, and the waitress left them alone again with a basket of hot rolls.

  Abby picked one up and tore it in half, but she didn’t stop there – she quartered the thing, her gaze wandering as she tore it into bite-sized pieces, and only then paused to add a little butter with the tip of her knife.

  Sam fought a frown as he reached for one of the rolls. When he picked it up, he almost dropped it. Damn, the thing was hot – a little curl of steam rose from where his thumb had dented the golden-brown surface.

  Abby didn’t seem to notice the heat until she raised a bite to her mouth; when the bread touched her lips, she recoiled, setting it back down on her plate.

  “You seem like you’re on edge,” Sam said. She was so clearly nervous that he just couldn’t pretend not to notice. “Is it something I did, or said? Or…”

  She met his eyes, and he knew he didn’t have to say the words “that night”.

  A thread of guilt crept into his thoughts as he remembered calling her the day before to arrange their date, still aching for her touch after having indulged a vivid fantasy inspired by their time together. There was no way she could know what he’d been doing before he’d called, but maybe she sensed how much he wanted her now.

  “I’m just a little uncertain, I guess.” She wiped her fingertips on a napkin. “I mean, I was really surprised when you showed up at Hot Ink, and you asking me to dinner was the last thing I’d expected.”

  “Why?” Surely she was asked out all the time. He vividly recalled the way almost every man in the bar had stared at her that July night, their eyes practically popping out of their heads as she she’d flirted … with him. The memory sent dual waves of pride and protective jealousy surging through him.

  A blush tinted her fair skin, causing her cheeks to go downright rosy as she met his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. It doesn’t get much more casual than the night we had, does it?” Although her sentiments were almost flippant, there was a strange intensity in her eyes as she held his gaze.

  Her words sliced through him and regret stole steadily into his veins, like an IV drip. “We should’ve exchanged numbers, or—”

  She shook her head. “You don’t have to apologize or make excuses. We both knew what to expect.”

  “Still, I wish we’d stayed in touch.” She was watching him with that strange look in her eyes again, and he decided to lay the facts out on the table. “Truth is, I don’t do one night stands. Not my thing, and I didn’t feel right, even from the beginning, about the way things ended, even if we both got what we’d bargained for.”

  Did she believe him? He knew what he’d just said could easily be construed as a lie designed to make him look better than he really was. He also knew how he’d felt when he’d woken up at three in the morning and discovered that she’d already left; he’d felt bereft … and stupid, so stupid, for having allowed her to disappear into the night without leaving a number, or even a last name.

  Now, he knew her full name was Abigail Biers, but only because he’d seen it on Hot Ink’s website. Learning her name online for the first time after he’d spent the night with her had made him feel … well, shitty. There was no question about it: one night stands really weren’t for him. Either he liked a woman enough to want to be with her for longer than a single night, or he didn’t.

  “Well, one night stands aren’t usually my thing, either,” she said, “although I guess everyone says that.”

  He fought the urge to wince. “Yeah, probably.” If seven years on the force had taught him anything, it was that most people were completely full of shit, especially when faced with the consequences of their actions.

  She smiled faintly.

  “Look, I want things to be different now. I know we can’t forget how we met—” and God, he didn’t want to forget a single second of it “—but I want to do things right.”

  “So you asked me out to make it up to me?” she asked, her brow furrowed. “You really feel that guilty over our night together?”

  She didn’t seem too fond of the idea, even though, yeah, a part of him felt guilty. He didn’t like to feel like he’d used someone … even if they’d seemed to enjoy the hell out of it at the time.

  “I asked you out because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that night.” That was the truth of the matter; he couldn’t – and he’d tried – get
her out of his head.

  Her entire expression changed, going from surprised to something he would’ve called happy, if she hadn’t leapt up from the table a moment later. “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

  He waited as she retreated to the ladies’ room. She wasn’t gone long, but he felt every second of her absence. Had he really fucked up already?

  His apprehension ebbed when she returned and sat back down, flashing him a slight smile.

  “Dinner’s here,” he said unnecessarily, gesturing toward the two plates the waitress had left.

  “It smells amazing.”

  The mood seemed lighter as they ate. Maybe he hadn’t fucked up after all, or maybe the food was just that good. Either way, it was a relief to see her enjoy her meal, the nervous expression mostly gone from her face.

  “How do you like the pot roast?” he asked after a while, sensing that his silent study of her beauty might make her uncomfortable.

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Glad you think so; it’s my favorite.” He asked her a few questions about her work after that – not about his upcoming rescheduled appointment, just about her and her art. He wanted to understand what she’d dedicated her career to; if her art was a window into her passion, her life, he wanted to look through it.

  When she talked about tattooing, she lit up in a way he’d never seen her do before – since that summer night, anyway. She’d certainly lit up then – glowed, even, as he’d teased her, tasted her, and ultimately buried himself inside her. The reflection of the ecstasy he’d seen on her face then was enough to make him hard under the table, especially when he let his eyes dip to the shallow V of cleavage revealed by her dress.

  “What about you?” she eventually asked. “I had no idea you were a police officer. Do you like it?”

  He nodded. “Went to college for law enforcement, then on to the academy at 21. Wanted to be a cop ever since I was a kid.”

  “I always knew I wanted to be an artist, too. Of course, when I was little it never occurred to me that I’d end up tattooing, but by the time I was a teen, I already felt drawn to it.” She took a sip of her water and shook her head. “I’ve been talking about my work for ages. What’s it like to be a police officer?”

  He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking. “It’s a lot of paperwork.”

  “Really? It seems like it would be an exciting job.”

  “Sometimes. Other times, not so much – it gets old, seeing the same people make the same stupid mistakes over and over again, knowing they’re never going to change. Kind of makes you wonder whether you’re really making a difference at all.”

  Maybe it should’ve felt weird to admit that to Abby right off the bat. It didn’t, though – talking to her was easier than he’d expected, especially given the fact that she’d been a bundle of nerves when they’d first sat down.

  “Of course you are.” She raised her pale brows. “Can you imagine what this city – any city – would be like without anyone to enforce the law? I don’t think anyone but criminals would survive. It’d be mayhem.”

  “Thanks,” he said, amused and a little touched by her obvious sincerity.

  He was about to say something else when the waitress appeared, her little notepad in hand. “Do you two think you’ll be interested in any dessert tonight?”

  “What do you think?” He shifted his gaze to Abby.

  “Sure, if you’d like some,” she replied, just as an electronic melody half-drowned out her voice. “Sorry,” she said, reaching into her purse and silencing her phone.

  As soon as they’d given the waitress their orders, her phone rang again. “I’d better see who this is.”

  “No problem.”

  He watched her lips move as she spoke on the phone, and his heart sank when she concluded the brief conversation with the promise, “I’ll be right there”.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, looking every bit as if she meant it. “That was my sister. She has to take her son into the emergency clinic, and her husband works night shifts. She needs someone to watch her daughter.”

  The connection he’d been savoring for the past half hour was fraying way too quickly; soon, it’d only be a memory, like their previous time together. “It’s no problem.”

  “And we just ordered dessert…” She stood, gripped her purse strap and bit down hard enough on her inner lip that he could see a dent in the soft, glossy flesh.

  “Don’t worry about it, and put your wallet away.” It was what it was. There’d be a second time, wouldn’t there?

  She paused with her wallet pulled halfway from her purse, her knuckles white against the leather. “You don’t have to—”

  “I want to. This is a date, and I’m paying. Besides, your sister is waiting for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

  Heat rose up inside him, and as he eyed the place where the hem of her skirt hit her thighs, he was uncomfortably aware that he was still hard. “So do I. Let’s get together again, soon.”

  She nodded. “You’ll call me?”

  His heart rose the barest fraction of an inch. “Tomorrow.”

  As she walked away, he felt bereft for a second time. Some instinctual part of him urged him not to let her go, though he never would’ve tried to delay her, given the situation. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a lot like he had when he’d woken up and found the side of the bed she’d briefly occupied empty.

  As she neared the door, preparing to step out into the chilly evening, she looked back over her shoulder, pausing with a hand against the glass pane. The look she shot his way was one of pure regret, and he could tell she hadn’t meant to meet his eyes.

  CHAPTER 3

  Abby was in a nervous sweat by the time she reached her sister’s place. How could she have failed so miserably? She’d spent an hour alone with Sam, and she hadn’t brought up her pregnancy. She’d intended to tell him as soon as possible, but she’d been so anxious. Then, he’d stunned her by admitting that he’d been thinking about her – a lot – ever since their supposed one night stand.

  Pregnancy hormones and stress had toyed with her emotional state so severely that his confession had actually brought the stinging pressure of tears to her eyes, and she’d made a hasty retreat to the ladies’ room to pull herself together. When she’d returned, things had been surprisingly easy between them, and she’d felt like she was on a real date – a good one. For one glorious half hour, she’d allowed herself to act like nothing was wrong, to enjoy his company before dropping the bomb.

  Then Natalie had called. She couldn’t have told him then, in a few breathless seconds, as she’d rushed out. She’d had little choice but to leave him blissfully ignorant of her condition, her deception.

  That was what she’d done, wasn’t it – deceived him? What was it called – a lie of omission? She wiped her hand across her eyes, sucked in a deep breath and tried to shut out the wayward feelings and pregnancy hormones that were making her so hyper-emotional.

  She climbed the stairs to Natalie’s unit, where her sister stood in the open doorway. Natalie looked understandably frazzled with a wailing one year old on her hip, but she still spared a smile for Abby as she walked out the door, clutching a purse with her free hand. “Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver! I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

  “I was on a date, but this is much more important. What’s wrong with Lucas?”

  Natalie’s eyebrows rose at least an inch. “I don’t know, but I think it might be another ear infection. He’s running a fever, and he won’t stop screaming.”

  “Go ahead; I’ve got Ava taken care of.”

  “Thanks again!” Natalie called, already rushing away with Lucas bouncing on her hip. “You’ll have to tell me about your date when I get back! I’ll text you when we’re on our way.”

  Abby had barely turned around when she was greeted by her niece’s round, solemn face. “Lucas is si
ck, but I’m not,” she said in the blunt fashion of a four year old. “Can we play finger paints, Aunt Abby?”

  Abby closed and locked the door. “I don’t see why not.”

  Clearing a wide space on the kitchen island counter, she put down some newspaper and got out the paints kept in a cupboard next to the fridge, moving on autopilot as she prepared to let Ava go to town with messy primary colors.

  As she watched Ava paint, she tried to imagine herself in four years, supervising two preschoolers of her own. She just couldn’t picture it. How could she imagine her life years in the future when she wasn’t even sure how she was going to tell Sam what she’d kept from him during their date?

  * * * * *

  It’d been a rough day – a double-homicide kind of day, to be exact. It was good to be home. Still, Sam didn’t relish the thought of heating up the burritos that awaited him in the fridge, leftovers from the meal he’d cooked himself a couple days ago.

  Blood spatter had been thrown over his mind’s eye, and he knew the memory would never leave him completely. Gristly scenes like the one he’d responded to today stayed with him permanently, accumulating and forming a staining layer over a part of his brain he tried not to use. It was an occupational hazard. It was also enough to make the thought of mushy homemade burrito filling utterly repellant.

  Forgoing food altogether, he filled a glass at the kitchen tap and downed the water. It was early autumn, but the days were still hot for anyone who had to spend them in a uniform and bulletproof vest. He finished the drink, then had half of another before picking up his phone.

  He’d promised to call Abby, and the thought of talking to her had been a bright spot in his otherwise dark day.

  She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  Her voice shot through his consciousness like an arrow, piercing the veil of disgust that had settled over his mind. He shoved thoughts of work away – he could forget about what he’d seen, at least for the duration of their conversation. “Hey, Abby.”