Laura Kaye - Hard As It Gets

To Jenn, who started it all.

To my peeps in the vault, who are the best friends a girl could ever have.

To Brian, whose incredible devotion made it possible.

To Christi, who went way, way above and beyond.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Becca Merritt stepped through the heavy industrial door and into another world. A buzzer screeched above her head, sending her heart into quick palpitations somewhere in the neighborhood of her throat. Compared to the late April warmth, the indoor air was like a meat locker, thick and intensely cold—or maybe that was just the draining weight of her anxiety these past days. She hugged herself and rubbed her arms.

“Be with you in a minute,” a gruff voice called from the back. The driving bass beat of a hard-edged rock song echoed from the same direction.

Gripping her purse more tightly under her arm, Becca’s gaze scanned the colorful images covering every inch of wall space. Tribal birds, winged hearts, dagger-eyed skulls, full-faced roses, crosses, and cartoon characters were some of the designs she noticed at first glance. Playful, gory, beautiful, haunting, many of the images were objectively artistic and oddly compelling.

Becca found tattoos intriguing, and she saw a lot of them on patients that came through the emergency department. She’d never really considered getting one for herself, though. Her father would’ve flipped out, and she’d always valued his opinion too much to rock the boat. With her dad gone now, she supposed there was nothing stopping her besides not knowing what image she’d want permanently drawn on her skin.

Like nails on a chalkboard, the buzzer sounded again and the door banged shut behind her. Becca whirled, expecting . . . she didn’t even know what. Strange as the past few days had been, anything seemed possible right now. But it was just a woman. A totally fascinating woman. Despite wearing all black, she was a riot of color, from the dark red highlights in her shoulder-length black hair, held back in sloppy-but-cute pigtails, to the dramatic eye makeup, to the colorful ink running the length of both arms. She was the Goth yin to Becca’s Plain Jane yang.

The woman juggled a stack of huge pizza boxes and a plastic grocery bag of canned sodas. “Sorry if you’ve been waiting a while.”

“Oh, no.” Becca rushed to her. “Can I help you with that?”

“Aw, you’re a doll. Yes, please, before my wrist breaks off.” The woman twisted her hand out. Becca unlooped the plastic handle from her arm, revealing angry red grooves in her skin from bearing the weight of it. “It’s a good thing I like these guys so much.” A quick grin as she dropped the two pizza boxes on the counter, which nearly reached to her chest she was so short. She heaved a deep breath and braced her hands on her hips. “Now, how can I help you?”

Becca’s stomach flip-flopped. Would she finally start getting some answers today? “I’m looking for a Mr. Rixey.”

The woman arched a pierced brow. “Mr. Rixey? Don’t hear him called that often.” She chuckled and winked. Between her vibrancy and the mischievous sparkle in her dark eyes, she gave off such self-assurance that her presence dominated the room, making her seem much bigger than her petite stature. “And may I tell him who’s asking?”

“My name is Becca Merritt. I don’t have an appointment or anything.” The rich, spicy smell of the pizza made her stomach clench. When had she last eaten, anyway?

“I think he’s finishing up with someone, but I’ll make sure he knows you’re waiting. Have a seat, if you like.” The woman gestured to the Naugahyde couch behind Becca, the one that had probably been new when bell bottoms were fashionable, if the pea green color was any guide.

“Thanks,” Becca said. The cushion creaked as she sat.

The woman scooped the pies off the counter and disappeared behind a dividing wall. “Oh, Mr. Rixey, your presence is requested,” she said in a singsong voice. The response was muffled by an outburst of exclamations over the arrival of their dinner.

The strangers behind the wall hurled playful insults and sarcastic retorts at one another. Becca smiled, reminded of Charlie, her younger brother. The one she’d always felt motherly toward, despite only being a year older. The quiet one, who’d been withdrawing into himself more and more with each loss her family had experienced over the years. The one she hadn’t seen or been able to contact for almost a week—ever since their fight—not even through the private channels he’d set up just for the two of them.

And the one communication she’d received from him had ratcheted up her worry so much that she found herself sitting here. A ball of guilt and fear took up residence in her stomach and steamrolled right over those hunger pangs.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Becca mindlessly fingered the silver charms on her bracelet, a quirky collection of bars and circles, then spotted an album of photographs featuring satisfied customers with their finished tattoos. She flipped through the pages of colored ink, silently debating which ones she would’ve actually considered getting. Sighing, she returned the book to the table.

Damn, if coming to a tattoo shop with hopes of finding someone who could figure out what kind of trouble they were in wasn’t a sign of desperation, she didn’t know what was.

Footsteps approached from the back. Becca rose just as a man rounded the corner and stepped into the space behind the counter. The beat-up gray T-shirt he wore had an interstate sign that read ROUTE 69. Becca stared at it a minute and felt her eyes go wide when she realized what it said. Tattoos peeked out above his collar and down the lengths of both arms to his wrists. He was young and had emo hair, long and dark and disheveled in a totally sexy way. Two little rings of silver hung at the corner of his right eyebrow. She gaped for a moment, unsure what or who she’d been expecting. A flock of butterflies whipped through her abdomen.

He braced his hands on the counter. “Hi. Sorry to keep you waiting. You need to see me?”

Pull yourself together, Bec. Unable to sleep the previous night, Becca was already five cups of coffee into a possible nervous breakdown. She forced a deep breath. “Uh, yes. You’re Mr. Rixey?”

He smirked and flicked his tongue against the piercing on the side of his bottom lip. “Yeah. What can I do for you?”

Becca approached the counter, suddenly uncertain where to start. So she went with the basics. “I need your help.” The man frowned, but Becca pushed on. “Look, I’m sorry to just barge in here, but I might be in trouble, and I’m pretty sure my brother already is. He sent me this.” She rifled through her purse, removed the folded printout, and offered it to him.

His frown deepened as he unfolded the rumpled paper. She knew the words by heart—

“You’ve got the wrong man.”

Panic tripped her heart into a sprint. “No, my brother sent me here. He wouldn’t have done that unless he thought you could help.”

He shook his head, his odd yellow-green eyes filled with relief and sympathy. “It’s not that. You gotta be looking for my brother, Nick. I’m Jeremy.”

A headache bloomed behind Becca’s eyes. She pressed her fingers into her temple and rubbed a small circle. “Oh.”

He spun the sheet around on the counter and tapped his finger against the paper. “See, I’ve never heard of your brother, and I don’t know any colonels. But I’m guessing that’s some sort of a reference to the Army. Which was my brother’s thing. Me? Not so much.” He smiled, an expression that managed to be aw-shucks cute and flirtatiously sexy at the same time.

Becca accepted the printout of her last private message from Charlie, the one that had directed her to “Find Rixey, the Colonel’s team, Hard Ink Tattoo,” and sagged against the counter. “Do you know where Nick is? It’s really important I find him.”

“I’m Nick Rixey. Who wants to know?”

Becca jumped at the deep sound of the man’s voice. Geez. How long had he been standing there? And, big as he was, how had she not heard him approach? It was like he’d materialized out of thin air.

The surprise of his appearance pounded adrenaline through her system. Her racing pulse had absolutely nothing to do with the bulge of his impressive biceps straining the sleeves of his black T-shirt, the hints of ink just visible on his upper arms, nor with his harsh yet darkly handsome face. And definitely not with the way his jeans hung on those lean hips. Right. Definitely not.

Given who her father was, or had been, this was the type of man she’d expected to find at the end of Charlie’s cryptic note. His dark hair was a little on the long side, but the hard edges and leashed strength of his body clearly read ex-military. “I’m Becca,” she finally managed. “I think something’s happened to my brother, and his last message told me to find you.” She held the printout toward him, her bracelet jingling.

Arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall that led to the back of the business, Nick Rixey appeared for all the world to be nonchalant and unaffected. So then why did he remind her of a jungle cat poised to strike, all tense muscles and killer menace? His gaze held hers, and there was something so icy and calculating about it. She felt . . . observed and . . . evaluated. The color of his eyes was the same as Jeremy’s, but with none of the warmth. Becca had to make a point of not squirming under the intensity.