House Of Payne: Twist Part 1

HOUSE OF PAYNE: TWIST.

(House of Payne #3).

Stacy Gail.

Tattooist. Artist. Dreamer.

Angel had been a schoolgirl when she came to House Of Payne, a displaced princess with only a fanciful imagination to her name. Now the world clamors for her designs, but that means nothing to Goth tattooist, Twist. Long ago she craved to see admiration in his s.e.xy dark eyes, but after years of enduring his contempt, she's given up. Leaving the House feels like running, but Twist makes it impossible to stay.

Tattooist. Artist. Ex-Con.

Two words came to Twist's mind when he first saw Angel-jail bait. When he'd been released from prison for a crime he would commit again in a heartbeat, he'd nevertheless been determined to keep his nose clean. Too bad he couldn't stop from thinking about getting into the pants of the House's fairytale princess. But with a past like his, he's no good for Angel. All he can do is watch over her from afar... whether she likes it or not.

When Angel is injured, Twist appoints himself as her personal caretaker. She soon discovers that beneath his arrogant faade lies the heart of a devoted protector. She's going to need that protection, as Twist's past has made an unsettling reappearance.

Acknowledgments.

Special thanks to the brilliant Laura Myers, for giving Twist a "real" name. He wouldn't be who he is without you, Laura!

Thanks to Jade C. Jamison, for giving me the opportunity to create this wonderful world of ink. If you hadn't wanted offered me a spot in the INKED Anthology, I never would have dreamed up the House. Smoochies!

To Steph, Kelly and Lynda, I owe you lovely ladies a book, so... here it is. Thank you for your patience. :).

Chapter One.

Angel rolled her lips between her teeth and clamped down hard. It was the only way to stop the words clamoring to be free.

I quit, I quit, I quit, I quit...

It had been the happiest day of her life when she'd been hired as a tattooist at House Of Payne, despite the fact that she'd been hired before the grand opening and no one had even heard of the place. That wasn't the case now. In a mere five years, House Of Payne had become arguably the best tattoo studio in the world, and her designs had received international acclaim.

And she was about as far from happy as the sun was from the moon.

"I know you're p.i.s.sed off." Scout Upton, the House's manager, stood behind her, the frosted gla.s.s door of the tattoo booth at her back and mere feet from where Angel tidied her workstation. Thanks to the rush of blood pounding in Angel's ears, however, she could barely hear the other woman. "But this isn't that big of a deal, if you look at it objectively."

Oh G.o.d, I so frigging QUIT.

Scout was wrong. Quitting was a huge deal. The hugest. If she walked away, what would she do to keep a roof over her head? She'd been toying with the idea of heading off on her own for some time now, even going so far as to create new coloring techniques and designs to sell on a website. But could she really make it on her own?

You won't know until you try.

Fear of an uncertain future rolled through her in a thick, icy wave. She'd never had any other job. She'd come to House Of Payne while she'd still been in high school, moving out of her parents' place long before she'd walked the stage to get her diploma. The House hadn't been famous back then. Like her, it had just been finding its place in the world. Then the business had taken off like an out-of-control rocket, and she'd been happy to go along for the ride. She made an incredible living doing what she loved-creating fantastic, wildly colorful body art of all things mystical and magical. Her line of inked-out, biker-chick fairy tale princesses had even brought her international fame, and her sketches and watercolors had been shown in art galleries in London, New York and her hometown of Chicago. Clientele from all over the world carried her art on their skin, and she was d.a.m.n proud of that.

But...

This place has held a new flavor of c.r.a.p every day for a while now. That has to be a sign that it's time to hit the eject b.u.t.ton.

A sigh behind her dragged her from her dark thoughts. "FYI, the silent treatment's totally wasted on me, Angel. Considering all the bulls.h.i.+t I have to wade through on a daily basis here at the House, these few moments of silence you're granting me are a blissful blessing."

"You should go on, Scout. It's almost closing time, and I need to get everything cleaned up." Her last client of the night had been a cute little cheerleader who'd just made the Northwestern squad, and had decided to get a tiny b.u.m tat of the university's logo to celebrate. The girl, only a couple years younger than herself, had wanted the tat in a place that couldn't be seen. Since sports channels loved to shove cameras up every cheerleader's skirt they came across-an action that got ordinary people on the street arrested-placement had been tricky.

It was a man's world, and woe to the woman who dared to live in it.

Another sigh, this one holding a hint of impatience. "Come on now, lighten up a-"

"Don't." The shocked silence that ballooned in the gla.s.s-enclosed tattoo booth surprised Angel almost as much as the rage saturating that one word. She honestly didn't recognize her own voice. "Don't play this like I'm some child throwing a tantrum."

"I'm not."

"Oh, really? The silent treatment? Would you accuse any other employee of that besides me, the youngest on the payroll?" At last she shot a blistering look over her shoulder and couldn't help but feel vindicated when Scout flushed. "This isn't the silent treatment. This is me trying like h.e.l.l to hold onto the last of my patience. I'm sick of bending over and taking it just to keep the peace around here. It's brought everyone peace but me, and I am done."

Scout stared at her like she'd just realized the fuzzy bunny she'd always played with had very sharp teeth. "Okay, fair point. Bad choice of words on my part, and I'm sorry if I've offended you. Won't happen again."

"Just like Twist won't bother me by getting in my s.p.a.ce again, right?"

The other woman rolled her eyes. "Angel, be reasonable. I can't control everything that man does."

"He took the food I'd put in the break room for lunch and dinner, and threw it in the dumpster."

"His behavior will be addressed," came the flat response before Scout's tone became cajoling. "At least Twist didn't leave you high and dry, though, yeah? He left a turkey-cranberry wrap and a big Caesar salad in exchange for whatever it was you'd brought in."

"That's not the point."

"Okay. What is?"

She literally saw red. Any second now she'd have a d.a.m.n stroke. "Are you kidding me? He constantly picks on me, and no one does s.h.i.+t around here to stop him. And you know why? Because everyone knows I'll keep taking it like some worthless dumba.s.s who's too stupid to get out of the way of everything he throws at me."

"No one thinks that."

"At this point, I think that. Every time Twist decides to jerk my chain, I wind up feeling like a fool. Worse yet, I know it's going to happen again somewhere down the road if I don't do something to stop it. But here I am, willingly placing myself right smack in the middle of that road by coming back to work every day. If that isn't the definition of stupid, I don't know what is." To her horror, her voice cracked as tears of pure frustration bubbled up to burn her throat.

A footfall sounded behind her. "Angel-"

"Don't." Again the word shot out of her, and this time it sounded as out of control as she felt. "Don't pretend you give a s.h.i.+t about this when you don't."

Scout sucked in a sharp breath. "What the h.e.l.l? Or course I care. I hate seeing you this upset."

"If Twist had treated you with such obvious disrespect, would you be okay with me telling you to be reasonable about it, and that it wasn't that big a deal?"

The beat of silence was d.a.m.ning. "No."

"How would you feel?"

"Like I'd need to rip some heads off."

Angel turned to face her fully, jaw locked to the point of pain and so upset she felt sick to her stomach. "Then why the h.e.l.l do you expect me to be any different?"

"Because you're not me. You're not an unrefined, foul-mouthed street brawler who's built like a freakin' tank. The person you are is reflected in your designs-sweet and ethereal, cultured and delicate."

"So, you're saying I should just suck up whatever slap in the face Twist dishes out next because I'm too delicate and ethereal to be justifiably offended by his disrespect? Or is it because in your book, being sweet equals being weak?"

In a heartbeat, Scout's expression became dangerous. "Careful, Angel. I know you're p.i.s.sed, but you really don't want to put words in my mouth."

"Yeah, you're right. That'd be a tight fit since your foot's already in there. I'm leaving the rest of the cleanup for tomorrow morning," she went on when Scout opened her mouth to fire back. "If the Board of Health comes in overnight for a surprise inspection of my booth, please fire me. Please. It'll save me the trouble of typing up a resignation letter."

"s.h.i.+t, not again." As Angel moved to fish her purse and jacket out of the cubby she'd stuffed them into, she heard the exasperation in Scout's voice. "Sending up the 'I quit' flag every time Twist pulls something is getting old."

"No, what's getting old is that he's always pulling something with me. But instead of getting after him, here you are taking me to task because I have the audacity to be upset about it. With support like that, is it any wonder I've had it with this place?"

Scout stepped out of the way as Angel reached for the door handle. "I do support you, and I didn't come in here to take you to task. Obviously you're not getting this, but I really am on your side here."

"And there's the problem in a nutsh.e.l.l. Before Twist came along, work wasn't about choosing sides. It was about the work." With that, she yanked the door open, stepped into the hallway that separated the two rows of private, frosted-gla.s.s tattooing booths... and barreled right into Twist.

d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it.

"Whoa." Her nose had b.u.mped into what had to be his solar plexus, but it might as well have been a cinderblock wall for all the give there was to it. In every conceivable way, Twist Santiago was her complete and total opposite-tall and ripped, whereas she could still fit into most of the clothes she'd worn in high school. His bronze skin was liberally decorated with black tattoos, while her body art was all about primary colors and her much-loved Alice adventuring through a trippy Wonderland. His jeans were ragged, as was the G.o.dsmack concert T-s.h.i.+rt stretched across his chest, displaying arms that were sleeved out in an intricate black geometric pattern he'd designed himself. His unruly black hair went perfectly with his Goth leanings, hanging in tousled, loose curls to his shoulders. Like everything else about him, his eyes were an intense, inky black, under strong, hooded brows that seemed to be set on permanent scowl.

Oh, yes. In every way they were opposites.

She was a human being.

He was a demon put on this earth to torment her.

Thick, muscle-padded arms had somehow gotten around her to hold her steady. But even after her initial impact they didn't let her go, instead clamping her to his chest so that she had no choice but to breathe him in. He smelled of soap and leather and a hint of exotic spice that had her inhaling deeply. Then, when she realized she was huffing him like he'd been manufactured in a glue factory, she shoved him away before her brain could rein the action in.

"Take it easy." Absently he rubbed a hand over his midsection where she'd pushed him as if checking for damage. Fat chance on that score. The torso she'd gotten a fleeting feel of was harder than a marble statue sculpted by a master. She doubted he could be dented by a bazooka. "No need for violence, little girl."

She almost hissed at the much-loathed nickname he'd long ago tagged her with. "Don't call me that."

He tilted his head, watching her in that unblinking, relentless way of his that made her want to throw things at him. "All I was doing was making sure you didn't fall on your a.s.s. Since you don't have any meat back there, I didn't want you to get hurt."

She ground her teeth on a growl and tried to fry him alive with her glare. How many times did he have to be warned to not make comments about her b.u.t.t-or lack thereof-while in the workplace? Obnoxious jerk. "What are you doing lurking outside my booth? You're not even supposed to be here."

Those black-as-h.e.l.l eyes continued to watch her as if searching for weaknesses. "Payne called me in."

"At midnight?"

"Payne's the boss, so he can call us in whenever he wants. And walking down the middle of the hall could hardly be described as lurking."

"It can be when it's you."

His ebony brows drew closer as he studied her. "Maybe it's just me, but you seem to be getting paranoid in your old age."

"Twenty-three isn't old."

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

There was deep, almost pained irony threading through his tone, as if he thought she was the most immature person on the planet, and it kicked her temper up another notch. "I'm not surprised Payne called you in, now that I think about it. I don't know where you were raised, but where I come from you don't dump people's food in the trash."

"Food? You mean the bag of week-old mini-donuts and a couple of Slim Jims you probably picked up at a 7-11?"

"It was the Kwik-E Zoom, actually, and that was supposed to be my lunch and dinner."

With a short sigh he rubbed a hand over his eyes-or maybe it was a facepalm, she couldn't tell for sure. "Angel, that s.h.i.+t you brought wasn't lunch and dinner."

"Yes, it was!"

"No one could call that lunch and dinner. That c.r.a.p's called garbage where I come from-which is Humboldt Park, by the way, thanks for asking. Feel free to drop by any time for some cooking lessons. You obviously need them, and my mom made d.a.m.n sure all her kids know how to put a decent meal together."

Oh, my G.o.d, this man... "Keep your hands off my stuff."

"Of course. I'd be happy to."

"Good."

"Just as soon as you start showing even a hint of being able to take care of yourself."

"I've been taking care of myself long before you even got here," she shot back, so furious she was shaking. If anyone wanted a tattoo from her now, they'd get nothing more than something that looking like a map's rendition of a squiggly-lined waterway. "The last thing I want or need is you trying to take care of me."

"So I take it you didn't enjoy the actual, healthy food I replaced your processed garbage with?"

"On the contrary, I enjoyed it immensely... as I threw it all away."

His dark eyes widened. Then sharpened. Then tried blasting her to pieces. "What?"

"You heard me."