Something New (Exile Ink Book 1)

  Something New

  An Exile Ink Book

  Skylar Hill

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Also by Skylar Hill

  Something Right

  Something Real

  For Keeps

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Skylar Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by Charlee Hoffman

  Edited by Laurel Hardy

  For my husband,

  Because our love story is my favorite.

  Chapter One

  Cam

  “You’re late.”

  Cam looked up at her boss, then down at her phone. Two minutes past nine. Gritting her teeth, she pasted on an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Scott,” she said. “It took forever to get off the bus this morning.”

  “You need a car,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  Yes, because I can totally afford that, Cam thought. But instead of saying it, that smile of hers didn’t waver. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Set up my station,” Scott said in a bored voice. “I have a client at ten.” He disappeared into his office, and as soon as the door closed, Cam’s fake smile disintegrated from her face. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

  You need this job, she reminded herself sternly. Her little sister’s scholarship to Reed wasn’t a full ride. It was up to Cam to pay the difference. She didn’t want Evie to have to carry a full class schedule and a job, and she certainly wasn’t going to let her graduate with a mountain of debt.

  Which meant she was stuck working for Scott. He was an ass, but he was also one of the most acclaimed tattoo artists in the city. She knew that if she just stuck it out long enough, she’d get the right opportunities, meet the right people, and her work’s popularity—her name—would rise. So much of the job was about word of mouth, and she was determined: Someday her name would be on everyone’s lips—and her ink on everyone’s skin.

  Electric Chair Ink was a testament to Scott’s ego. Every wall was jammed with photos of him mugging for the camera, biceps flexed. His famous sleeves—portraying a forest on fire—were just the first of the many tattoos on his body, but they were the ones that he paraded about the most. Cam couldn’t exactly blame him on that front: The sleeves were a riot of chaos and color, beauty and destruction. If she’d ever been able to afford a tattoo by James McGowan, she’d show it off too.

  She’d been working for Scott for almost four years now. After Evie had managed to get into the Bushwick Academy as a sophomore transfer, Cam had dropped everything to get the two of them to Portland. But the cost of moving and school fees had drained her meager savings. By the time she’d been asked to interview at Electric Ink, she’d been desperate. She was trained in traditional tattooing, even if it wasn’t her preferred style, and she was good.

  It always helps to have a hot girl around, Scott had told her during the interview. Her stomach had sunk, but she’d ignored it. She knew it was a test—guys like Scott started pushing boundaries early, to see what they could get away with.

  But Scott didn’t know she’d dealt with men far worse than him.

  She’d taken the job because she’d had only two hundred dollars left in her bank account and no other choice. She’d planned to stay only until she found something better, but Evie’s school was so expensive, and then there was her college to think about… and before she knew it, it was four years later, and Scott was still a sexist ass who hated her tattoo style, but Cam had built a solid client base and enhanced her skills.

  Sometimes she dreamed of opening her own shop or going somewhere else, but always, that voice in her head—the one that unfortunately sounded a lot like Scott—whispered: Your clients won’t go with you. They like the prestige of the shop. How do you expect to bring in new clients without the Electric Chair brand behind you?

  Cam washed her hands and snapped on a pair of gloves. She wiped down the counters and station with antiseptic, before setting out the needles and ink trays on a sterile dental bib and put barrier film over the sink and cupboard handles. There was something methodical and strangely peaceful about prepping a station, a meditative act.

  She was just finishing up wiping down and draping the chair when the phone in her pocket buzzed.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Cam!” her friend Lydia’s bubbly voice filled her ears. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. We still on for drinks later?” Cam asked.

  “Yes! I need it after the week I’ve had. It’s been a total nightmare—my caterers are being incompetent. I’ll tell you all about it tonight. I just wanted to give you a heads up. I ran into an old friend this weekend, and when he saw that piece you did for me on my ribcage, he had to know who you were.”

  A few months back, as a Christmas present, Cam had done a watercolor tattoo of ballet shoes on Lydia’s ribcage. It was a beautiful piece, and Cam knew it had meant a lot to her friend, who had planned to dance professionally before an injury sidelined her.

  But Scott hated her watercolor tattoos. Whenever she had a client come requesting one—which was often—he’d talk under his breath about “goddamn Pinterest bitches” as soon as they left and start a huge spiel about classic tattooing and its superiority.

  “Jay would not leave me alone until I told him your name. There’s a possibility he’ll be stopping by the shop today to set up a consult with you.”

  Cam bit her lip. She could use the money, that was for sure. Evie’s books this semester had cost a fortune, and Cam knew her sister had been eyeing an exchange semester to France to study the language. She’d never mention it to Cam because of the cost, but there had to be a way she could swing it. Every little bit helped.

  “It’s sweet of you to recommend me,” Cam said.

  “I know Scott’s an ass about the style,” Lydia said. “But they’re so beautiful, Cam. You’ve got such a gift. And they’re popular! He should really embrace it.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Cam said. “I’ll keep an eye out for your friend—you said his name was Jay?”

  “Yep. Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll see you tonight at Secret Society?”

  “I’ll be there,” Cam said, hanging up.

  She finished prepping Scott’s station, moving onto Frank’s, and then the private room in the back. By the time she was done, Scott had opened the shop and Frank, a tall, bald, broad-shouldered 50-year-old who looked like Mr. Clean, had arrived.

  “Morning, Cam,” he said, shooting her a smile. “Brought you a coffee,” he nodded towards the cup on the counter.

  “You’re the best,” she said, grabbing it. She took a sip, and cinnamon, caffeine and vanilla hit her tongue. Her eyes closed for a second, relishing the taste.

  “What have you got today?” she asked, coming over to stand next to Frank. He had his sketchbook out, a half-finished drawing of a panther on the page.

  “Few old clients, one touch-up, and a housewife looking for a major cover-up.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asked. “Lower back?”

  “Ex-husband’s name in tw
o inch letters across her shoulders,” Frank said.

  Cam winced. “Well, she’s in good hands with you.”

  “I’m thinking a black rose motif,” he said.

  “Let me know if you want to brainstorm,” Cam said, walking back over to the counter, where she’d left her bag. She pulled out her own sketchpad, flipping it open to the last page. Her pen, which had been tucked between the pages, rolled off the pad onto the floor.

  As Cam bent to get it, the doorbell rang.

  “Just a second,” she called. Her fingers brushed the pen and she grabbed it, righting herself with a little bounce, her blonde curls falling into her face.

  She pushed them back, looking up into a pair of startling gray eyes.

  “Oh,” she said.

  The man in front of her was impossibly tall. Have-to-bend-to-walk-through-a-doorway tall. She was five-ten in her heels, but felt dwarfed by him. It was an odd feeling—one she wasn’t used to at all. His eyes were like troubled waters, the sea in a raging storm. His dark hair dipped into those eyes, his beard not doing anything to hide his smiling lips.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for Cam Ellison.”

  “Me,” she said. Her cheeks flushed. “I mean, I’m her. That’s me. I’m Cam.”

  Oh, God, she was acting like an idiot. What was wrong with her?

  His smile widened. “I think Lydia Munroe might’ve called you about me? I’d like to set up a consult.”

  “Of course,” Cam said. She needed to reach for her appointment book, but she couldn’t seem to move. She couldn’t seem to do anything but stare at him. He was resting his hands on the counter, his long sleeves tugged up just enough to see a tantalizing glimpse of inked skin. Her gaze kept darting to it, wondering what pushing back the sleeve would reveal.

  He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Had he been in the shop before? If he was one of Scott’s friends, she was never going to hear the end of it.

  “I—“ Cam glanced up at the clock. It was five minutes until ten. Any second now, Scott would come out of his office to prep for his appointment, and if he saw her doing a watercolor consult, he’d be in an even worse mood. “I have time right now,” she heard herself saying. “We have a big group coming in, though. Why don’t we go down to the coffee shop on the corner?”

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I’m James, by the way. James McGowan.”

  Cam’s jaw dropped.

  Oh.

  That’s why he looked familiar.

  He was just one of the most revered modern tattoo artists in the world. That’s all.

  Chapter Two

  James

  James McGowan was not a patient man. The family joke was he had entered the world in a rush and hadn’t stopped since. And James had to admit it was essentially true. What he wanted, he got, because he went after it with all he had, with a single-minded focus that many would find exhausting, but he found invigorating.

  As a child, he’d rarely been without a pencil or pen in his hand, and his skill was noted and encouraged by his parents and teachers. By his teens, he’d grown fascinated with tattoo art, and knew he wanted a career in the industry, and with his draftsmanship skills he got an apprenticeship as soon as he was 18. He wanted to be the best, so he worked for the best—and his star soared. He wanted his work to be known by as many people as possible, so when a reality TV show came calling, he signed on the dotted line and moved to L.A. for filming.

  The four years that Living Ink ran had given him exposure he never could’ve dreamed of. It was a cheesy show—he’d fully admit it with a self-deprecating grin—but it had served its purpose: It put his name and his art out there, giving him the freedom to travel, to work on new tattooing techniques, and to meet amazing people who loved his art enough to put it on their bodies forever.

  There was a special trust in that kind of faith. He loved the artistry of tattooing, but he also loved the stories behind the ink just as much. The people behind them. It could be an incredibly intimate—almost spiritual—experience, tattooing someone and sharing in their most significant stories, dreams, and, sometimes, transformations.

  He had put the work in. He’d reaped the benefits. And now he was ready to get what he’d always wanted: a shop of his own, with artists of all styles coming together, working together. A collaborative, creative environment where artists felt free to express, and clients felt free to ask for what might seem impossible.

  Coming back home to Portland to open the shop had been a given, and since he’d arrived last month, he woke each morning with a settled feeling in his bones that he hadn’t felt for a long time.

  He’d wandered for years after the reality show, tattooing at conventions, doing private appointments all over the world, but now…

  Now he was ready for a studio of his own. A home of his own.

  He’d had dinner with Lydia just the night before, where she’d shown him her new piece. He’d taken one look, his eyes tracing the graceful lines and delicate sweeps of pinks blended so perfectly, and he’d thought whoever had done it was a fucking god with a tattoo gun. He’d said as much to Lydia. She’d laughed and said goddess, actually, and he couldn’t stop himself from being even more intrigued. Who was this friend of Lydia’s? How had he not heard of her, if she was this skilled?

  Even though it had just been hours since Lydia given him Cam’s name, he felt that familiar impatience as he pulled open the door of Electric Chair Ink. This was Scott Reeves’ place. James hadn’t seen him for years, but he’d done Scott’s sleeves for him on a Living Ink episode. If he remembered correctly, the guy was more than a little full of himself. Clearly, that hadn’t changed, since there were pictures of him shirtless all over the walls.

  “Just a moment,” a musical voice called from behind the counter.

  A blonde popped up seconds later, her hair tumbling over her face. She flipped her curls back, and her green eyes met his.

  “Oh,” she said, those eyes—god, they were so vivid—widening.

  He smiled. “Hi, I’m looking for Cam Ellison?”

  “Me,” she squeaked. Her skin, which looked like it belonged to a porcelain doll, pinkened in the most delightful way. “I mean, I’m her. That’s me. I’m Cam.”

  Damn, she was gorgeous. He couldn’t help but grin at her, leaning on the counter to get closer. What was that perfume she was wearing? Some sort of irresistible fragrance, a combination of honey and spice that made him want to lick his lips and pounce.

  “I think Lydia Munroe might’ve called you about me? I’d like to set up a consult,” he said. He couldn’t exactly tell her he wanted to poach her. Not yet, at least. And not until he was sure she was as accomplished as he suspected her to be.

  “Of course,” she said. “I—“ she looked at the clock, and then back at him. He didn’t frown, but he wanted to. There was an almost caged look on her face, a nervousness that shouldn’t be there. “I have time right now. We have a big group coming in, though. Why don’t we go down to the coffee shop on the corner?”

  “I’d like that,” he said, and the tightness in her face eased a little. “I’m James, by the way. James McGowan.”

  Her mouth, those distractingly pink lips, dropped open. “Oh, my,” she said.

  “Is that going to be a problem?” he asked.

  “No!” she said hastily. “No, not at all. I just—“ she took a deep breath, grabbing the sketchbook off the counter and shoving it into a frayed canvas bag. “Let’s go,” she said, pulling on her coat. “The place down the street has great coffee.”

  He held the door open for her and they made their way down the sidewalk. The day was Portland-gray and gloomy, but it made the gold of her hair and the red in her cheeks practically glow against the storm clouds. It was an arresting sight, and James had to remind himself to look at the sidewalk sometimes, not just at her.

  “How do you know Lydia?” she asked.

  “Oh, we go way back,” he told her. “We were in the same class
in grade school. She got skipped up two grades so everyone teased her. I’m dyslexic and you know how kids are, they said I was dumb and all that. So we bonded over our shared ostracism and bullies.”

  “That’s incredibly sweet,” she said. “I’m glad you two had each other.”

  “Lydia’s the best. She’s got a mean left hook, too.”

  “I will keep that in mind if Lydia and I are ever in a bar fight,” she said solemnly, startling a laugh out of him.

  “What about you? How did you and Lydia become friends?”

  “I used to be a server for a caterer,” Cam said. “The company I worked for was hired by Lydia’s event planning company, and almost all of the catering staff got the flu. I had to stand in as a last-minute cook and help her serve for thirty.”

  “How did that go?”

  “I was very lucky I know how to cook,” she said. “And I was very unlucky that I couldn’t be in ten places at once,” she added wryly.

  He liked her dry humor; it put him at ease in a way that made his shoulders loose and his smile infectious.

  They came to a stop in front of the diner. Its ancient, flickering neon sign had long fallen into disrepair, spelling out LOU’S. He held open the frosted glass door for her and the smell of coffee and hash browns with just the right amount of fresh grease filled his senses.

  Cam sat down in the farthest back booth, her back to the wall.

  “So,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “Tell me what you’re looking for.”

  It was a request and a challenge wrapped up in one—for both him and her. Excitement spiked in his blood—that familiar want, need, get, have—that drove him all his life. He pulled out the folder from his bag, sliding it across the worn Formica table at her.

  She opened the folder, the photos shining glossy and green in front of her as she flipped through them.

  “These are beautiful,” she said.