WickedTakeover (3 page)

“Scratch that,” Dante said to Lauren and grinned. “Don’t
mimic everything he’s doing.” He tossed Van Gogh a napkin.

Ignoring it, the young man kept his face down and
concentrated on his meal as though it were his last before Lauren liquidated
him.

Jasmina was blissfully unaware of the dynamics going on.
With her pink smartphone snuggled against her ear, she stabbed a forkful of
lettuce and chicken from her tostada, laughed until she was breathless then
spoke baby talk to her boyfriend. A guy she’d met at the community college.
Brad had big dreams about being a McDonald’s franchisee someday. With Jasmina’s
enthusiasm behind him, there was little doubt the kid would make it.

Dante put down his fork and stood.

Lauren stopped mid-chew and looked up at him. “You’re
leaving?”

He liked how bummed she seemed to be by that. “Only for a
sec.”

Her attention shot to the door. “There’s a customer?”

She really thought about money too fucking much. “Nope.
Don’t worry, there will be.” Before she could comment, Dante left the room and
went into the business end of the parlor where the magic really happened.

When he returned, he placed a thick binder next to Lauren.
“Go on, open it.”

She stared as though the contents of the binder might
disappoint her. “The financials are in there? You don’t have them on a
computer?”

“We have everything on our computers, thanks to Jasmina. You
remember, the brains of this place?”

Nodding to whatever her boyfriend was saying, Jasmina blew
Dante a kiss, thanking him for his compliment.

He winked. Lauren regarded the exchange between them then
opened the binder.

Her sense of wonder returned, her eyes sparkling, breath
catching.

Photo after photo showed Van Gogh’s incredible work. One
man’s back boasted a series of star-shaped designs. Not the typical flat,
cartoony type, but ones that appeared three-dimensional. Van Gogh had inked the
customer’s skin to look as though it were made of stone with parts of the rock
falling away to show the universe beneath, an expanse of blue—dark at the
corners, the color fainter in the middle—that was studded with bright points of
white light, depicting the planets and stars.

Lauren kept touching them.

Another picture showed a guy’s torso inked with ten female
mouths, all of them identical. Again, the art was three-dimensional, the teeth
and lips so real the effect was downright creepy.

She paused at the photo of a woman who had a frilly garter
belt inked on her. The garters seemed to be holding up her skin rather than
stockings, her flesh creased slightly beneath the clips.

One guy had a humongous eye smack between his shoulders, the
orb nearly as large as his head.

Lauren made a face at that and the next pictures. “What’s
this?”

“Fluorescent tattoos,” Dante said. “You can’t see them until
you use black light then—”

“They glow in the dark,” she interrupted. “Wow. Cool.”

“You want something like that?” Van Gogh mumbled.

Dante prayed she wouldn’t say “Absolutely not”
,
depressing
the kid further.

“Not my style,” she said gently. “I’m more into flowers and
butterflies, or other stuff like that. These are freaking amazing. Is there
nothing you can’t do?”

Van Gogh guzzled the last of his Dr. Pepper, crushed the can
then lobbed it into the corner wastebasket. “I don’t do black eye or corneal
tattoos.”

She curled her upper lip. “You mean people actually have
their eyes tattooed?”

“Not by me,” Van Gogh said. “That’s some weird shit.”

Dante grabbed a tattoo magazine from the counter, paged to
what he wanted then gave the periodical to Lauren.

She stared at the photos of men who’d had the whites of
their eyes tattooed black or in various colors. One guy’s right sclera was
bright pink, while his left was neon green.

Lauren made a face. “I’d ask why anyone would do something
like that to himself, but I figure you’d only say, ‘why not?’.”

Dante murmured, “No, I wouldn’t.”

The corners of her luscious mouth turned up in a smile that
said
sure.

Already, she knew him too well. How he liked to tease.

Van Gogh totally missed it. “I’ll do tongues, balls and
cocks, but not that. Or this.” He turned the page and showed her a human
eyeball with thick black lines bleeding from the pupil like a spider’s legs.

Lauren leaned away from the photo and smiled weakly. “Of
course you wouldn’t. You’re a good guy.”

Van Gogh looked to Dante as though he wanted an
interpretation of what she’d said. That maybe his job was safe. Dante lifted
his shoulders.

Van Gogh’s slumped again. He dumped his Styrofoam container
in the waste can and left. Finished with her tostada, Jasmina got rid of her
trash without interrupting her now serious conversation with her boyfriend.

“No,” she told him, though her tone was mild. “I think we
should scope out Burger King and Dairy Queen too. You need to learn what the
competition is doing if you want your franchise to be a success.” She paused
and listened, then shook her head at whatever he’d said. “You can’t count on
corporate to do your thinking for you. Now listen to me…” Still talking, she
wiggled her fingers at Dante and Lauren then headed to the front of the shop.

Dante settled back in his seat, his long legs stretched out
next to Lauren’s. Her left hand stalled on the magazine, her right halted with
the fork still inches from her mouth. She adjusted herself in the chair but
didn’t move her legs away from his. After taking a tiny bite of the refried
beans, she flipped a page.

What she saw caused her chews to slow then stop. Dante
didn’t bother to look at the magazine photo. He kept his attention on her as he
ate, chewing mechanically, not tasting much of it. His other senses had kicked
in. He smelled her perfume again, heard the gentle clearing of her throat. A
peppy salsa tune pulsed from the sound system, the hum of the air-conditioning
joining it. Jasmina’s voice floated back here, still friendly, but
businesslike, the way she behaved with customers.

A soft pink tint flushed Lauren’s cheeks and the bridge of
her nose. Her heightened color could have been from the spicy food or her
emotions. Dante bet on the latter.

At last, she looked at him, almost as though she couldn’t
help herself. He didn’t glance away. His cock thickened at how adorable she
was. All dressed up to play boss, her clothes severe to the extreme, her
expression feminine and wanting.

Lauren lowered her fork. “You keep staring at me. Why?”

He could have said “why not?” but thought better of it. He
might also have told her how attractive he thought she was and decided against
it. Most likely she wouldn’t believe him. She’d probably think he was trying to
save his job. “You have sauce on your mouth,” Dante said at last, pointing to
his own to show her where.

She swiped at it with a napkin.

He teased, “Warned you not to mimic Van Gogh too much.”

“Don’t worry. No way am I getting a tattoo on my chest.”

His attention slipped to what little he could see of her
boobs. “I would hope not.”

She pressed back in her chair, which hid her rack from him
even more. Dante fought a sigh and decided to ignore his attraction to her. Time
to get down to business while he had the chance. “You seem to like Jasmina.”

“Of course. She’s great.” Lauren seemed surprised he’d think
anything else.

Dante knew how the world turned. He’d been in the real part
of it before coming to Wicked Brand, which was more like play than work.
Leaning up in his chair, he kept his voice low so the others wouldn’t overhear.
“I don’t want you firing her.”

Lauren’s face turned bright red. However, she didn’t say he
was nuts or dead wrong.

“I know what you’ve been thinking,” Dante continued. “You
need the dough. You can either take what your dad paid himself or what Jasmina
gets paid. Frank put more money into this place than what he took out, so
that’s not an option. You certainly can’t get rid of Van Gogh, he’s what makes
the parlor special. You need me because I can also ink. Van Gogh’s a genuis,
but he can’t handle the volume by himself. Given what Jasmina does around here,
you could easily take over her responsibilities and use what she makes to help
meet your obligations. Am I right?”

Lauren glanced away, looking ashamed then met his gaze once
more. “I have to survive.”

“I hear you. But you need to understand something. Jasmina
brings a lot of business in here. She has tons of friends from high school and
at the local colleges. One of the cheerleading teams is coming in this
afternoon. That’s twelve girls who want at least one tat each. All because of
Jasmina. I don’t think there’s a person alive who would find it hard to love
her. She’s the best salesperson this place ever had. That’s why Frank hired
her, not because she’s pretty or knows how to answer a phone. She’s been great
for this place. So that leaves me as the weakest link.”

Lauren frowned. “You want me to fire you? No way. You said
you do tattoos. Van Gogh can’t do all of them.”

“He not going to have to, because you’re not firing me and
I’m sure as hell not quitting. Decide what you need salary-wise to get through
your financial situation until you can sell this place. Take it from my pay,
not Van Gogh’s or Jasmina’s. They need it. Van Gogh has student loans. Jasmina
has her heart set on getting through her program.”

Lauren stared at him as though he were an alien life form.

Dante sensed why. “It’s only money. Someday, I hope you
understand that. Until then, you really should try to relax. Have a little fun.
Lose the suit. Enjoy your time here. Trust me, it’s not that bad.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Yo, Dante,” Jasmina called from the front. “Your
appointments are here.”

A chorus of female giggles drifted down the hall.

Dante didn’t take his focus off Lauren. “Jasmina can show
you where the books are.” He stood. “Do we understand each other?”

“Hey, Dante,” a young female voice called from what he
guessed was his station. “Where are you?”

“Be there in a sec,” he shouted.

“Hurry,” she purred. More giggles followed.

“Welcome to Wicked Brand,” he said to Lauren then gave her a
wink and left.

Lauren couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t.

You have to.

Ugh. She propped her elbows on the desk in Frank’s office and
buried her face in her hands. For two weeks, she’d gone through the books,
looking for stuff that wasn’t there. Mainly a fat profit she could borrow from
to meet her most basic expenses, like food.

The business was barely making it, which wouldn’t entice
anyone to buy the damn thing. Not even a hedge fund manager who didn’t know
what to do with his billions. Raising prices was out of the question. The
market simply wouldn’t bear it in this crappy economy. People would grudgingly
pay more for a gallon of milk or gas, not for a tat.

Cutting overhead was Lauren’s only choice if she expected
this place to support her until she found real work. Not that reducing expenses
was a viable option.

Jasmina was already making minimum wage when she deserved
far more. Van Gogh’s salary wasn’t on a par with his astonishing talent. Both
of them deserved huge raises. Besides, Dante had warned Lauren not to mess with
Jasmina or Van Gogh’s pay, offering part of his own salary instead.

Lauren couldn’t take a penny of it. She wouldn’t.

Hell, he wasn’t making much more than Van Gogh, which was
nuts. Dante handled the endless paperwork the state and Feds insisted upon.
Stuff that went beyond the regulatory nightmare a human resources professional
had to deal with. He negotiated with the building’s owner and vendors, his
laid-back manner masking his iron will and tenacity.

The man always got what he wanted.

He was really something.

On more than a few nights, Lauren had imagined him making
demands of her, his hunger insistent and unrelenting. She had the scenario all
worked out in her mind and squirmed as she thought about it now.

Don’t go there.

It was a stupid dream. A useless one.

Too overpowering to resist.

Lauren sagged in her chair and whimpered as her thoughts
went wild.

It was late, everyone gone except for Dante. He caught her
alone in the backroom where she’d snatched one of Jasmina’s Dove bars, gobbling
it fast because she was so hungry, too poor now to buy groceries.

Holding the treat’s wooden stick behind her, Lauren lifted
her chin, pretending that she hadn’t taken someone else’s stuff.

Dante’s expression said he knew better. He focused on her
mouth, the chocolate smears she figured were in the corners. Proof that she’d
been bad. With heat and danger in his eyes, he growled, “Come here.”

She didn’t move, not because she was particularly defiant.
Her legs had turned to jelly. It was an effort to remain standing. His chest
was broader than she recalled, his biceps bulging, tats dancing, the thick
ridge behind his fly the best present a woman could get. God, how she wanted to
taste his mouth, balls and cock then get really down and dirty. Indulging in
wicked acts she’d never shared with another man.

Dante seemed to know how depraved she was. He crossed the
room before she could blink and curled his fingers around her wrist. Bringing
her to the table, he used his forearm to push magazines, plates, empty soda
cans off it. The stuff clattered and slapped against the floor. Before the din
had died down, he pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Bend over.”

His demand was husky, his breath sinfully hot and sweetly
scented.

The ice cream stick fell from her hand, hitting the tile
with a brief tapping sound. She sank to the table, grateful for its support.

Behind her, Dante ran his large hands over her ass, cupping
her cheeks, pouring his incredible heat into her. She moaned in surrender. He
made sounds that were aroused and pissed. “What did I tell you about losing the
suit?”

It was all the clothes she had. She’d sold everything else
to meet her car, condo and student loan payments. “I don’t have anything else
to wear.”

“You should have thought of that before now. When I tell you
to do something, you’ll fucking obey.”

Her mouth fell open, her breath caught as he yanked her
skirt down. The polyester fabric rustled and came to a stop at her ankles.

Dante stroked her garter belt tat that Van Gogh had done for
free because she hadn’t fired him. Lauren had gotten inked because she didn’t
have enough money to wash her underwear anymore, which meant she no longer wore
stockings or panties. Naked from the waist down, she was fully accessible to
Dante. Deliciously vulnerable to whatever the hell he wanted to do with her.

Lauren prayed he wanted to do it all.

Tingling sensations rippled from her chest to her belly,
settling in her cunt. The cool breath of the air-conditioning licked her pussy,
slick with desire.

Dante ran his fingers down the furrow between her cheeks.
“Tell me you’ve been bad.”

She shivered then moaned as his forefinger circled her anus,
sending bursts of desire through her. The thought of his cock in her tightest
channel made her whimper in expectation.

Mount me,
her mind begged.

He didn’t. No doubt because he was waiting for her to
confess that she’d been bad.

“I didn’t mean to take the ice cream,” she blurted. “I was
hungry.”

His deep voice rumbled, “You’ll eat before this night’s
over.” He leaned close and whispered again, “We both will.”

He wasn’t talking about food. She pictured his large body
stretched over hers, his head bent to her cleft, his thick cock and pendulous
balls dangling above her mouth, her tongue worshiping his weighty sac, his
musky, masculine scent filling her as he licked her pussy and tongued her clit.
The room spun.

She cried out as he brought his palm down hard on her ass,
disciplining her. The first sting faded into breathtaking warmth. He followed
it with another crack of his palm and another.

Rough voices came from the hall. Lauren stared as several
bikers strolled in, former clients of Dante’s. They lifted their chins in
greeting.

He paddled her again.

Some of the men sank into chairs. Others leaned against Van
Gogh’s murals. Dante pulled Lauren to a standing position and tore off the rest
of her clothes, leaving her nude, defenseless, panting.

The bikers whistled.

She gasped as Dante lifted her to the table then positioned
her spread-eagle on top of it, her breasts and pussy shamelessly exposed.

The bikers in the chairs sat up for a better view. Those
against the walls moved closer. One of them handed Dante a melting Dove bar.
Dante dripped its chocolate and vanilla ice cream on Lauren’s nipples, navel
and the delicate curls between her legs. She shivered at the coolish liquid
then moaned at Dante’s hot, wet mouth. He licked her nipples until they ached
and dipped his tongue into her navel to lap it clean before moving to her slit.

She let out a brazen moan at his hot breath skimming her
folds. They were drenched from indecent lust and her need to have Dante’s cock
tunneled deep within her.

Lauren lifted her ass, delivering her body to him.

“Do her now,” one of the bikers shouted.

“Good and hard,” another called out.

The others whooped.

Lauren shivered at Dante’s mouth on her clit, his tongue
rasping against it. He planted his hands on the insides of her thighs to keep
her body open to him. Ruthlessly, he teased her nub. Too many sensations tore
through her. Need. Hunger. Passion. Delight. She shouted her release.

The men stamped their feet and whistled.

Dante straightened. He lifted her legs until he’d spread her
widely, the soles of her feet and her ass on the lip of the table.

“Hold her,” he ordered three of the men. “Make sure she
can’t move.”

One of them clasped her right ankle in his meaty hand. His
chest sported a tat of her naked and bound. The guy next to him gripped her
left ankle. His tat showed Dante mounting her. The biker behind Lauren held her
wrists. She didn’t bother to look at him.

Dante commanded all of her attention. He’d shoved his jeans
and underwear to his thighs. His cock had sprung out, rigid, thick, proud. Its
alluring scent filled the room. Playfully, he ran his crown over her plump
folds, bathing it in her juices. More seeped out with her passion. Fevered and
wanting, she begged, “Fuck me.”

He did. Oh damn, he did.

But only in her stupid fantasy where their carnal play would
always remain.

Groaning softly, Lauren rubbed the heels of her hands into
her eyes and told herself to get back to work. For the last several hours,
she’d rewritten her resume dozens of times, trying to make it perfect for
today’s applications. Her email inbox was filled with “don’t call us, we’ll
never call you” responses for other jobs she hadn’t snagged. Many of them
weren’t even in her field. She was now courting entry-level gigs with minimum
pay and still couldn’t get anything.

She had to. No way could she take part of Dante’s salary no
matter what he’d said.

He was either the kindest or the craziest man Lauren had
ever known. She wondered if he’d come from wealth, because he surely didn’t
covet it. Not only was he intelligent and educated, but highly so. She’d heard
him speaking to vendors and city officials, his words and phrasing not typical
of the usual men who were into broads, booze and tattoos. She couldn’t imagine
what had led him to Wicked Brand. Not that he seemed to mind working here.

His deep voice drifted down the hall. A woman’s throaty
laugh followed.

Lauren rubbed her temple. Although each inking station was
in a room with a door, Van Gogh and Dante never closed theirs. Lauren had
discovered that earlier in the week when she’d strolled by Dante’s space—which
was the last station in the building—pretending to need his advice on
something.

What she really wanted was to be near him.

Lauren had forgotten her ruse when she’d seen what was going
on inside.

“I’ll be with you in a sec,” he’d said to one of the young
women.

There were two in there with him.

The one he’d spoken to seemed eager for him to get to her as
soon as possible, because she was removing her tee. Once she’d dropped it on a
chair, she started to unhook her bra. For a boob tat? Lauren hadn’t a clue. The
young woman’s friend was already partially nude and bent at the waist over the
convertible chair. That piece of furniture was currently as flat as a bed, her
ass offered to Dante for inking.

Why Dante hadn’t closed the door was a mystery to Lauren
until Jasmina had told her how things worked here.

“If he’s shut in there with them alone, they could accuse
him of all kinds of stuff, despite the security camera. He does have to touch them
in intimate places, you know. They could sue and get the business.”

At the time, that seemed to be the least of Dante’s worries.
He smiled easily, teasing both women until he caught Lauren watching. He
regarded her reflection in the mirror. Busted, she finally turned away, though
not before Dante had given her a surprisingly warm look. Then he winked, as
though she were special.

She’d wanted to melt in his arms, which was nuts. He was far
too popular with women to ever really notice her. He probably banged a new babe
each night. With his killer looks, how could he miss?

More importantly, he was smart and a genuinely nice guy,
offering part of his salary to save Jasmina and Van Gogh from losing any of
theirs. Lauren figured Dante had also wanted to help because she was Frank’s
kid. His generosity certainly had nothing to do with any sexual or romantic
feelings he had for her, which were nonexistent.

The thought was so depressing, Lauren folded her arms on the
edge of her desk and lowered her head to it.

Dante laughed. A brief silence followed—except for a sad
Spanish ranchera flowing from the sound system—then his client’s squeal.

Good god, was he tickling her? Was she tickling him?

They fell silent. Lauren wondered if they were kissing
despite the threat of lawsuits and the security camera. The pictures fed into
the computer in here. All she had to do was bring them up to see exactly what
was going on.

Gritting her teeth, Lauren forced herself not to look. She
hadn’t spied on Dante when he’d been alone in his workstation and she wouldn’t
snoop on him now.

“Hey, you okay?” Jasmina suddenly said from the hall. Her
shoes made slapping sounds as she rushed into the office and rubbed Lauren’s
shoulder. “Working too hard?”

She wasn’t working at all. That was the problem. Too bad
Jasmina’s boyfriend hadn’t already gotten his franchise, Lauren would have hit
him up for a job. She straightened and patted Jasmina’s hand. “I’m good.”

“No way. You sound tired. Take a break. Have one of my Dove
bars.”

Lauren’s X-rated fantasy flitted back into her thoughts. She
slumped in her chair.

Dante laughed again, deeper this time. The sound a man makes
when he’s seriously turned-on. Instead of a squeal, his client offered a husky
chuckle. Lauren clenched her jaw.

“The noise bothering you?” Jasmina asked.

She lied. “Nope.”

“Why don’t you just ask him out?”

Lauren’s stomach twisted. “Huh? Who?”

Jasmina wagged her finger at Lauren. She backed up to the
office door, closed it then hurried back to the desk and spoke softly. “You
like Dante. Why don’t you ask him out?”

Because he’d say no? Because he wouldn’t laugh even though
he should? He was too decent to make fun of her. He’d act honored by her
invitation then would gently turn her down. Just like the hundreds of companies
that hadn’t hired her.

“I don’t think I can take much more rejection,” she said.

Jasmina sank to the side of Lauren’s chair and sat on her
heels. “Job search going bad?”

Lauren figured she shouldn’t have told Jasmina about her
personal problems. One afternoon when they’d been in the backroom alone,
everything just kind of spilled out. Despite her youth, Jasmina had listened
with the patience of a shrink or a bartender.