Exes and Exorcisms by Keira Blackwood (uplifting book club books .txt) 📗

would have the gall to pound on the door when the sign clearly said closed.

The man had the typical shifter build with muscles making up for what he lacked in brains, along with the obnoxious self-assurance most shifters seemed to boast. His dark hair and beard accented a rather handsome face, along with his cowboy hat, but nothing about him moved me to feel anything except irritation.

When he saw me through the glass, his face went slack with shock. “Where’s Marla?”

I opened the door. “She’s on vacation. We’re closed. Go away.”

“I need some ink,” he said.

“You need some manners.”

“Please. I made an error in judgment. Do you do tats?”

Did I do tats. I was a bloody artist, for fuck’s sake. “I’m a tattoo artist,” I said. “I don’t do tats. I do art. For the lucky few people in this town who don’t annoy me. Kindly piss off.”

He held up a hand. “What are you doing that’s more important right now than your art?”

Bloody hell, this man wasn’t going to let up. The forlorn expression on his face roused my sympathy, which didn’t often happen.

“Fine. Come in. Tell me what it is you need.” I swung the door open wider.

“Thank you,” he said, stepping inside. “My name’s Joe.”

“Kelly.”

We shook hands and he looked around. The interior of the parlor was decorated in red and black, very edgy, quite vampiric, really. Photos lined the walls, displaying Marla’s and my art. Each was in a red frame to make it pop. Black plastic chairs sat up front near the door, along with a fantastic little sofa upholstered in red, which I’d found at Forbidden Hand-Me-Downs and purchased immediately for the parlor. Because obviously such a beautiful piece of furniture was necessary. The fabric was soft, with a lacy look similar to that of my favorite bra-and-knickers set.

I had a love of fine things. Some might call it a weakness; I called it my super power.

Joe went on, “I mean it, I really need this tattoo covered up. I have a date tonight, and my last relationship didn’t go well. And I know you’re...I know you’re a vampire. I can pay you in cash, and you can drink from me, too.”

Blood from the source. I wouldn’t say no to that. Of course, I’d just had a bite, and I was no longer thirsty.

“Show me what we’re working with,” I said.

He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the name Bitsy in scripted font on his forearm.

I sighed. “I could easily turn that into Wanker. What do you think?”

It was a lie. I couldn’t turn it into Wanker. Although I was tempted to try.

“I’ll take anything,” he said.

Already an image was forming in my head—a book with an eye. Something to symbolize knowledge and wisdom. He could make up whatever other kind of symbolic shite he wanted later on, and in the meantime, it would accomplish its task as a reminder that he shouldn’t ink women’s names on his skin.

I pulled a fresh sheet of white paper from beneath the counter, grabbed a pen, and started sketching. The lines formed seemingly of their own will. A picture began to appear. When I sketched, if I made a mistake, I leaned into it and was often surprised at where it led. The same was true as I created Joe’s new design.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” he said.

“I know.” I’d lost my false sense of modesty when the Collector turned me into a vampire.

I finished the sketch and turned it around so he wasn’t looking at it upside down.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “And that’ll cover up her name?”

“Yep,” I said.

We settled on a price, but as I wasn’t thirsty at the moment, we left the blood offer alone.

“Tell you what,” he said, “if you’re in a jam, you can call me. I’ll owe you a drink.”

I transferred the design to tracing paper that would give me an outline to follow, although I didn’t generally need the outline. Then I grabbed some antiseptic and washed down the chair where Joe would sit, and the adjustable table where he’d rest his forearm. Then I prepped my tools. When everything was ready, I pointed him to the chair.

“You know not to move, and all that other stuff, right?” I said.

He nodded. “Right.”

The tattoo didn’t take long, and I lost myself in the white noise of the buzzing gun and the appearance of the design on Joe’s skin. It was nice, him being a shifter, because there wasn’t much swelling around the ink and I could more easily see what I was doing.

I was just putting the finishing touches on the design when the bells on the door chimed. I turned around and nearly dropped the tattoo gun.

Scrawny as a starving rat, with dark circles around his eyes and cracks in his lips, stood a ghost from my not-too-distant past.

Pestilence Peter.

He held an umbrella over his head to protect him from the last shreds of sunlight. His face twitched as he met my gaze.

I held up the gun like it was a weapon. “Stay back, arsehole.”

Peter held up his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

His voice was different. Less garbled. I squinted at him. He looked different, too—he almost looked attractive. Or at least he would have after a drink. Now that I was noticing, his clothes were neat instead of full of holes like they usually were, and his black hair was trimmed and combed instead of wild and greasy.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

I hadn’t seen Peter since the dungeon, and I couldn’t say I was glad to see him now. We’d been prisoners together, but like most of my fellow captives, Peter had been a bit of a creep. He’d been obsessed with sculpting naked ladies. But the weird thing was—of all the guys there, he was the most gentlemanly when it came to Aubrey, Marla, and me.

Next to me, Joe stood up. For the first time, I really appreciated how tall he was, and how broad-shouldered. “Do