Hellion E-Book

Rhys Ford

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 435

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

415 Ink: Book Three From the moment SFPD Detective Ruan Nicholls meets Ivo Rogers, he knows the tattoo artist is going to bring chaos to his neat, orderly life. A hellion down to the bone, Ivo is someone Ruan not only doesn't understand, he's not even sure he needs to. Everything about Ivo is vibrant, brash, cocky, and arrogant, and Ruan wants no part of him. Or at least that's the lie he tells himself when he damps down his desire for the social wild child life tosses into his path. For Ivo Rogers, life revolves around two things—his family and 415 Ink, the tattoo shop he co-owns with his four brothers. His family might be stitched together by their battle scars from growing up in foster care, but their brotherhood is tight—and strong enough to hold Ivo together during the times when he falls apart. Now Ivo faces a new challenge when he falls for a cop with an old-school mentality on how a man looks and acts. Ruan is the promise of a life Ivo thought he'd never have, but their clashing perspectives threaten any chance of a relationship. Being the family's hellion makes it easy to be misunderstood, yet Ivo has faith Ruan will not only embrace who he is but love him as well. 

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Hellion

Dedication

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

More from Rhys Ford

Readers love the 415 Ink series by Rhys Ford

About the Author

By Rhys Ford

Visit Dreamspinner Press

Copyright

Hellion

By Rhys Ford

415 Ink: Book Three

From the moment SFPD Detective Ruan Nicholls meets Ivo Rogers, he knows the tattoo artist is going to bring chaos to his neat, orderly life. A hellion down to the bone, Ivo is someone Ruan not only doesn’t understand, he’s not even sure he needs to. Everything about Ivo is vibrant, brash, cocky, and arrogant, and Ruan wants no part of him.

Or at least that’s the lie he tells himself when he damps down his desire for the social wild child life tosses into his path.

For Ivo Rogers, life revolves around two things—his family and 415 Ink, the tattoo shop he co-owns with his four brothers. His family might be stitched together by their battle scars from growing up in foster care, but their brotherhood is tight—and strong enough to hold Ivo together during the times when he falls apart.

Now Ivo faces a new challenge when he falls for a cop with an old-school mentality on how a man looks and acts. Ruan is the promise of a life Ivo thought he’d never have, but their clashing perspectives threaten any chance of a relationship. Being the family’s hellion makes it easy to be misunderstood, yet Ivo has faith Ruan will not only embrace who he is but love him as well.

Dedication

This book is for Jordan L. Hawk, whom I have had the pleasure of knowing for a few years now, and who not only marches to the beat of a different drummer, but possibly has an entire mariachi band behind her. Jordan, may all your squid hats fit snugly and may all your rainbows hold nothing but magic.

Also, to Maite who makes me laugh and is willing to go look for li hing mui lemon slices for me at the Family Grocer in Kane’ohe. Share the pretzels. You have to. It’s only nice. Or at least give Mike a few crumbs. Love you.

Acknowledgments

To my beautiful Five—Penn, Tamm, Lea, and Jenn. We have been together through thick, thin, and Pringles. I could think of no greater gift Life can give me other than all of you.

And to my other sisters, whom I love enough to almost think about giving up coffee—Lisa, Ree, Ren, and Mary.

Thanks will always go to Dreamspinner—Elizabeth, Lynn, Liz and her team, Naomi (who I bribe with cookies and tea), and everyone else who takes what my brain vomits, deals with my chaos, and packages my madness.

And to everyone who thinks a little bit weird and in different colors, don’t let anyone tell you not to wear those heels. Be you. Be nice. Love well. And be loved.

One

BLOOD HID most of Ivo’s knuckles, bits of skin peeling up from his aching joints. His left ring finger hurt every time he tried to flex it, a sure sign he’d popped or broken it. He didn’t dare check the straps of his glittering red heels. Taking his eyes off the brawny man he’d beaten to the ground moments before would be a bad idea, especially since the guy was probably aching to continue the fight.

But then, the whole evening had been one bad idea after another, and from the looks on the cops’ faces, Ivo wasn’t going to make any good ones any time soon.

“Fuck them.” It felt good to fling that at the cops, even under his breath. The police were one step above CPS workers in his book, unthinking machines who only cared about following rules regardless of right or wrong. Bear didn’t share his opinion. His older brother…. “Shit. Fucking hell. Bear.”

Barrett “Bear” Jackson was one of the gentlest men Ivo knew. He’d given up so much of his own life to make a home for Ivo and the rest of their band of brothers, battling with the courts to bring them all home while he built up a tattoo shop and taught them how to be better men along the way.

At seventeen, Ivo knew he was going to follow in Bear’s footsteps and one day sit in the shop’s stalls, inking his art under someone’s skin. People were going to seek him out, want his art on them, and pay him for it. He’d respect everyone who came through the shop’s door, no matter what they wanted—from a tiny heart on an ankle to a full back piece—because every drop of ink was important to the person getting their tattoo, no matter what Ivo thought of it. That was rule number one at 415 Ink. There were a lot of rules, changeable ones if he could make a good enough argument, but that was the one immutable law for everyone who sat down at the stalls.

Well, that and not to be an asshole. Ivo was having a really hard time with that one, but so did his brothers, Gus and Mace, so he figured he’d have some leeway where that was concerned.

Except for right now, because the cops were still circling and Ivo wasn’t exactly feeling like they were going to come down on his side.

Not with him wearing red glittering fuck-me heels, a plaid Catholic-schoolgirl skirt, and a white button-up shirt he’d stolen from Mace’s closet.

He’d been left next to one of the patrol cars and told to stay there by a cop who looked a lot like the guy he’d beaten up. There were no questions, just orders given by a broad-bellied, grizzled older man wearing a shiny badge. So he sat, fuming and shaking his hands, wondering how long of a silent treatment Bear would give him before his older brother found the words to dig into Ivo’s guilt and serve it back up to him.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know it would taste like hot, steaming shit, because that’s exactly what Ivo felt like at the moment—not that he was going to give the cops any satisfaction by showing it.

A fight was the last thing Ivo expected when he climbed out of Lucas’s bedroom window. Now that he thought about it, he probably could have just slipped out the front door instead, but there was something thrilling about sneaking out, especially wearing what he’d gone out with. As one of Ivo’s four older brothers, Luke was the most law-abiding, so using his window was the cherry on top of the whole sneaking-out sundae.

The area showed signs of gentrification, but there were still rough edges, dark places too dangerous for a seventeen-year-old boy in high heels to wander about… or at least that’s what people told him. Ivo didn’t share that opinion, at least not until tonight. He came down to dance, to lose himself in the thumping beat too loud to hear but strong enough to feel in his bones.

Ivo knew all of the cracks and crevices in the neighborhood. There were hidden places, sealed-up rooms where men did things to each other that he’d seen up close in some of the foster homes he’d been placed in. He hadn’t wanted that done to him then. He didn’t want it now. Some of the people he partied with liked their sex as rough and hard as it could get, and he was okay with that. They were adults, consenting and with free will.

Tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight he skirted too close to the edge of being on his knees, skin ground down into broken glass and his jaw cracked wide open to swallow another man’s dick.

And it wasn’t his idea to be there.

The heels were a bit loose, but it was the first time they fit well enough for Ivo to wear them out. Knowing he wouldn’t catch shit for what he was wearing but instead for going out so late, he’d slipped out of the rambling, stitched-together Craftsman that Bear bought cheap off a foreclosure and went out into the night, needing to wash the week off his skin with a bit of beer and a lot of music.

Most of the places he liked to go were easy to find, but there was one place—Rosie’s—where a million people could walk past the front door and never know they were going by one of the fiercest dance clubs in San Francisco. A locked black steel door with a window slot kept the world out during the week, but on Friday and Saturday nights, a large, silent man stood behind that window, sliding open the tiny door if someone knocked. As far as Ivo knew, no one was ever turned away, or maybe it was just him, because after he’d been taken there once by a casual friend he knew from school, that ratty metal black door always opened for him when he knocked.

Just like it had tonight.

He’d danced a lot longer than he wanted, and when Ivo finally tumbled outside, the rain-soaked streets were deserted, a wind sweeping through the back alleys and kicking up swirls of paper and garbage over the wet asphalt. Somewhere nearby, a taco shop was open, and his stomach growled when he caught a hint of grilled, lime-marinated beef through the stink of the dirty rain. Trusting his nose to lead him to food, he took one wrong turn and found himself staring down one of his worst nightmares—a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Ivo was debating his chances of making a break for it when one of the cops detached from the growing crowd of people standing on the street corner. His uniform fit snugly across his shoulders and chest, clinging to his thighs as he walked, the dark fabric eating up the light from the lamp that stretched out over the street. The man was maybe ten years older than Ivo, but his dark hair glistened with flecks of silver, gilded metal woven through the darker strands. He approached with purpose, his eyes pinning Ivo in place. There’d be no walking away from the scene. Not now. The man coming toward the patrol car Ivo leaned against walked with a steady purpose—not the kind of man who would take any shit from anyone.

He also possessed a rugged attractiveness that Ivo hated himself for noticing. It was one thing to notice a cop was good-looking, but it was something else to wonder what the guy tasted like.

Especially since he was skirting under the legal line and the cop probably wasn’t into guys wearing heels and makeup.

“Ivo?” The cop glanced at the notebook in his hand as he called out Ivo’s name. Points for the cop for getting the pronunciation right. “That how you say it?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

A nod was all the cop was going to get, but Ivo hitched himself up onto the squad car, mostly to ease the pressure on his strained ankle. The skirt rode up a bit and he tugged down the hem, trying not to expose too much of his thigh. It was a losing battle. Whoever wore the skirt first obviously didn’t give a shit about her school’s rules and hemmed the damned thing up as far as she could go. And since Ivo’s legs were more than likely longer than hers had been, sitting down in it bordered on obscene if he didn’t arrange the pleats correctly.

The cop didn’t so much as flinch. He simply stood there, waiting for Ivo to get settled before he continued.

“I’m Officer Nicholls. I’m going to take your statement. You need someone to look at those hands?” That was not what Ivo expected to come out of the cop’s mouth. The night hugged him, washing out the color of his eyes and hair, but it couldn’t take away the rough heat of his silky voice or the slight crook in his nose. The imperfection took his face from classically handsome to gorgeous—a masculine beauty made pretty by full lips and long lashes. He wore a street-weariness on his shoulders, as easy of a fit to his body as his police uniform. “EMTs will be here in a couple of minutes. I want them to take a good look at you when they get here.”

“Hands are fine,” Ivo grunted, shifting his position on the hood. “I don’t need anyone poking at me.”

“Not talking about your hands so much as your face. He got you good on your jaw.” The cop nodded down toward Ivo’s lap. “I’m going to have to take a picture of your injuries. I want to do that before the EMTs get ahold of you and wash you off.”

“Told you I don’t want—”

“They’re going to document your injuries for my report. You don’t have a choice on that. Might as well have them look at you.” He jerked his thumb toward the other side of the street. “They’re going to look at him too. I need both sides of the story, but since he’s finding it a little hard to talk with his teeth in his throat, I want to hear what you’ve got to say. Start from the beginning. Where were you coming from?”

It took Ivo all he had in him not to look at the closed black door to the right of him, but the cop spotted something, because Nicholls immediately glanced at the dance club’s tucked-away entrance.

“Rosie’s?” Nicholls’s attention returned to his notebook, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re kind of young for that crowd. And for what they serve there too.”

“I didn’t drink,” Ivo said, leaning forward toward the cop. Huffing air out of his lungs, he breathed on Nicholls’s cheek. “Smell. Nothing but water. Need me to breathe into a tube? I’ll do that too.”

“Trust me. I’ve already signed you up for it. What time did you leave?”

“About forty minutes ago. I needed to catch the last bus home, so I was watching the time.” A bank clock ticked off in the far distance and Ivo groaned. It was too late now to catch anything but the shit he deserved to get from Bear.

“Your parents know you’re out?” Another glance up, but this time the cop’s eyes were softer, holding a bit of concern. “Or are you at home? Are you someplace safe? When we’re done here, can I take you someplace that’s safe, because if not, I will find somewhere for you to go.”

It was a valid question. Even in as liberal of a city as San Francisco, it was the kind of question Ivo would ask any other boy dressed up in heels and a skirt found on the streets at oh-dark-early in the morning. He knew too many guys who’d been rolled out of their houses, wearing bruises from fists that once wiped chocolate from their faces and tucked blankets up against their chins at night. For some families, it didn’t take a lot—a single confession, whispered across a table, and moments later there was blood and spit where once there’d been a pork chop on a dinner plate. Too many of his casual friends went from worrying about a chemistry-test score to scrambling to make money, no longer virgins and no longer caring, desperate to find someplace warm to sleep on a rainy night and enough cash to fill their bellies.

And sometimes their veins.

It wasn’t a lifestyle. No matter how hard people tried to put a spin on it, struggling to live wasn’t a choice, and numbing your brain while doing so sometimes was all a guy could do in order to survive the battle one more day.

Ivo knew all of those things, and he never once forgot how fucking lucky he was to have Bear, Mace, Luke, and Gus at his back.

Even though it seemed like he couldn’t stop making really shitty life choices while trying to find out exactly who he was.

“No, I’m good. I live with my brothers. They know I dress like this.” He grinned at the cop’s skeptical grimace. “But when you drop me off at my house, could you maybe just leave me at the curb? I don’t want them to know what happened tonight.”

“You’re not exactly convincing me that I’m going to leave you someplace safe when you’re saying that,” the cop warned, his voice going to a thick honey rumble that filled the crevices of Ivo’s pissiness, soothing away some of the sting along his pride. “Want to tell me why you don’t want me talking to your family? Is someone going to hurt you?”

“Hurt me? Oh fuck no,” Ivo replied, shaking his head. “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about that guy who tried to stick his dick in my mouth. Because if my brothers find out what he tried to pull on me, they’re going to kill him. Really slowly. And enjoy doing it.”

THE KID was dangerous.

Ivo Rogers was the kind of trouble Ruan figured God threw into his path to test his resolve. With a shock of dirty-blond hair, angelic face, and youthful, muscular body, the kid looked exactly like what Ruan figured Lucifer looked like, minus the wings. Not only was he hideously underaged—despite his ID promising Ivo Rogers would be eighteen in a few weeks—he was also stomping over every gender norm Ruan knew, donning a naughty schoolgirl outfit over his sculpted masculine body and embellishing the whole thing with a pair of red, sequined hooker shoes to stretch out his already too-long, too-tanned bare legs.

Better to take the tempting male Lolita back home and close the door on him. But damn, the kid made Ruan feel… old.

He never knew what it was like to not hide his attraction to men. The world had shifted around him, promising Ruan it was okay to come out of the shadows, that no one would take a swing at him or condemn him to hell for loving another man. But it was nights like tonight when Ruan once again learned those declarations of tolerances were only glittering wrapping paper masking a bundle of lies.

The call came over in a crackle of concern from dispatch, alerting the night shift of a disturbance near an underground dance club Ruan’d gone to a couple of times. It was a problem area, made more so by the men who stalked the exit, looking to score a blow job or more from any inebriated single guys stumbling out of the back exit late at night. The alleyway a few feet away was a haven of shadows and silence for some kids to make a quick buck, but he’d answered more than one call reporting an assault, and once in a great while, something even worse.

When the description of a man beaten nearly half to death close to the club came over the radio, Ruan’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted to see that night was the inside of an ER after dragging yet another young man to the hospital to be patched back together. Responding to the call, he’d braced himself to go through another heart-wrenching trip down to a pool of uncaring doctors while dragging a war-weary veteran off the dirty streets.

Instead, he found Lucifer dressed in a plaid skirt with moonlight-gray eyes and a wicked-as-sin grin.

“Okay, let’s deal with your brothers later. How about if you tell me what that guy over there did? We can go from there,” Ruan said, taking a quick look over his shoulder as an ambulance worked through the line of cop cars blocking the street. “Then after I grab some shots of your hands and face, the EMTs will patch you up so I can take you home.”

“You’re not going to take me in for kicking that guy’s ass?” The kid tilted his head back as he tugged down at the hem of the miniskirt he barely wore to cover his lean thighs. “How do you know I didn’t start it?”

“Because the guy who called it in saw the guy grab your hair from behind and try to drag you back into the alley. Now, maybe the story from the two of you would be he-said, he-said but I don’t think Mr. Watanabe really gives a shit about anything other than not getting blood on his sidewalk. I hear it’s a bitch to wash off, even with all the rain. Start talking, kid, so I can get you home before Prince Charming comes along to see if a glass slipper fits that hoof you call a foot.”

The story Ivo spun out wasn’t filled out with bragging or long tales of how he punched and fought his way clear of a man’s choking grasp. He kept it as lean as he could, forcing Ruan to draw out the details of the assault and prolong their conversation. By the time Ruan got the full story, Ivo’s knuckles were fully crusted over with dried blood, the bruise on his cheek and jaw had bloomed to a rich deep purple, and one of the kid’s heel straps was straining to hold in a swelling ankle.

And when the kid swung his leg, striking his heel against the squad car’s tire, he visibly flinched in pain.

“Okay, so let’s go over this again. He came up from behind you and grabbed your hair. Did you see him in the club before? Have any interaction with him earlier?” Another ambulance was arriving, pushing through the line. From the corner of his eye, Ruan spotted an EMT pulling a gurney from the back of the bus. “And keep in mind, I’m not putting blame on anyone here. I’m just trying to get an idea of what happened and how you got there.”

“Yeah, he was inside, but he didn’t come over. Only reason I knew his face was because he told the bar guy he’d pay for my drink. Since I don’t drink….” The kid shrugged. “He didn’t seem pissed off about it. I didn’t care. I was only there to grab some water, then head back out.”

“But you remembered him?”

“Dude, I’m over six feet tall without the heels. You don’t think I’m going to remember a guy taller than me pushing up against a bar?” Ivo spat back at him with a sly smile. “He was taller than everyone around him, so I got a real good look at his face.”

“And you recall faces well?” Ruan pressed. He knew how hard it was to see in a club, despite the flood of lights flashing about, so recognizing someone again outside of that environment was something he always questioned.

“I’m an artist and I’m apprenticing at my family’s shop. Portraiture is in my wheelhouse. I mean, I’m not as good as my brother Gus, but I’m pretty decent. I know faces. People have planes and angles. Everyone looks different. Not hard to spot those differences if you know what you’re looking for.” The kid stiffened, and Ruan saw an EMT heading over from the second ambulance. “I don’t want those guys touching me, okay? I can get cleaned up and shit at home.”

“So long as you let me document your injuries and sign a waiver, it’ll be okay.” Ruan hissed. “Well, no, I’ve got to get your guardian to sign off. You’re still a kid. Law’s pretty hard on that.”

“Great, so you have to wake Bear up?” Ivo huffed. “I kind of wanted to slide by with this. He’s going to make me mop the shop floor five times a day for sneaking out.”

“Should have thought about that before you put on those heels, then,” Ruan admonished, smothering a laugh when Ivo casually flipped him off. “Let me grab an ice pack at least for that ankle. Why do you wear those things if you can’t walk in them?”

Despite all the times he’d been in a church, Ruan never once thought he was in the presence of someone touched by grace. Right then, under the flashing lights of the nearby ambulances, Ruan saw a bit of heaven in the face of the complicated young man sitting on the SFPD squad car. His beauty was unmistakable—pure enough to be captured in marble or immortalized in the stained-glass window of an ancient cathedral. Intrigued, Ruan was enraptured by Ivo’s expression, a curious blend of innocence, wisdom, and resolute strength.

If it weren’t so ironic, Ruan would have laughed at the idea of a kid teaching him about the world, but there they were, standing on a bloodied street while a crowd milled about in the light rain. He should have been witnessing that moment in someplace holy, a grotto or blessed nave where saints once walked. That or he was watching a kid’s fall from grace, right before he delivered Ruan into his own personal hell.

Either way, Ivo Rogers had something inside of him, something strong driving him to be more than what Ruan could see, and it burned from within—a bright, hard light flaring up from Ivo’s soul.

“Because I promised someone one day I’d dance in them for him,” Ivo whispered, his face going pale beneath the odd glow from the streetlamp. “Tonight was that night, and I wasn’t going to let any fucking asshole who thinks his dick is a gift from God stop me. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Two

“I AM very sorry for your loss.” The words seemed automatic, but the man who spoke them was as sincere as a finely drawn line. “Or at least, I hope this gives you some peace.”

It was his cop at the door.

There were two of them—both cops, Ivo supposed, but only one of them mattered.

The one who’d taken him home one early morning a long time ago and maybe even stolen a bit of Ivo’s heart with him when he walked away.

It was stupid. Ivo knew exactly how stupid it was to carry a torch for someone he’d only spoken to for a couple of hours. It was the kind of romantic nonsense he loved to find in books and movies, holed up in the darkness of his room, curled up on his ugly-but-comfortable love seat while a story of two lovers played out in front of him on pages or a flickering screen. He loved happy endings. He loved seeing an old couple shuffle through a farmers’ market, holding hands and bickering about the ripeness of a melon.

He’d been too young, and even as deep of a romantic as he was, Ivo knew that cop was part of his past—a shimmering, slightly sarcastic but firm masculine presence his heart skipped a beat for.

The cop—now Detective Ruan Nicholls—was older but as sizzling hot as he’d been that night. Nearly seven years older, but while there were a few crow’s-feet around his light green eyes and more silver in his deep brown hair, the passing days had stolen some of the innocence from his face, layering his handsome features with a breathtaking ruggedness Ivo felt down into his bones.

It also didn’t seem like the cop remembered him at all. There was no sense of recognition in his too-sharp, knowing gaze, and after Mace introduced himself, Nicholls’s focus was solely on Ivo’s older brother. Mace grabbed at Ivo’s wrist, pulling him back a step.

“I don’t know if you want to have this conversation in front of your boyfriend,” Nicholls said gruffly, his eyes flicking over to Ivo. “When I called your station to see if you were on shift, I spoke to a guy named Montenegro, who told me you’re up here, but he didn’t tell me you had company. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but if you want this done in private—”

“My boyfriend?” Mace looked confused, then shook his head, finally catching the detective’s meaning. “No, that’s my brother Ivo. Do you want to come inside? Is everything okay? My other brothers are down at the shop. Well, two of them are, but Luke… shit, did something happen to Luke?”

Ivo’s heart sank, suddenly startled back to reality. A cop showing up on their doorstep meant nothing good, and he should’ve remembered that. “Let’s go. I’ll get the car keys.”

He stopped when the cop shook his head, murmuring about coming inside for a moment. Mace moved aside to usher the detective in, but only Nicholls stepped over the threshold, standing near the open door. Their dog, Earl, crept around the foyer, his head and shoulders down as he bumped the back of Ivo’s legs, sniffing at the detective’s legs, then deciding the cop was a friend, set his tail to a high-paced wag. The other cop on the stoop excused himself, drawn back to the nondescript sedan parked at the curb by a crackle from the radio set loud enough to hear through the open window.

“Anything you need to say, you can say in front of Ivo too,” Mace finally said, closing the front door. With the click of the latch, the air in the foyer grew hot and tight in Ivo’s lungs and he needed to step back, giving himself some distance away from the detective’s overwhelming presence.

“Your brothers are fine. This is about your father. Your case was transferred to me a couple of hours ago. I work homicide.” Nicholls’s husky voice grew deeper with sympathy. “I know your situation is complicated, and I wanted to reach out to you in person, a personal courtesy to someone who works the line.”

There were other words coming out of his mouth, but Ivo was having a hard time focusing on what he was saying. Perhaps it was the gloomy weather outside in the darkness that clung to him, but that night rose back up and Ivo remembered when the blood lingered on the edge of his tongue and he was still shaking with adrenaline and repressed fear. It was as if it were just yesterday he sat on a cop car’s fender and let the honey, rough tone of the man’s voice roll over him, those beautiful, thick-lashed green eyes flicking down to Ivo’s sequined shoes, then back up to his face, his expression one of worry and concern instead of judgment.

The strength in his whipcord-lean body shone through in his confident movement, his muscular frame dressed in an expensive peacoat and worn Levi’s, more than a dash of irreverence toward his authority in the pair of beat-up cowboy boots on his feet. Even without the badge he’d flashed, Ruan Nicholls wouldn’t have been mistaken for anything but a cop. He saw everything, leaping to an assumption about Ivo being Mace’s boyfriend, then his stance adjusting as Mace corrected him, calling Ivo out as his brother.

The front hall seemed too small for the cop, which seemed silly because it was massive, large enough for all five brothers to work on its banister and crown molding all at the same time. Or maybe the air was just too hot, too tight with tension as Mace stood frozen in place, learning that death had come for the monster who raised him.

“If you need anything or if you have any questions, here’s my card.” The detective held out an SFPD business card embossed with the police department’s shield and his contact information. “I doubt his partner in crime is going to stick around, but if you do see him, call me right away. I have your phone number from the report, so I’ll let you know how the case is going in a couple of days. Until then, don’t be afraid to call, and with any luck, the next time you hear from me, it’ll be because I caught him.”

“Thanks… I—” Mace rubbed at his face, then sighed. “Shit, I don’t even know what to think here.”

“I’m serious. I’d like you to call me at any time you need me,” Nicholls rumbled, pressing the business card into Mace’s hand. “And if you feel the need to go down to the morgue, please let me know. I’ll be there with you.”

“I’m not even sure how I should feel.” Ivo’s burly firefighter of a brother sounded shell-shocked, and started when Ivo placed a hand on his back. “Kind of sick to my stomach I guess.”

“Your dad shot you, Mace. And now the cops are here to tell you someone killed him. It’s okay to be sick to your stomach,” Ivo remarked softly, rubbing at his brother’s shoulder. Mace always seemed so strong, an unmovable piece of granite in Ivo’s life, but he knew better. The second-oldest brother spent a lifetime building an impenetrable wall around his gentle soul, armoring himself against the slings and arrows of a cruel world. “I’m going to call the others. We should—”

“Let me do it. I think I need to hear Bear right now,” Mace murmured, flicking his fingernail against the edge of the card. “Ivo, can you…?”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it. Go call Bear.” Ivo took the mangled card from Mace’s hand. “I’ll get ahold of Gus and Luke. Go on.”

Nicholls waited until Mace mumbled out a thank-you, then padded away toward the family room. There wouldn’t be any question about closing 415 Ink or getting someone to cover. One of their own had taken a hit, and the five of them—six now, since Gus and Rey Montenegro were together—would gather around, shoring Mace up. As he pondered about calling Rob, the young tattoo artist Mace was falling in love with, Ivo realized he still had the cop to deal with.

It was hard to lust after a guy when his heart was breaking for his older brother, but apparently Ivo’s desires could multitask, because the need to slake his thirst for Nicholls’s mouth nearly overrode his reason.

“This want-take-have shit I’ve got going on in my head is really not healthy,” Ivo muttered to himself, circling Nicholls to get to the front door. His fingers were almost closed over the knob when the cop leaned his shoulder against the door, his weight wedging it against the frame. “Um, thanks for coming. I—”

“I remember you,” the detective drawled. “Seems like you’re okay. What about your brother? Is he going to be okay?”

“He’ll be fine. The family will take care of him,” Ivo replied softly. “We take care of each other, come hell or high water.”

“Good. That’s what my gut told me that night when that big guy who answered the door hugged the shit out of you when I brought you home. Although I’m pretty sure he probably yelled at you too.” Up close, Nicholls smelled fantastic—a whiff of San Francisco’s cold night air and something sharply citrus. There was a bit of moisture on his peacoat, tiny dapples of water glistening under the front hall chandelier, and the silver in his hair wove a metallic sheen through the brown strands, dancing a bit of light through the dark. He flicked up a card between them, nearly tapping Ivo’s chin. “Take this. And call me if you want to or need to.”

“Do you think something’s going to happen to Mace?” Even as much as he wanted the detective to recite the phone book just to hear words spoken in his rolling, smoky-bourbon voice, Ivo’s guts clenched with a flicker of concern. “If you’re worried about him going off the rails because of his dad, it’ll be okay. We’ve got him. We won’t let him fall.”

“I know that,” Nicholls murmured, tucking the card into Ivo’s fingers. “You still owe me an explanation about those shoes, and I’ve waited a long time to hear it. When you’ve got time and maybe things have settled down, I’ll be waiting. Just give me a call.”

“HEY, MATT, I think you’ve got my pastrami sandwich.” Ruan dug through the brown paper bag his partner handed him through the unmarked sedan’s window. “This one looks like a rabbit vomited up into a hot dog bun.”

“First off, I swear to God, the next time you call me Matt, to punch you in the nose.” His junior partner, Maite Suppes, shook her fist beneath his chin. “And if you keep eating all of that processed meat, you’re going to die before you can collect your retirement.”

Ever since he’d walked into the squad room filled with junior detectives looking for their partners, Ruan took a perverse delight in calling Suppes by the wrong name someone scribbled at the top of her file folder. If he’d taken the time to actually open it up and read about his new partner, he would’ve made the connection that Matt was definitely not her name. Still, when he called it out, she’d stepped out of the small group of people chatting among the briefing desks and rolled her eyes.

Apparently Matt was one of the more common names people defaulted to when confronted by her first name.

“Let’s go over it again. My-Tay. Not Matt. Not Mai Tai. Maite.” She unraveled her bag, sticking her hand into it and pulling out a wrapped hoagie. “God, this is gross. It’s warm and smells like death.”

“That’s the sauerkraut,” Ruan said, exchanging the food. “Are these your fries too? They look like mine. Extra crispy.”

“You’re going to die from the way you eat,” she reiterated. “Then with my luck, they’ll partner me with one of the new commander’s kids. And before you say anything, sauerkraut is not considered a salad.”

Maite grew up the only daughter of a career cop. Ruan was pretty certain she cut her teeth on her father’s star. At five feet eleven and packed solid with lean muscle, she was a damn good partner—the kind of woman men would take a second glance at because her face was interesting and her lush mouth had a way with swear words. She could pitch seven innings in a baseball game from a regulation mound, then clean up nicely enough to get catcalled when walking down the street. Her dark hair was cut into a long bob, and her fashion sense ran more toward jeans, T-shirt, and a leather jacket, much like his own. She had freckles across her pert nose and high cheekbones on a classically Irish face, but her deep, soulful brown eyes and golden skin definitely came from her Mexican mother.

What he liked most about Maite was she could hold her own against him, probably a product of growing up with three older brothers. But they fit. She was the first partner Ruan had where he felt he could be honest about who he was and how he lived.

That’s when he discovered they had radically different taste in men.

She also had a thing about not eating meat often, which Ruan had difficulty embracing. They argued over stupid things like the dog-food tacos he liked grabbing at three in the morning from a California fast-food joint when she tried to push him into stopping for vegetarian soup and wheatgrass smoothies from a late-night coffee shop. They both liked the Cubs but disagreed about the Raiders and the Seahawks. Ruan had a love for the Oakland bad boys, where Maite swore up and down she would follow the coddled Pacific Northwest team to the grave.

Ruan promised her father he would have her back and make sure nothing would happen to her. Both of them swore on their mothers’ graves that Maite would never hear of this promise because she would gut them both for treating her like a little girl. For all of her protests, Ruan could see she was the apple of her father’s eye and a damn good cop to boot. He liked her, and better yet, he respected the hell out of her.

If only she would see the light and worship the silver and black like he did, then she would be the perfect partner, but he knew he couldn’t have everything.

“So talk to me about the pretty boy you took home years ago and finding him again the other night on that homicide call. And don’t say nothing happened, because I heard something in your voice when you talked about it.” Maite bit into her sandwich, moving her food to one cheek and chewing vigorously. Mumbling through her bite, she said, “Decker told me he recognized the guy’s face and name because he got a tattoo from the shop the kid works at. He also said you were in the house for a pretty long time—long enough for him to finish the dispatch call and do the paperwork. What went on?”

“That kid’s only a couple years younger than you.” He picked a bit of pastrami out of his sandwich, tucking it into his mouth while watching a man dressed in heavy layers push a shopping cart across the street. After midnight, traffic was sparse, but all it took was one idiot to come screaming around the corner and permanently ruin someone’s life. He turned his attention back to his sandwich only when the man’s foot touched the curb and he got the cart up onto the other sidewalk. “And from what the case file said, he doesn’t just work the shop, he’s a part owner with his brothers.”

“Why would a case file about homicide with one guy talk about what his brother did on the side?” Maite poked. “Not unless you did a little digging yourself.”

“A little bit,” he confessed. “I also gave him my card and told him to call me.”

Maite nearly choked on a mouthful of food, laughing as she spat out her words. “I don’t know what alternate universe I just fell into. The Nicholls I know would never hit on a guy during a condolence call, much less hit on a guy to begin with. What the hell got into you?”

“I really wasn’t hitting on him. Mostly—I don’t know—I felt something. And it was stupid. And he probably won’t call, because there’s no worse bet than dating a cop,” Ruan reminded her. “Bet you he’s not sitting in a car watching people play frogger across a four-lane street at oh-dark-thirty.”

“Yeah, our days tend to go long,” Maite murmured. “But let’s face it, you and I don’t have any life outside of the badge. Not like either one of us have anyone to go home to. Hell, my cat has an auto feeder. Bastard doesn’t even need me to open up a cat-food can for him.”

“Here we are, way past the end of our shift, eating sandwiches on the side of the road.” Ruan saluted her with a limp french fry. “Maybe we should wrap all of this up and head home.”

“I’m going to eat this while the cheese is melted,” she protested. “You hardly let me drive, and we’re always eating on the run. I think you’re just trying to avoid talking about that tattoo shop guy. Decker said you clammed up like an eighth-grader asking a girl to dance.”

“Decker needs his nose broken.” He took a bite of his sandwich, getting a spurt of spicy brown mustard on the roof of his mouth.

“Decker said he was pretty.” Maite’s words stabbed at a sore Ruan didn’t even know he had. “And you know Decker thinks Joyce down in accounting is hot. So tell me, is this guy Decker-hot or actually mouthwatering, ‘too pretty to take home to your mom because she’ll hit on him’ hot?”

“His name is Ivo, and why are we even talking about him? I gave him my card, told him to call me, and chances are it’s now little pieces on the bottom of a trash can.” He eyed her from across the car. “Besides, you don’t even like pretty boys. You prefer them huge and in SWAT tactical armor.”

“Yeah, but the one that I have a crush on is married and way out of my league.” She shrugged, pulling a carrot out of her bag. “And his husband’s gorgeous—a rock star and very sweet—so that dropped my chances into the negatives.”

“Like you’d chase after a married guy,” he snorted. “You’ve been on the other side of that.”

“Just like you.” This time she was the one doing the saluting, but with a gnawed-on baby carrot. “We’ve got to date a better class of guys. Actually I have to date a better class of guys. You just have to date.”

“You know my track record. They’re assholes, then they’re criminals.” He wrapped the sandwich back up, his appetite fading. Shoving it into the bag with his cooling fries, Ruan reached for his bottle of water. “Seriously, he’s not going to call, and I don’t blame him. I just told his brother his asshole father who tried to kill him was murdered, and all I could think about was wondering how he’d been over the last few years.”

“You just gave him your card and told him to call. You guys have a slight history, so not totally inappropriate,” Maite said, then chuckled. “And I know you. You worry about people. You come off all gruff and stern, but you’re a marshmallow. I’ve seen you cry watching a movie. You can’t hide that gooey center from me, Nicholls. I know all your tricks.”

“Truthfully? I was really worried about him that night. Seven years ago, I picked up a kid in heavy makeup and high heels wearing a naughty schoolgirl’s outfit and bruises on his face. He’d just kicked the shit out of a guy nearly twice his size, and there was just this resignation in his eyes when I started to question him. I didn’t believe him when he told me he was safe at home. I even wondered if some of those bruises were there when he left his house earlier.” Ruan took a sip of water, tightening the cap back on when he was done. “But you should’ve seen his brother’s relief when I pulled up with him. It was like something out of a badly written movie where everyone wakes up one Sunday morning singing and having pancakes for breakfast. I think some part of me just wanted to find out how he was doing now.”

“Was he wearing heels? The other night, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t even look,” he confessed. “I didn’t even know what I was thinking. I don’t want to date. And he’s not only out of my league, we don’t even play in the same era. Probably doesn’t even know what a closet is, much less had to live in one.”

“Did you ever think maybe it’s time you went looking for more than just a quick fuck from some guy you pick up at a club?” She met his glare straight on, not quivering one bit. “I’m serious. If the pretty tattoo guy did something for you, maybe you should go see if he’s interested. What’s the worst that can happen? Not like you’re tearing up the dance floor now.”

“What I’m not interested in is a relationship,” Ruan denied, shaking his head. “I was insane to give him my card. He’s too much for me. I don’t know if I’m just old-school or something. Some days I feel like I didn’t stand in line long enough to fill up my gay card. Kid like that’s grown up in a totally different world.”

“Maybe he makes you feel uncomfortable because he doesn’t give a shit about what people think about him and you grew up making sure no one thought about you being gay,” Maite prodded again, finding another tender spot. This one ran deeper, delving into shadows Ruan had buried a long time ago. “Maybe he’s exactly what you need, Nicholls. Maybe you need someone to shake you out of that rut you’re in and pull you into this century. Things have changed a lot since you first put on that badge. Maybe it’s time you change too.”

“Yeah, last time I did something different, someone died because of it,” he reminded her. “Why don’t you finish up that sandwich so we can head home? Today was a long day, and tomorrow’s not going to get any shorter.”

Three

THERE WAS no place like home.

And for Ivo, home didn’t just mean the house he and his brothers patched together over the years. The first time he walked through the creaking front door of a corner storefront across of Fisherman’s Wharf, the skin on his arms prickled. It was an ugly space—its peeling walls were in terrible shape, a pea-soup green mottled with water damage and the occasional hole probably caused by someone’s fist. The interior was a long space, shotgun-style and oddly angled to accommodate the champagne lounge next door, and the shared wall sloped inward toward the back alley, giving the next shop some space to put in a bathroom. The floors were shit, large chunks of linoleum plastered on top of tile, grouted to an uneven cement slab riddled with cracks and leaking pipes. An enormous picture window took up most of the front wall, and rain had gotten in around its frame, softening the sill.

He’d been a kid and pretty new to the family, having finally broken free of CPS’s hold on him, but Ivo knew at that moment, crossing that threshold, he was home and he’d be the best damn inker the family had.

Other than his brothers, Ivo’s one true love in his life was 415 Ink. He’d spent a good portion of his life perfecting his art, both on paper and on skin, and the shop was the ultimate gallery for what he loved to do. There was nothing that held his passion more than laying down ink, the buzz of a finely built machine and the tang of green soap on someone’s body when he wiped away the last of the spent grit to reveal what he sometimes spent days bringing to fruition.

415 Ink wasn’t just his legacy, it was also his gallery and where his clan gathered—even Mace, who couldn’t tattoo a solid line on his best day.

They all knew Bear lucked out finding the shotgun-style pier-facing storefront. The owner of the building was a friend and cut Bear a deal on a long-term, low-cost rental agreement guaranteeing the brothers’ shop would be there for years to come. Sitting on a corner between a kitschy souvenir shop and a cheesy-yet-popular champagne lounge, they’d renovated the space, polishing its poured-concrete floors to a high sheen and painting its high ceiling a glossy black, mostly to hide the occasional piece of ductwork. The shop’s creamy walls were a great backdrop for their art—framed inked pieces on paper or glossy professional photos of their best work. Their individual spaces were framed out like stalls, with solid half walls and hospital-bed-style tracks set into the upper beams so curtains could be drawn around the booths to give the clients privacy if they needed it.

He’d been as proud as hell the day Bear put his name on his favorite booth, cementing Ivo’s place in the shop, not only as one of the owners but also as a featured artist. Other booths were earmarked for Gus, Bear, and now Rob, Mace’s almost-husband, while the others were left open for guest tattoo artists and the shop’s supporting inkers.