Tattooed Moon Read online

  Tattooed Moon

  Written by Tiana Laveen

  Edited by Natalie G. Owens

  Cover Layout: Travis Pennington

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  Copyright © 2014 by Tiana Laveen

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Please Note: This book was originally featured in the Scandalous Heroes box set of July, 2014. I, Tiana Laveen, own all rights to this manuscript/novel. It is being re-released as a separate book at this time due to popular demand. That box set (Scandalous Heroes) is no longer available for purchase, as it was sold for a limited time only. If you did purchase that box set, then you already have this book in your possession on your Kindle, Nook or other electronic device. However, this version does include minor changes, as well as an added bonus scene, and is also available in paperback. Thank you.

  WARNING: This book is adult in nature. It contains profanity/adult language, detailed sexual encounters, as well as topics such as death and grief. If any of these subject matters are not something you wish to delve into at this time, please be forewarned. Thank you.

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  Synopsis

  Julian Savant is a man on a mission. Growing up in Athens Georgia, he remained somewhat removed from the urban jungle of bigger cities. In this vibrant student town an hour’s drive from the Atlanta metropolis, he created his own domain in the ownership of a tattoo salon. It didn’t take long for his beautiful, captivating designs, the talent of his charismatic staff, and the capable management of his business to gain widespread attention. One day, his seemingly polar opposite walks through the door—intelligent and classy accountant, Milan Parker. Little does he know, their lives run parallel as they have both experienced recent traumatic loss. Milan finds herself strangely attracted to the eccentric Julian, and through the inking of her flesh, as well as his touch on her heart, she finds a kindred spirit with whom to begin her transformation. The two find themselves giving in to temptations, and Milan cannot resist as this one man from the opposite side of the tracks tattoos his intentions right across her soul…

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  Dedication

  This story is dedicated to everyone who has lost someone they loved. You see, this story was almost complete when one of the most important people in my life left this Earth. Rest in peace, Applesmith (my grandmother). I finished the last chapter while at the hospital, hours after she had passed away. The entire experience was surreal. I never knew that I would soon be experiencing the painful type of loss that is detailed in this story. She was a cheerleader of my writing, a good friend, a confidante, and a woman that I loved and respected. I miss you, Applesmith, and I will continue to call you, to chit-chat, complain and laugh, knowing that somewhere out there, you can hear me.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Synopsis

  Dedication

  Love Letter to my Readers

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  A Thank You to the Reader

  Other Works by Tiana Laveen

  Author Biography

  Music Directory

  Book Club Questions

  Love Letter to My Readers

  I want to thank everyone that read, ‘Tattooed Moon’ previously, as well as purchased it for their personal collection in this re-release. I understand that some people, who were not familiar with my work, came across me due to the Scandalous Heroes box set, and I would like to offer my thanks to those individuals who wrote me personally to let me know how much they enjoyed the story, and subsequently went on to peruse, purchase, and read some of my other work. I’d like to take this time now to spread my wings a bit, and explain why I wrote this story and what the characters mean to me.

  As stated in the dedication, I lost someone very dear to me right at the time I was writing the ending of this book—my grandmother. It was a surreal moment in time. If we rewind a bit, however, I began writing this book several months before my grandmother (Applesmith) passed away. I have always been a visual person. I began drawing and writing at an early age. Illustrations, paintings, and lovely portraits have captivated me ever since I can remember. When asked as a child if I wanted to go to the park or art museum, I was the little girl who jumped up and down and screamed, “Art museum!” I was also a rather peculiar child. That is something I embrace now, but as a youngster, I did not see it as a blessing in the least (Peer pressure is a mofo, right? lol). With that said, there were certain things that interested me that may not have enticed some of my peers, for I was gravitating towards certain behaviors and ‘fashion trends’ before they were deemed in style. A perfect example are piercings.

  Piercings fascinated me early on. So much so, I pierced myself many times while in high school by numbing my ears with ice cubes, lighting the end of a hat pin with a lighter to sterilize it and then jamming that thing in my flesh a few seconds later. My parents forbade me to get them, so without the funds to support my ‘derelict behavior’, I became my own ‘one stop and shop piercing parlor.’ Then came the tattoos…

  Now, this was a bit trickier because I discovered that I have some rather odd allergies, and dark ink appeared to be one of them. I discovered this in a rather innocent way and apparently I am willing to throw my pride to the wind and share it with you in ten simple steps:

  1. Nude college kid is fresh out of the shower.

  2. New black towel and washcloth from JC Penney are going to be used.

  3. Nude college kid wraps towel around saturated body.

  4. Nude college kid is itching and covered in red, itchy hives thirty minutes later.

  5. Nude (lazy) college kid realizes she should have washed the new linens FIRST.

  6. Nude college kid washes linens that evening.

  7. Nude college kid uses laundered towel and washcloth again after shower the following day.

  8. Nude college kid is covered in rash once again, and clawing at her skin while lying in a fetal position begging for mercy…and popping antihistamines.

  9. Nude college kid is pissed…

  10. Hot date is cancelled. Nude college kid is sulking in bed and cursing up a storm while slathered in itch prevention creams. Nude college kid vows to seek revenge, but that is impossible considering that wash cloths and towels don’t have feelings or concerns…nor give one hot damn about nude college kid’s trials and tribulations.

  Okay…so, after making a few calls and doing some ‘home experiments’, it became clear that I just may have an allergy to dark dyes if they seep into my pores. I know, I know, I wonder what tipped me off? Whew! Doesn’t mean I’m never getting a tattoo because my desire to have one supersedes my fears that a simple Benadryl could alleviate and besides, I’ve had other allergies that I’ve actually grown out of and I suspect, based on recent experimentation, that this one qualifies as a yesteryear sort of situation.

  So, let’s fast forward back to the present. I love art. I also love the human body and I respect those that wish to adorn themselves with illustrations that bring both of these elements together. That is their personal right, and they owe neither me nor anyone else an explanation, regardless of whether I happen to like it or not. Now, some of the tattoos I’ve seen over the years are nothing short of breathtaking. Seeing them made me wonder about the artist…all that talent inside of one vessel…amazing.

  This in turn made me think about the life of a tattoo art
ist. What type of person is attracted to that sort of field? What type of individual can deal with that sort of pressure – after all, to make a mistake on canvas or, in this case, the human body, is a big, damn deal. And then, my ideas and notions travelled a bit further.

  Why do some women (and men) ‘get off’ on being inked? Does the tattoo artist get any pleasure, besides a paycheck, in doing his or her job? All these concepts roamed about within my head, and I began to piece together the hero of the story, Julian Savant. He started as an ink drop, and morphed into a full-grown man that I fell helplessly in love with.

  I wanted him to be ‘alpha’, but not overly aggressive. I wanted him to be caring, but not a wuss. I wanted him to be intelligent, but not nerdy (though I find nerds incredibly erotic, but I digress). I wanted him to be unusual and different, but not difficult to understand and relate to. I wanted him to be…

  S E X Y…

  Those were my goals, so as I envisioned what this man looked like from a physical standpoint and married it to a personality that I felt fit the bill, I began to fashion him just so until I had a good handle on the situation. I needed to cultivate this man, layer by layer, and as I did, it became clear to me that this gent was going to be a gamble. Julian Savant was NOT going to appeal to everyone. Unconventional people/characters rarely do. To be included and accepted by all is simply impossible. However, I was fine with that, for I knew, as an author and an artist, that I must step out of my own way and follow the path I wish to travel, regardless of whether someone is co-signing or not.

  Like Julian, we can’t live for other people, because if we do, then we’ve died for them, too. The next reason is far simpler. It’s a matter of personal attraction: If I don’t personally find my characters alluring, no one else will, either. I have to be convincing, thus, I must be enamored with the men that run amok all over the pages of my books. And who would I be to always color within the lines? That was never my style, so why start now?

  I have been asked many times by readers, especially ladies who didn’t find the art of tattooing and/or tattoo artists particularly appealing until they read this book: why do SOME women seem to lose their minds around these male tattoo professionals? Yes…many have a cult following, groupies if you will. (Evident in the popularity of reality-based TV tattoo parlor shows.) This is my answer:

  If a tattoo artist is gifted at what he does, if you connect with him and he understands your goals, then your consultation is, believe it or not, a replica of foreplay. Now, before you dismiss my notion and color me crazy, let me break this down a bit further. Typically when a person, a woman in this case (Milan Parker—the heroine), goes to get a tattoo, she first talks the artist. They meet, discuss things, have a conversation. This conversation can last anywhere from ten minutes to several months, depending on many variables. Regardless, it is a conversation, for no one just walks into a tattoo parlor, flops down in the chair or on the bench and doesn’t share what they want, why they are there, etc.

  So, the client is asking the artist to put something on her body – her temple… She is trusting him to do what she asks, to fill in the blanks of what she did not articulate and if he is a skilled artist, he will be able to ask the proper questions and meet her expectations. There is a difference however between good and great. The great tattoo artists surpasses those expectations, thus, his clientele increases and he has dedicated, loyal customers. The client is putting her faith into the hands of another human being to change her flesh, mark it permanently. She has an understanding in advance that it may be an uncomfortable experience, and for some, even downright painful. She recognizes that it is PERMANENT. Thus, this mimics one’s loss of virginity, especially if they are a ‘tattoo virgin’, so to speak. Once that cherry/hymen is popped…it’s a wrap. No one else can duplicate that.

  That artist is penetrating that person’s skin, leaving a trace of their craft on that person FOREVER. No other creature on the planet is going to generate the exact same tattoo, the exact same way. You can give two talented tattoo artists identical photos to duplicate. For example, let’s pretend it is a black rose. Like all art, it will be subjective and up to the artist to interpret it. There will be differences in shading, technique, possibly size, too. The artist may very well ‘get off’ knowing they have left something behind that is forever, for their art is in a way like their fingerprint.

  The artist becomes timeless, immortal. The artist can perish, pass away, but his or her art is STILL ALIVE on the flesh of their former clients, and even when those clients die as well, they take that art to their grave. Additionally, there will be pictures documenting their body art long after they took their last breath. It will go on and on. These men and women who skin tag for a living ‘live on’ through their ink…

  So, you see, when a client allows this to happen to her, she has on some level, had foreplay, and then intercourse, with her artist. He/she has penetrated them and now, they (the client and artist) will always be connected. They have an intimate relationship, whether they interpret it as such or not. So, this is why some women (and men) gravitate towards stories, books, movies, etc. featuring tattoo artists and the art they leave behind. It is one of the reasons that some women become literally addicted to being tattooed as well. The act of getting a tattoo becomes BIGGER than hanging wall art – because it is married to an experience and two people being connected and that virtuosity becomes LIVING ART…

  …Because she, the Queen canvas, walks and talks…

  She breathes.

  She lives

  … and she wears his work across her heart like, well, a tattoo…

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  “My grief and pain are mine. I have earned them. They are part of me. Only in feeling them do I open myself to the lessons they can teach.”

  –Anne Wilson Schaef

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  Chapter One

  Julian sank low in his white chair, the noisy pleather crunching under his dark, loose-fitting jeans. The heat from the work lamps made his skin dewy with a thin layer of sweat. Buoyant, seductive swirls of Nang Champa incense eddied past his face, causing his nostrils to flare as he inhaled the scent. The intoxicating fragrance intermingled with the previous cherry stick aroma he’d lit sometime earlier in the evening. He removed his rubber ink-stained gloves with a snap, then tossed them haphazardly in the nearby steel trashcan as he waved a lazy goodbye to his last customer for the day.

  ‘Soul Inscriptions’, a tattoo salon wedged between the reddened brick walls of a tall and skinny historic building, was his baby, the tattooed child he’d created with his own ink-covered hands. It flaunted an attached new age store filled with his unique blend of healthy energy beverages, assorted scented candles, spiritual what-nots, a few ‘naughty’ toys for the sensually adventurous, and one-of-a-kind massage oils, blended on site. The place was now empty, the patrons long gone. The old LP records from yesteryear and a plethora of holistic healing remedies were getting more business than he’d ever anticipated with the influx of new college students and transplants from larger cities moving into Athens, Georgia. Matter of fact, business had never been so good, and his clientele was building by long leaps and bountiful bounds. It fast became apparent that he was constructing a substantial status, and he’d been completely taken off guard in the whirlwind.

  Word was spreading around town that he was damn good, and competitively priced for his advanced skillset. This brought a new dilemma to his wind chimed covered doorstep. He couldn’t handle the new demand, so he elicited help. He’d hired an additional artist—Alex, another sought after skin tagger—to help with the overwhelming workload, and decided to use some of the additional revenue to spruce up the place. His original hand-drawn signage, though magnificent if he said so himself, just weren’t cutting it anymore.

  They had been replaced with a professional sign boasting of bright vermillion and neon clover radiant letters, right along with his favorite trio of goopy, hypnotic orange lava lamps, set atop a bookshelf housing
a hard-bound book collection on the history of body modification. He ran his hand down his slightly scruffy face then glanced at a nearby mirror, watching himself twirl about in the client chair as he stole precious breaths and slippery moments of serene peace. He sized up what he saw before him as if he’d never seen his very own reflection before.

  As he glared into his cerulean eyes, a bit duller than usual as his tiresome body became more complacent, he could see that his face reflected the turmoil inside—he was severely sleep deprived. His typically vibrant eyes were full of shadows, his mouth dry, and he’d rarely been so self-negligent. But business had been fierce, and he had important things to tend to. Matter of fact, this was the first day in weeks that the shop was quiet, and only because they were now closed and he’d sat down for a long needed breather.

  I better get home…

  He stood to his feet, snuffed out the incense with wetted fingers, turned off the sleepy ceiling fan and lava lights, and made his way to the money safe in the back of the place, hidden away in a slender closet to remove the nightly deposit. After he turned the lock on the storeroom and placed his fingers against the cold, chrome, ridged dial, the phone rang, chilling him as the shrillness interrupted his tranquility. He stepped out of the enclosure and glanced at the turtle shaped clock on the wall, its little avocado-colored legs moving back and forth and its long neck swinging a tiny head with a silly, hand-painted grin on its emerald face.

  The damn thing is still slow… What a coincidence.

  He smirked at the paradox and looked at the other side of the room, noting his very first hire’s station, Cedrick’s work area. There, atop a thickly bound mountain of tattoo books and illustration magazines, stood a digital clock with vibrant red numbers. It read 11:03 P.M. It was Thursday evening, and they officially closed at 9:30 P.M. on weekdays. He slumped his shoulders, sighed, then marched towards the ringing siren, his facial muscles taut with annoyance.