Cray Read online

  CRAY

  Graffiti Street Bad Boys Book 5

  Brynn Hale

  Copyright © 2020 by Brynn Hale

  All rights reserved.

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

  Contact Brynn at [email protected] for more information.

  Acknowledgment

  Thank you to authors Lana Dash, Tarin Lex, Mazzy King, Kali Hart, Kate Tilney, and Carly Keene, for making this story and this adventure amazing and inspiring. <3 Brynn

  Contents

  Graffiti Street Bad Boys Song List

  1. Cray

  2. Naomi

  3. Cray

  4. Naomi

  5. Naomi

  6. Cray

  7. Naomi

  8. Cray

  9. Naomi

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Graffiti Street Bad Boys Song List

  You can find a Spotify listening list for these stories here:

  Brynn Hale Graffiti Street Bad Boys Song List

  One

  Cray

  “Shop’s closed,” I call out from the back room as the door chime rings out. I rarely lock the door until my ass is outside of it. My presence and glare are usually enough to discourage after-hours visitors to the shop. My tattoo shop—Graffiti Street Tattoo. I’m the boss. Not that I have to be bossy. My artists are professionals with authority to handle about every problem that comes in the door, but I’ll get to handle this one.

  “Hello? Cray?” The deep, rumble of her voice is like the exhaust on my ’47 Harley-Davidson UL Bobber. And she says my name rough and rugged and racy as fuck.

  It’s not the usual grating shrill pitch that I hear from a majority of the Tatties—that’s tattoo artist groupies—that walk through the door. I’ve had a few come around occasionally, but I send them on their way. Also done a few one-night stands, but I’ve come to understand why they’re only one night. Because they’re not the right one and I can’t stand the thought of another night. My buddies assume I take every tattie to bed. I let them believe what they want to, but it’s starting to get annoying to just go along with their assumptions. The day will come when they get a few hundred-dollar words from me to bring them back to reality.

  I round from the back office. “Hey, we’re clos—”

  I stop both talking and walking, because the vision that’s in front of me is both breathtaking and a little dick rising. I have to adjust my walk as my cock rocks with a pulse of blood.

  I’ll admit it. I have a thing for a woman in a uniform. Give me a flight attendant, soldier, lifeguard—hey, a swimsuit’s a uniform in my mind—any day and I’ll appreciate the view with respect. They all deserve respect, like all professions.

  Well, all except tattoo artists, apparently. It’s not that people don’t respect us, it’s that they don’t understand what we do. First, don’t ever call my place a tattoo salon. I’ll bestow a lesson in the right vernacular—tattoo shop. Parlors are seedy places where back room deals happen. Second, I might look like a gym-rat and be tatted to the hilt, but I’m Mensa-level IQ and have a doctorate in paleontology. Lastly, don’t ever call me a tattooer—it’s not a fucking word.

  I’m an artist. A creative. Someone who creates art. My friends and clients wear my art. My walking billboards. Many of them say that they’ll never get another tattoo because my designs are so perfect. I even tattooed two of my friends’ wedding rings on their ring finger. I’d never fucking do that to my body, but they insisted that this one was the one.

  As I approach her, I realize I kind of know her. She showed to a call at my buddy Hemi’s garage in the spring. His wife’s ex did a number on her car while it was at his shop getting fixed. Now that dude was a crazy motherfucker.

  Everyone thinks that’s where my name comes from—crazy. But it’s not. I’m not crazy, I’m just passionate and maybe a little fucked up, but aren’t we all? I was tired of hearing my real name and remembering what it was associated with, so I shortened it. Just Cray.

  “Hey.” I chin jut to her. “Is there a problem, Officer…” I try to read the gold plate that has her last name, but unfortunately my eyes almost go cross-eyed when it comes to her bountiful chest.

  “Hey, sailor, my eyes are up here.” She waves in front of her chest and I shake my head.

  “I was trying to read your name plate.”

  “Sure.” She stretches the word skeptically as she turns from looking at some pictures of my work on the wall. Her caramel skin divots into a dimple on just one side of her face when she smirks. The heart shape of her face would leave a man believing that she is willowy down below, but the woman has curves on curves on curves. Her chest is matched by her ass. Bubble butt is the term most would use, but I would use fucktastic. “Whatever, Mr. Creag--”

  “I only go by Cray. Nothing else.” My jaw tightens.

  Her head tips a little and her eyes skim over my body like I should have visible wounds with that type of touchy and firm proclamation. Sure, my driver’s and tattoo artist’s licenses say another name, and occasionally a friend, one or two, has found out but that doesn’t mean that she needs to use it. And I’m not really sure how she got it in the first place. Although that is the name on the deed to this property, so probably that way.

  “Fine. Cray. I’m looking to get some artwork done.”

  “Okay. What are you looking to get done?”

  She pulls out her phone.

  Don’t let it be Pinterest.

  I’m sure the site is great for crafting and shit like that, but it’s the bane of my existence. People don’t understand that I don’t copy. Ever. I’m one of a kind or nothing at all. I don’t listen to “I want this” and there’s no “just change the color” happening here.

  “My daughter’s an artist. She made this for me. It doesn’t have to be exactly this, but if you could do something to represent it…” I lift the phone from her, my fingers swiping her soft hand and I clear my throat as my gut clenches.

  Kids. They find me intimidating and I find them puzzling. But this isn’t done by some elementary school child with finger paints. This composition is mature and definitely something that would be either high school or even college level.

  “That’s really cool. She’s talented. I’d probably make this part here more watercolor so that it fades off the edges and almost like it’s exploding here.”

  “Okay. Sounds good to me.”

  “Then let’s get you an appointment.” I open the calendar. “March eighteenth is my first available.”

  “What?” Her bright face fades. “I…I need it done this weekend.”

  “I’m sorry, but not gonna happen. Every tattoo shop in the area is booked out at least a week, the good ones even more.”

  “Damn. I wanted to surprise Eve for Christmas. It would be my first.”

  I start thinking about possibilities. I can’t help but wonder what she possibly looks like under that uniform. Usually I see my clients as a background, but this woman’s more than that she’s a pristine canvas and that art, it’s truly art.

  I’m even a little worried I can do it justice.

  But justice is something she deserves.

  Two

  Naomi

  “Did your daughter do this on canvas?” Cray asks.

  “Yeah. It’s multi-media? Whatever that means.” I have no skills when it comes to art or being creative. Pinterest pisses me off. I once tried to make a Barbie cake for the girls. It’s now one of those Pinterest Fails pictures. Not kidding. I give all kudos to people who can make a piano out of popsicle sticks. But it’s not me
.

  “That brings some challenges. I’d need to see the piece to really understand where shading needs to go to give it depth.”

  “Well it’s at my house, but…” My disappointment coats the word. “I’ll just figure out something else since you can’t do it before Christmas.”

  I slide my phone back across the counter toward me, and he grabs my hand, stilling the motion. My stomach does a BMX-style trick that it’s never done before.

  “Officer Wade, I haven’t said that it’s impossible. It’s just going to take a little work. I don’t back down from a challenge. The timing isn’t the biggest challenge for me.”

  My other hand rests on my gun. It’s not that I don’t feel safe. It’s that I feel something I haven’t before and that makes me uneasy. Cray is way too charming and I never expected that. His bulk. His protruding hard brow line. His set jaw with a sprinkle of blond whiskers all adds up to an intimidating man. But he disarms me like no man ever has. And that has me considering calling this off. I don’t need to be showing this man my body. And since it has to be hidden, it’s going to have to go somewhere people normally don’t see in my regular clothes.

  But still. I really want to do this.

  “Hemi told me to come to you, but it’s okay Cray.”

  “Hemi referred you?”

  “Him and Leif and Slater and Snake and half the department staff…” I motion with my hand that the list is long. “You’re the go-to guy, apparently, and this is important to me. So, nothing but the best.”

  “I’m the best, huh?” His cocky smirk steals my gaze. There’s something dangerous in those lips. They’re almost like dry TNT, ready to explode and take me with him.

  “But I understand the schedule thing. I was just hoping. I have the next ten days off for Christmas. It’s the last one for my oldest to be at home as she’ll be going to Officer Candidate School in January after she graduates.”

  “ROTC?” He releases my hand and a part of me hates how I miss the touch. It’s been…

  A fucking long time, without a good fucking.

  Years. As soon as Eve and Zoe came into my life, I stopped having relationships with men. They deserved that much after what their father put them through. The asshole looks horrible in orange. Thank God.

  “Yep, Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering and a minor in Military Science at UNLV.”

  “Cool. She’s the artist?” he asks, leaning back on the stool. His tight T-shirt stretches over his stomach and the dunes of muscle pop in my face.

  “Her work is in LVAM and the Kildare Art Center.”

  “Logical and creative, that’s impressive. The Las Vegas Art Museum has turned me down every time.”

  I can’t stop the smile that crosses my face. I don’t know why Eve’s accomplishments mean so much to me, but I hope they mean something to my sister too.

  He stands and reaches back to flick off the lights. The Christmas tree in the corner turns off. Everything darkens except for the glow off the teal sign that reads Graffiti Street Tattoo.

  Cray steps close and I straighten my back. He nods. “Okay, I’ll do you.”

  Pardon me?

  “What?”

  He chuckles. “It’s just a saying, Officer. I’ll be your artist and you’ll be my canvas.”

  “How much will it be?”

  “We’ll discuss that over a drink. Meet me at Graffiti Street Bar.”

  “I can’t…I have…I mean, I need to…I’ve got…”

  He tips his head and lifts his chin. “No good excuses?” He flips the switch on the Open/Closed sign and swings the door open. “I don’t see a ring on that finger and there’s no indentation to show one was ever there. If you’re not into dudes, that’s cool, just say so.”

  “No, I’m into…I mean…” Flustered is what I am.

  As I pass by his cologne saturates my nose. It’s not what I expected. It’s clean and crisp. I thought he’d wear something harsher and more in my face. Like Eve’s boyfriend’s AXE Body Spray scent. I have to open windows when the young man’s over. I don’t understand how they don’t smell themselves and how they’re still standing upright with that amount of ethanol clouding around them. “I’m not gay. Not that I have anything against gay people.”

  “Not married, into dudes…and a badass LEO. I think that’s a trifecta of some sort.”

  “Mr. Creag—”

  “I asked you not to call me that,” the words growl from him.

  The pain that radiates from him regarding his real name is like a nuclear blast. It almost wipes away my thoughts.

  “Cray. Sorry. I’m not interested in dating. And I’m not interested in a one-night stand. If you can’t keep it professional—”

  “Whoa.” He locks the door and spins to me. “Who said anything about a date or a fuck? I invited you to have a drink after you change out of that uniform because I know you can’t have a drink while you’re in it.”

  He’s right.

  “I have a change of clothes in the car.” I don’t know why I say it, but the words come flying out of my mouth like they surpassed my brain, maybe instigated by another part of my anatomy.

  He turns back to the door and unlocks it. “Changing room in the back. I’d turn on the lights, but I’d bet that flashlight on your belt will work.”

  I stomp off to the car. I’m firmly logically based, making practical decisions almost always. I excel in a crisis. But I also love excitement. It’s a thrill that makes me feel like I’m living. Thus, the police officer as a second career thing for me. I’m the oldest rookie on the force. Thirty-nine, four years in. I almost didn’t make it, but it was my dream and my girls wouldn’t let me stop trying.

  The fact I’m even considering this proposal should worry me, but I want that tattoo.

  In minutes, I’m back with my bag. I use my flashlight and flip on the light in the changing room. I slip out of my uniform, pull on the dark skinny jeans that take a little effort to slide my thick thighs into, a purple tank top with a built-in bra, and pull a hooded sweatshirt on over all of it. I take a look at myself. My hair is still pulled up the bun I wear five to six days a week. I consider pulling the large pin out and letting it fall, but I also know that if it doesn’t look good, I won’t have the time to put it back. I leave it.

  I text Zoe.

  Naomi: Going to be a late night. Order yourself some food, if you want.

  Zoe: Is it okay if I stay over at Michaela’s?

  Naomi: Have her mother text me confirmation of your location.

  Emily (M’s mom): Zoe’s over here. Have a good night.

  Naomi: Thanks. We need to have a glass of wine soon.

  Emily (M’s Mom): I’m in. You name the date.

  Zoe’s past came out in some reckless behavior the last couple of years. She was back on track now, but I saw plenty of people slip back into old behaviors and no one noticed.

  Naomi: Zoe, I love you. Sorry for the hover mode.

  Zoe: I know why you did it. I’m sorry, too. Love you too.

  I slip on heeled gray booties and do a quick spritz of the perfume I keep in my bag. How this went from being a question about a tattoo to a drink is beyond me. I stare at myself in the mirror. I pull lipstick out of my bag and swipe it over my lips, it’s a neutral beige color. Boring. But I’m not interested in standing out. I strap my holster onto my hip and shove my cuffs in my back pocket, not that I’m imaging having to use them. But…slapping them on Cray and doing a little torture doesn’t sound all that bad. Kinky, but not bad.

  I shake my head. I can’t do this. I’m not going to do this.

  I fold my uniform and put it into the duffel and I’m out the door every intention of just leaving.

  But good intentions don’t make for great stories.

  Three

  Cray

  Naomi’s taking longer than I expected. I lean back against the front of the building. Two guys approach from the direction of Graffiti Street Bar. I’ve seen them walk by be
fore. Locals, but I’ve never met them.

  Officer Wade slides out the door and I have to do a doubletake. Damn, those jeans look painted on. I wonder what that hair would look like down, that tight bun almost school marm-like in my mind and I bet she’s anything but.

  I lock up while chin jutting to the guys. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself, asshole.” The smaller of the two demonstrates the size of his penis by picking on the guy who’s three times his size.

  Officer Wade laughs. “Creative.”

  He stops and turns. “What’d you say, bitch?”

  I turn but she steps in front of me. “I said, that was creative. Really kudos, but just keep walking.”

  “If you liked that, then I bet you’d really like this.” He grabs his crotch and I dart around her.

  I get into his space and look down on him, our almost ten inches height difference making him seem to reconsider his position. “Now, don’t go acting like you have the biggest dick, because if we go head to head your friend will be telling the story about how you embarrassed yourself for years to come.”

  “Not worth it, Benny.” His friend tugs on his arm. “Let’s go to Evo.”

  These two aren’t Evo Room material. That place is high society, big bank account, and all bullshit.

  “Nah, that’s a place this tight ass bitch would go. I wanna go see someone who’ll dance for my dolla-dolla-bills and give me a little extra attention in the back room.” His friend raises a hand and they do a juvenile high-five. Benny turns but looks back over his shoulder. “I’ll see you again, sweetheart. You can count on that.”

  I jump to move, but her arm settles on my chest. “You gonna buy me that drink?”