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Sexy Ink!
Sexy Ink! Read online
For my forever friend, Christy B.
This one’s for you!
~ Jamie
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SEXY INK!
First edition. December 13, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Jamie Collins.
ISBN: 978-1393476665
Written by Jamie Collins.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Sexy Ink! (Secrets and Stilettos Series, #4)
Prologue | Newport Beach, CA | Summer – 2014
Chapter One | West Memphis, AR | Summer – 1987
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four | Summer – 2014
Chapter Five | Newport Beach, CA | Summer – 2014
Chapter Six | Los Angeles – December 1988
Chapter Seven | Newport Beach, CA – 2014
Chapter Eight | Los Angeles, CA – January 1989
Chapter Nine | Los Angeles – 1989
Chapter Ten | 1995
Chapter Eleven | Newport Beach, CA – 2014
Chapter Twelve | Las Vegas, NV – 1995
Chapter Thirteen | (Twelve months later) | Las Vegas, NV
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen | Spring – 1997
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen | Fall 1999
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one | (One Year Later)
Chapter Twenty-two | December 2002
Chapter Twenty-three | Newport Beach, CA – 2014
Chapter Twenty-four | January 2003
Chapter Twenty-five | 2003
Chapter Twenty-six | January 2006 | (Three Years Later)
Chapter Twenty-seven | Newport Beach, CA – 2014
Chapter Twenty-eight | 2012
Chapter Twenty-nine | August – 2014
Chapter Thirty | 2013
Chapter Thirty-one | New York City | September – 2014
Chapter Thirty-two | La Jolla, California
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five | November 2014
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight | December 2014
Chapter Thirty-nine | Las Vegas, NV
Chapter Forty | December 2014
Chapter Forty-one | Christmas Day
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three | New York | Early March – 2015
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five | New Jersey
Chapter Forty-six | New York City
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight | Riverside, CA
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty | Portland, OR
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two | (Two weeks later)
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four | August 19th – Los Angeles, CA
Chapter Sixty-five | August 21st – New York City
Chapter Sixty-six | Two Weeks Later – New York City
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Prologue
Newport Beach, CA
Summer – 2014
La Costa lingered over things like a good cup of coffee, a cool breeze, or a fine painting like it was the quintessential link between her soul and the universe. At the moment, something was beckoning from a small scrape on the beach, just at the base of the whitewashed stairs and edge boards visible through the pristine white baluster railing. She had been sitting in her favorite teakwood writing chair next to the open French doors, working on a chapter, when she spotted a quick movement in the sand. It was an agitated Snowy Plover, who was nesting her chicks beneath a strip of overturned beach drift not fifteen yards from the house. The bird was running off a zealous hound who was sniffing around too close for her liking, harassing the mutt with a series of dodges and pecks, punctuated with trilling purrts and whistling tur-weets.
La Costa watched, mesmerized by the simple beauty of the moment. A speedboat whirred in the distance, and shouts of laughter from a troop of tourists paddle boarding nearby, chiming in with the upswell symphony of wind and surf, blended melodically with the shrill cry from a languid seagull drifting on the salty wind. A tiny sparrow chirped from the deck post. To an unaccustomed ear, it could all sound like nothing special, but to her, it was sweet music. And the magic of it all filled her with joy. She was lost in the soothing sounds of the Pacific as she let it all wash over her with the summer breeze. There was so much elation in simply being alive. God had given her a second chance in life. That was the good news of the sparrow’s song. She would never doubt Him, or herself, ever again.
Chapter One
West Memphis, AR
Summer – 1987
Born Mayella Jackson in West Memphis, Arkansas, on September twenty-eighth, 1971, La Costa had to fight for everything she ever had, starting with her very birth, which she managed to pull off on her own. Her mother, Tallulah, paid little attention to her own needs, let alone those of her new baby daughter. An alcoholic and addict from the time she left her poverty-stricken home in West Virginia at age twelve to shack up with a pusher and no-good reptile named Crete Jackson, Tallulah was a veteran card-carrying prostitute and junkie by the time she was fifteen. In fact, Tallulah did not even know that she was pregnant until the miraculous event occurred. She had been waiting in line for her monthly check down at County, when a sudden rush of water burst between her legs, causing her to hurry to the toilet, doubled over in pain.
The mysterious and powerful cramping pushed forth a small, malnourished fetus, which slid from her body onto the cold linoleum floor. The infant literally dropped out of Tallulah’s
womb—unassisted. A bystander emerged from a nearby stall, shocked to find the thin, gaunt woman mopping the bloody fetus, still tethered to her body, with toilet paper.
An ambulance arrived and took mother and child to the hospital, where the infant was medically evaluated and her official birth time, recorded. The baby was treated for jaundice and a host of complications resulting from her mother’s imposing use of narcotics and alcohol throughout the pregnancy.
Tallulah, in shock and abhorrence, had high-tailed it, unnoticed, through the hospital doors, not to return until three days later.
Unbelievably, the hospital handed over Tallulah Jackson’s baby to her when she came back to finally claim her. Tallulah had been informed by a relative that having the child in her care would ensure additional government benefits and a larger monthly check, so the child was taken home.
Tallulah was clearly still using, but temporarily sober when she showed up to, as she put it, “sign her daughter out.” A social worker was aptly appointed to the case. Although the authorities had the baby’s best interests at heart, they had no choice but to release the infant to her natural mother. A nurse was assigned to perform daily visits, in which she administered special medications to wean the baby from the drugs she had been subjected to. Slowly, her tiny body healed from the toxic effects of the damagin
g poisons that Tallulah had transferred into her fragile system.
Years passed, and Mayella survived despite neglect and hardship. Crete Jackson, the baby’s biological father, left Tallulah when Mayella was barely two, leaving nothing behind but her name, which he had bequeathed to her from his dear departed grandmother.
They stayed poor and hungry in a two-bedroom flat on the south side of town in a series of tenements near the interstate. There were cockroaches, cold water pipes, and users dealing dope in the courtyard; there were gunshots and robberies most every night, and for most of the residents of the community, the only way out was to die.
Social services monitored the tenements for children, and when a non-reported minor was found, the city police would return with a warrant from the state to either place the child in school or remove the child into juvenile custody. As early as four, Mayella could remember climbing down into a shallow hole in the floor, rotted out from rodents and decay, waiting for her mother to give her permission to come out.
“Those po-lice men’s what will take you away if’n they’s catch you livin’ here. You hide
yo-self good, and stay till I say’s to get on out . . . else you’s be goin’ wit them to the jail.”
It was a terrifying torture to go down into the hole, but Mayella feared the shackles of a prison more than the temporary inflictions of the bugs and rats that descended upon her instantly.
Eventually, the authorities took Mayella at the tender age of six. Tallulah had left her alone, as she often did, and a kitchen fire erupted when little Mayella tried to fry an egg on the stove. A dishrag had caught fire, and she had pulled it, along with the skillet, off the burner and onto the floor, splattering grease onto her leg and hands and igniting the linoleum.
A neighbor later noticed Mayella’s burns and called the authorities. She was removed from Tallulah’s care immediately, but not before Tallulah added a few fresh cuts and bruises to the mix. The landlord had evicted them as a result of the grease fire, which, aside from making Tallulah angry and led to Mayella’s whoopin’, also forced them to live with Tallulah’s junkie friend, Dixie.
Several years and twelve foster families later, as a young teen, Mayella was reunited with Tallulah in another run-down dirt lot in West Memphis, this time, finding that Tallulah’s mother had joined them to save money. Tallulah was supposedly “clean,” due to her finding Jesus—once again, self-proclaiming herself as being “twice-born again.” She was working as a housekeeper for a big shot chain-store owner in the city’s downtown district.
Mayella had arrived home to learn that she had two brothers, Eli, who was nine, and Rufus, five. Each sibling had a different father, although Tallulah never once had been married, not even to Crete Jackson. Mayella was fifteen years old, angry and obstinate, and had been more trouble than any of several church-going foster families could handle. She did not attend school regularly, preferring instead to run the streets. She did as she pleased. A spotty attendance record showed that she only completed eight full years of elementary school, and was deficient in attendance hours in high school her freshman year. She had decided that she would drop out once she reached sixteen—if she could make it that far, as life held little promise for her ever succeeding at anything.
She did, however, love to read books, and had taught herself everything she needed to know from the liberation of a stolen library card and books lifted from thrift stores when no one was looking. In the worlds of John Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Tennessee Williams, Mayella found her refuge. Of course, her very favorite novel was To Kill a Mockingbird, as she saw her own self in the tragic persona of Mayella Ewell, who had also endured victimization by an abusive and poverty-stricken home life. In her heart, Mayella believed that she was Mayella Ewell, and much like her, could never dare to hope for better days. Reading was the only escape that Mayella could afford, living her childhood in the charity of white people’s homes, where she was the token “example” of society’s ails, and the product of their apple-polishing Christian generosity. She would stay only until she was done using them, and when she was ready to move on, she would simply cause enough trouble that her current foster family would be forced to ship her out to the next family.
She read every book she had two or three times each, just to take in the fantastic stories that were a far cry from the dismal life she was forced to endure, moving from one temporary home to the next. Junior high was a blur. Mayella was sullen and spiteful, and often not worth the other kids’ hate or harassment for being so different. Mostly, they just ignored her. And that suited her just fine. She had no friends and simply hid in her books when transferring from school to school, making herself as invisible as possible, struggling to squeak by unnoticed. Only when she was placed with a black family did she feel more able to be herself. But even then, there was always the threat of not measuring up, and so it became easier to withdraw than to fight the insurmountable demands that pressed upon her unceasingly.
Once again, it was books that rescued her. Within them, Mayella felt safe, and most importantly, not judged. It did not matter to the story writer if she was black, white, red, or purple. It didn’t matter if she was rich or poor. For the price of her undivided interest, she could open a book and leap into its pages, letting the words take her far away.
When she turned fifteen, there were no available foster homes left to take her, so Mayella finally went home. She showed up, much to Tallulah’s surprise, with a backpack of contraband library books and a chip on her shoulder. Tallulah wasted no time reacquainting Mayella with all the reasons why she had been shipped away in the first place. Tallulah had, remarkably, quit the drugs and was clean, but she smoked three packs a day and was in deep denial about her daily need for the sauce—anything, didn’t matter what. Gin, vodka, cough syrup, or paint thinner, if that was all there was. She was helpless to the addiction. Drinking was her only reason for living, and the way that Tallulah Clark had it figured, the world had screwed her over so badly that it was her solid right to try to soften the edges.
Eli and Rufus had already learned to fend for themselves, although the living conditions were far better than the atrocities that Mayella once had to bear. It was evident that their grandmother was failing in health, and soon Tallulah would be minus one regular check from the state to count on. For Mayella, staying there provided a permanent address, a patch of grass out front, a barely operating portable TV, and other kids in the trailer park, dirt poor just like them.
The boys got on a yellow school bus each day and were taken into town to attend school, although the other children from the district would have little to anything to do with the TPTs—Trailer Park Trash—as they were called. Just like the Ewells . . . Mayella would contend. She
took a cot, which was set up in the living room, and stashed her personal belongings behind a dilapidated recliner.
Tallulah was gone a lot, presumably with her latest boyfriend, Rodney. That was, when she was not working cleaning someone’s toilets or scrubbing their floors. Nigger-work, she would call it. And it made Tallulah tired and mean. Mostly, she was hell on wheels—sober or not. A reality that made living all together under one roof a battle zone. Tallulah was not at all pleased that Mayella had returned. The last thing she needed was another mouth to feed. “I is in a good place rit’ now. Yo’ grammy, me, and the boys, we is all going good. Don’t expect one more is what we needs, but if’n you can pull yo’ weight . . .” Tallulah Clark was an unfit mother before, and so still remained. As far as she was concerned, Mayella was far enough along to strike out on her own. Didn’t matter either way to her, where Mayella would go. It was of no concern.
Tallulah and Mayella fought incessantly, constantly at odds with one another. If Mayella hated her mother for bringing her into the world in the first place, having pumped her with vile drugs and cheap beer from the start, and robbing her of a home and loving family, she really despised her now. Tallulah was the pathetic drunk who allowed men lik
e Rodney to beat her and to take what money she made cleaning houses in order to fund his own vile drug habits, while her own children lived on a constant repeat of cornbread and beans.
“You pretty smart . . . why don’tcha work, girl?” Rodney had asked one summer day as he eyed Mayella contemptuously from across the room. She was lost in a book at the time. It was Jane Austin’s Pride & Prejudice, and it was her fourth time reading it. She sniffed, ignoring his question, retreating from his gaze. It was not in her best interest to ignore him. But she did not care. She despised him. He was, in her estimation, a degenerate prick. She needed glasses she, of course, did not have, and was squinting to read the page when his hand came down hard upon her shoulder, and with what seemed like an unnatural force, he shook her like a hunting dog rattles a pheasant in his jaws, hurling her across the room, where she hit the paneled wall with a thud, collapsing onto a lamp that shattered beneath her.
“You goddamn look at me when I talk to you, bitch! Ya hear?”
She cowered, and he lunged for her, striking her face as she squealed. Then he punched her hard in the stomach as she tried to get up, overturning a chair and just barely missing her head on the coffee table on her way down. It was nearly over. But not before his boot delivered a sharp blow to her chest, cracking two of her ribs.
Several neighbors responded to the commotion, appearing at the screen door with threats of calling the police. But he didn’t care; he just kept beating her.
By the time an ambulance arrived, Mayella was unconscious and Rodney was long gone.
Chapter Two
Mayella was not a bit surprised that Tallulah blamed her for running Rodney off.
“He would have stay’t if’n you didn’t come and change up ever-thing. Ain’t barely enough room for two woman’s in this house. An’ you damn sure one too many!”
It wasn’t long before her mother found a replacement deadbeat, and the whole nightmare replayed again and again with every drunk, druggie, degenerate boyfriend that Tallulah brought home after that. When they didn’t rob them, they free-loaded; some were just passing through on their way to jail or God knows where, others stayed until all hell broke loose and left Mayella and her little brothers to suffer the fall-out.