Wuthering Frights by H.P. Mallory Read Free Book Online Page B

to him. My expression must have convinced him that it was the only weapon on me because he didn't feel for the daggers strapped to my thighs. Things were looking up. I pulled away from him, and threw my jacket over my shoulders as I faced the interior of Ink.
    The main room had two reclining chairs and a small stool that swiveled between them. The inside of the place was just as dingy as the outside: old linoleum floors, browned with age and filth, reflected the same decay and neglect as the surrounding buildings. The walls, once white, were yellowed from decades of cigarette smoke—the smell was pervasive. I'd felt a headache growing between my temples as soon as I'd entered the confined space.
    Black and white samples, detailing the various kinds of tattoos available, hung around the room haphazardly. My eyes fastened on a skull with a snake going through both eye sockets; then shifted to the image of a naked woman spread-eagled. At that tasteful image, I decided to stop looking. Steeling myself, I started down the hallway. The combined smell of smoke, alcohol and vomit was nearly enough to make me hurl, but I strode on, trying to avoid breathing.
    So this is what I was destined for? This was the type of place I was going to have to hang out in, the types of people I'd now be dealing with? I didn't even have the wherewithal to feel sorry for myself. Instead, I reached the end of the hallway, which terminated into a closed door and I rapped on it with my knuckles.
    The door opened, the sound of "Black and Yellow" by Wiz Khalifa pouring out of the small room in a flourish of bass. A woman stood before me; she was wearing nothing more than a tiny black g string and heels that were so high, she towered over me. Glancing down at them, I had to guess they were at least six inches. The woman had a rocking body—huge fake boobs with a tiny waist that flared into curvy hips and long legs. Her face, though, was another story. Her nose was, in a word, generous, and her skin was wrinkled and sallow, hanging off her cheekbones as if all its elasticity was long gone. She looked like she'd been the inspiration for the phrase "rode hard and put away wet."
    "Hi," I started as she eyed me from head to toe, smiling as she took in my leathers and matching jacket. I tried to see past her to count how many people were in the room in case I needed to protect myself, but she basically blocked my view.
    "Hi yourself," she answered back in a high-pitched, seductive tone. She probably assumed I was another of Baron's playthings—my leathers being part of a costume. But the idea of sex with Baron left me completely grossed out. I'd rather cut off my own arm ... with a butter knife.
    "I'm here to see Quillan and Baron," I said quickly, cutting right to the chase. I wasn't in the mood to make small talk with a floozy.
    She frowned at my less than friendly greeting, but was spared any further correspondence when Baron's loud voice bellowed out over the other voices and music, "Who is it, Dolly?"
    She backed away as if to say "see for yourself," and I glanced around the dimly lit room. There were two old couches in the middle and a dartboard along the back wall. Baron emerged from behind a corner, probably the bathroom, if I had to guess. I saw a huge smirk on his ugly face and I scanned the room quickly, looking for Quillan. He wasn't anywhere to be seen.
    "Ah, Dulcie fuckin' O'Neil," Baron said, with a sigh, like I was exactly where he wanted me. "The bitch responsible for making the last five years of my life ... difficult." He was putting it mildly. I'd single-handedly busted his ass for multiple offenses and put him behind bars at least twice.
    "Baron fucking Escobar," I answered, with one eyebrow arched, hinting at my pseudo-ennui. "Pleasure to see you too."
    He laughed with a bellow that seemed to ricochet throughout the room. "It's always a pleasure seeing you," he began as he eyed me up and down. "It's the dealin' with you part that's a pain in