Tattooed

By Suzanne D. Williams

He flattened his palm to her chest. "You're a beautiful, blank canvas, simply waiting for the right design."

A handsome rockstar, a lot of tattoos, a God who's bigger than he ever knew.

All the money and fame rock drummer Holden Lang possesses cannot fix his broken heart, nor the crippling disaster his body has become. He's washed up, through playing, and in for a long road to recovery. Charity Caswell's appearance at the side of his hospital bed is a gift. She's willing to marry him and take on his care, no feelings involved.

Why didn't she believe God could mend her broken heart? Charity ran from home after her fiancé cheated on her, so striking a business deal with Holden is the best way to never hurt again. She'll pose as his wife and save his reputation. He'll get the physical help he needs.

Except the God she serves has bigger plans for both of them, and a startling pathway to get there. If they'll open their eyes, step out in faith, and believe. A bold look at God's willingness to heal the body, as well as the mind and the soul. A novel by author, SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne D. Williams
• Release date: Mar 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524239961

Suzanne D. Williams

Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors. She is co-founder of THE EDGE. To learn more about what she’s doing and check out her extensive catalogue of stories, visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.

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SUZANNE D WILLIAMS

© 2014 Tattooed by Suzanne D. Williams

www.feelgoodromance.com

www.suzannedwilliams.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

For the LORD seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the LORD looketh on the heart (1Samuel 16:7).

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Interview

From The Author

About The Author

PROLOGUE

Leaping up and down on the balls of his feet, Holden Lang struck a silent pattern in the air and sailed forward, the energy of his last fix coursing through his veins. Gone was the persistent hum of the growing crowd, the last-minute clatter of equipment, and rowdy language of roadies. Instead, a rapid, throbbing rock beat thrummed in his head beneath cranking guitars and rasping vocals.

He twirled left, beams of blue and magenta light highlighting the tattooed canvas of his skin, and he met eyes with the other members of the band. The bass player, a tall man with jet black hair, clasped his hand, and they bumped shoulders.

Man, you really get her name put on there? his friend asked. He studied Holden’s bared chest for evidence of the deed.

Holden thrust his left shoulder forward. Right here. He tapped the new design still reddened on his skin and puffed out his chest. There she was, the love of his life, written in ink.

The bass player shook his head. You know what they say. As soon as you put a girl’s name on you, something goes wrong.

Holden jutted his chin out. Doubters. "Not this time. She’s the one."

’The one?’ You’re seriously going to do it? Tie the knot?

Holden dismissed his friend’s mistrust. So what, he was skeptical. He didn’t know her like Holden did.

Yeah, and I’ve got it all planned out, Holden said. This weekend I’ll show her the tattoo and pop the question. He stuck his drumsticks in his back pocket and crossed his arms over his well-embellished chest.

A third fellow, sporting heavy eye makeup and gages in his ears, approached the duo. We’re on in five. He tapped one finger on his wrist as if he wore a watch.

Nods passed all around.

Shifting his stubby finger to Holden’s new tattoo, he snorted. Gees, man, you’ve messed up now.

Heat simmered in Holden’s gut. Not messed up. Finally got it right. She was exactly what he needed. It was their problem that they couldn’t see it.

How about you two let off the tat and concentrate on the concert, he snapped, inclining his head toward the stage entrance.

The lights went out, and cheers erupted in the crowd along with a pulsing chant. Hol-den. Hol-den. Hol-den.

"Wish they’d chant my name," the bass player said.

The third fellow gave a grunt. You’re too ugly.

You’re both too ugly, Holden returned.

They lined up at the entrance, silhouettes against the swirl of smoke rising from the platform. And the chant grew louder. And louder.

You go forward with wedding plans, and you’ll cut our fan base in half, the bass player said.

Try two-thirds, Holden smirked, cocky, self-assured.

Now, a stage voice called from the side, a muscular arm waving their cue.

They slipped through the dancing lights onto the platform and took their places, instruments tuned and ready. Holden raised his drumsticks overhead. The chant roared, deafening now, the burst of thousands of voices rising in a thundering roar.

Let’s give ’em what they want, boys, he said. Clicking his sticks together, he counted off. One. Two. Three. Four.

CHAPTER 1

Holden Lang flexed his right arm, stretching and expanding the new tattoo; orange-yellow flames shot around a single blue ocean wave sweeping over his bicep. Water and fire. Just like his life.

The tattooist, a girl with cherry-red hair and a flashy diamond lip stud, let out an oath. One look at you and I know Laura was a fool.

Her New York accent smacked him square in the face, like always. He said nothing but shook his head.

His skin stung from her efforts, but the pain was slight in comparison to what Laura had left on his heart. He blocked the negative thoughts from resurfacing. She was over, and he was done with her. Done with women for that matter.

They were all the same.

Except for Pam. He glanced in her direction, but she’d already started cleaning up the mess. She bent her wafer-thin frame over an open cabinet drawer, and the string of her thong climbed up her back.

He looked away.

So, tell me, she said, returning upright, Laura’s gone. Who’s next?

Hearing her name on Pam’s lips made him cold. He lowered his arm. No one.

Aw, come now, beefcake, you’ve got ladies lined up at your door, myself included. The sprinkling of stars extending across her chest rose and fell with her breathing.

He frowned. Those women were after his image, not himself, and he’d had his fill of shallow females. Besides, after Laura, he refused to get involved with anyone.

As for Pam—

She tilted her head, the banner on the left side of her neck elongating. Freedom. That perfectly described how she lived her life. She’d learned from her past and refused to be tied down. In that they were alike.

Thanks, but no thanks, he said. Not even for you.

Her eyes sparkled. "I am disappointed. Can’t even get me a kiss, huh?"

No, that I can do, he said. He leaned forward and pecked her cheek. Anything for the only reliable girl I know.

She fanned her face with one hand. Wow. Holden Lang kissed me.

The door chimed, and they both turned. A six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound beast of a man entered the shop, and Pam’s hatred crawled up Holden’s spine long before she spoke.

What do you want, Doyle?

Doyle Harris, her ex, and the reason she wouldn’t be tied down. Doyle advertised bad tattoo shops everywhere, since much of what he sported had gone green. His extreme weight didn’t help things. What used to be a skull now resembled a cross between a cow and a donkey.

Resentment looks good on you, Doyle said.

Pam and Doyle had been married less than a year when things fell apart, and true to their explosive relationship, they went out with a bang. She threw things. He threw things, and the police were called in. He spent a night in jail for clocking an officer.

Stuff it, Doyle, Pam said. State your case and get out.

His fingers twitching, his heavy bulk unable to keep still, Doyle fidgeted, nervous. Need that money you owe me.

Pam being the one gainfully employed, she supported him and not the other way around. As far as Holden knew, Doyle had never held a steady job. Not a legal one.

I sent you money already this month, she said.

I spent that. I need more. Restless, Doyle jerked his shoulders back and forth.

Holden’s brows drew tight.

Spent it on what? Abandoning her work on his arm, Pam rose to her feet. Next to Doyle, her one hundred pounds looked more like fifty.

That’s my business.

"It’s mine when it’s my money you’re using it for. I won’t support your habit." She punctuated these statements with a few jabs to the mottled skin on his chest.

Doyle caught her wrist in a vise. She winced.

Holden’s insides coiled into a knot. Hey, man, he said, Lighten up.

Drummer Boy, Doyle snarled, his eyes shading black. You and her shackin’ up?

Pam wriggled in his grip, pain clear on her face.

Cut it out, Doyle, she said. Leave him out of this.

‘Leave him out,’ Doyle mocked in a singsong voice. Listen to you. You were always after him.

Pam yelped. Let go. You’re hurting me.

Holden tried reasoning with him again. C’mon, man. She asked you to let go.

Doyle dropped Pam’s arm and spun around on his heel. That better, Drummer Boy? I’ve let your little woman go. Tell me. She as good with you as she was with me?

Holden held his hands palms outward. We’ve got no problems, pal. Subtracting their weight difference and Doyle’s height, he’d be a fool to start something.

Maybe we do. Doyle said, lumbering forward. Maybe I don’t want you around her.

Pam stepped between them, a circular bruise already formed on her wrist. What Holden and I do is between us. Now, I’ll give you what I’ve got, but it ain’t much.

Doyle seemed to consider her words, but his gaze narrowed, arms outstretched, a bad feeling settled in Holden’s gut. This wouldn’t turn out well. He’d been in numerous fights over the years, and he could generally hold his own. But none against an opponent as big as Doyle and no one spoiling for trouble simply for trouble’s sake.

I think I’ll break your fingers one by one, Doyle said, the lines on his face growing hard. Then I’ll break your arms. Keep you from playing.

Holden backed away, stumbling over his chair. There had to be some way to diffuse this before it went out of control.

Pam grabbed hold of Doyle’s arm. Doyle, you’re being ridiculous.

With a growl, Doyle flung her across the floor. She landed against a storage cabinet with a thud. Startled, Holden made to move toward her, but Doyle’s fat fingers pulled him up short.

This really wouldn’t turn out well.

He tried to free his arm, but Doyle hauled back his fist, the impact crunching bones, and the lights went out.

Charity Caswell pulled her car into a slot at the strip mall and, shifting the makeup-stained gear lever into park, shut off the ignition and removed the keys. Her gaze wandered down the line of businesses to rest on the empty shop at the end.

Perfect. Maybe.

She swiveled the other direction and, for one minute, counted the cars driving by. Moderate traffic for middle of the day. A lighted sign board along the street to draw the eye. Both, good things. Now, was it big enough?

She snagged her purse and climbed from the car, pausing briefly to lock the doors and pocket the keys. She wove her way around a black SUV and into the aisle.

Hair Palace. Vitamin Center. Chinese Eatery. Tattoo Shop.

Bookstore. That’d be her if she decided to do this. Of course, the tattoo shop was a bit off-putting. But surely, those people read books. Then again, not Christian books.

She forced her eyes forward and passed by the shop, determined to not peer inside. She shouldn’t ogle someone, simply because they defaced themselves.

She made a slight breath.

No, not deface. Judge not, that ye be not judged. She wouldn’t be judgmental. God loved everyone, including people with tattoos. This was her new start, her chance to begin again, be someone different. New city, new friends. Her chance to forget the pain of the past.

But it rose up before her just the same. Jonas Grossman and his clean-cut face, starched clothing, and shiny shoes. Jonas Grossman toting his large, leather Bible into church. Jonas Grossman proposing. Jonas Grossman cheating on her the day before their wedding.

You never know how black someone’s heart is, she said to herself.

Arriving at the empty storefront, her thoughts changed. She pressed her face to the glass, creating foggy nose prints on the dusty windows. It looked big enough. She’d put the register on the left, line the back wall with shelves, and create a comfortable reading spot right beneath the window. Coffee. She would make coffee and offer danishes.

Her heart sped a beat. It not only could work; it would work.

Just as soon as she found a place to live.

She stepped to the door and jiggled the handle. A place to live meant paying rent, which would take a good portion of the money left from the sale of her house. But if she budgeted her dollars right, she should have just enough for the first month’s rent plus a little to buy a small amount of stock.

She spun in place. She also had to find a church to attend. She’d spotted four, two Baptist, one Methodist, and one Catholic. All probably full of good, honest people who loved God.

Like Jonas Grossman.

She frowned. Not like Jonas Grossman. More like Pastor Jordanson and his wife, who’d been married fifty-five years and raised three loving children.

A splintering crash brought her out of her daydreams. She whirled as a body flew through the remains of the tattoo shop’s window. An enormous bulk of a man followed, hauling his pointed boot backward and hurling it into the prone man’s side.

The sickening smack made her jump in place.

He would kill that man if someone didn’t do something. Forget who he might be or what shop he came out of. She should say something. You stop that!

The enormous man halted, hair wild about his face, his cheeks reddened.

What was she doing? This was a massive, angry, powerful man covered from head-to-toe in tattoos.

She retrieved her cell phone from her purse and dialed 911. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed help. Seeing her call, the enormous man bolted. Blundering across the parking lot, he leapt into a battered blue pickup truck and flew from the lot, his tires squealing.

Fred does good one twenty-three, she muttered. Fred does good one twenty-three. She pulled up an empty text window and typed in the license plate, FDG 123. Then dashing down the sidewalk, Charity fell on her knees at the injured man’s side. His nose was crooked, probably broken. His lip was split, and his arm hung at a weird angle.

The skin on his right shoulder caught her eye. His new tattoo.

She tilted her head. It seemed like a shame to draw that well and put it on skin.

No sooner had this thought crossed her mind than a girl walked drunkenly out the tattoo shop’s door. A ring glinted in her nose and a diamond stud in her lip. Colorful tattoos covered every square-inch of her skin.

Holden, the girl said. Holden. Don’t die on me.

She met Charity’s gaze. He can’t die.

Charity looked down at him again. His eye had swollen shut. I don’t think he’s going to die. But what did she know? She inclined her head toward the girl’s palm. Your hand. You’ve cut it.

The girl held her palm out. Doyle, she said.

Is he the big man I saw?

The girl closed her eyes and wavered on weakening legs. Don’t let him die, she mumbled, swaying in place.

Charity stared from the girl to the man. Fine place to be. New in town and the first people she meets were in a fight at a tattoo shop.

Miss, the EMT waved her over. You can ride with your husband.

Charity Caswell blinked rapidly. Husband? She was no one’s wife and never would be anyone’s wife. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she gazed at the back of a local police officer. He’d taken up with the tattoo girl and bypassed her entirely.

Ma’am, we’ve got to go. Impatient, the EMT swung the door inward.

Charity took one step forward.

The tattoo girl was obviously occupied, and the injured man didn’t seem to have anyone. Perhaps she should ride along and at least make sure he was okay. What would it hurt?

She climbed in the ambulance, and the wail of the siren sent a myriad of doubts flooding her brain. What was she doing? She didn’t know this man and wasn’t obligated to be here. But wasn’t it a Christian thing to do? Care for the sick and all that? And he was sick.

Do you think he’ll be okay? she asked.

The EMT raised his head from his work. His vitals are good, but he’s broken several bones ... His left leg, and definitely his arm. What’s his name?

His name? Charity furrowed her brow. The girl had called him something. Holden, she said, the name rising.

You can hold his hand. The EMT nodded at Holden’s motionless fingers.

Hesitantly, she took the man’s warm fingers in her own.

The EMT smiled and went back to work. Pulling the man’s shirt open, he pressed a stethoscope to his chest.

Charity swallowed hard, her face flaming. He was ... was ... very handsome, but ... but she shouldn’t think like that, especially with him being injured. Her gaze roamed over his skin and across his tattoos anyway.

She leaned in and studied one right above his naval. Je ne sais quoi. French for I don’t know what. A strange thing to write on oneself. Words of indecision and uncertainty. What’d made him feel that way?

Her gaze roamed