Hot Ink (Paranormal Erotic Romance): Book I (A Walsh Jackson Novel 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

time.”
    Walsh gritted his teeth as his pulse raced. “The guy moved into my house before my wife became my ex. Of course we had disagreements, but that’s all they were. There’s no real bad blood between us.”
    Nash rose to his feet. “Well, according to the bartender at Zeek’s, there’s enough motive to haul you in right now for questioning. But I’ll do you a favor and let you decide how this is going to play out.”
    “I’ve got nothing to hide, Nash.”
    “Good.” Nash headed for the door and motioned for Walsh to follow.
    “I’ll take my bike.”
    “Suit yourself,” Nash said with a smirk, and slammed the shop door behind him.

    In the alley behind INK, the evening sun hung low on the horizon. Walsh started his Harley and tore off. With the wind in his face, and the roar of the engine drowning out the world, his mind drifted to Gloria. And Bob. Dead.
    He had issues with Bob but that didn’t mean he wanted the man gone. It wasn’t like he had stolen Gloria away as many around town had thought. Bob picked up her pieces when their marriage became irrecoverably broken down. She got the house, and Walsh got the shop. Gloria had taught him everything he knew about tattooing, and the student quickly became the master; his client list outgrowing hers in less than a month on the job.
    Maybe that was part of their break up? Jealousy. Walsh shook his head. He could call it whatever he wanted, but no matter how he tried to jostle the events in his mind, he was still to blame. His anger. His drinking. His despair over a life he could not remember.
    The ride to the station was quick and smooth, and a route he knew all too well. After Gloria left, his broken sorry ass had ended up in the drunk tank more times than the inches of ink that stretched across his flesh. That boiling rage of his liked to show its head when both his bottle and bed were empty, but he wasn’t a murderer. At least that’s what he told himself every day whenever he tried to remember his life before six years ago. Walsh chuckled at that thought: a murder with a memory problem.
    He slowed his Harley to a halt in front of the Miami Metro Police Station. Nash was waiting for him, still wearing that stupid smirk on his face.
    “I see you didn’t run,” Nash said.
    “I told you I’ve got nothing to hide.”
    Inside, the station was bustling with activity. Ringing phones, shuffling feet, and the loud antics of hookers and johns pleading their innocence on deaf ears.
    Walsh followed Nash to the interrogation room.
    “Have a seat,” Nash said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
    “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
    Walsh had never seen inside this room before. Sleek white walls, a reverse mirror, cameras mounted on the ceiling, and a lone desk with two chairs–just like on TV.
    Nash entered the room again, holding a tan file. His file.
    Nash took the chair opposite Walsh and thumbed through the pages deliberately. “Six counts disorderly conduct,” he recited. “Four counts drunken lewdness.”
    Nash peeked his head over the file and eyed Walsh.
    “I had to take a piss. Four times,” Walsh said.
    “And two counts assault,” Nash said. He slapped the file on the desk. “One count against Gloria Jackson-Grim, and the other-”
    “Bob Grim,” Walsh added. “She locked me out of my own house. Bob came out to have a talk–man to man.”
    “You have quite a nice rap sheet here, Walsh, but strange that there’s nothing on you before six years ago.”
    “That’s right,” Walsh sneered. “You’re new on the force. Keep reading.”
    Nash flipped to the back page. “One count indecent exposure. Charges Dropped. Says here you were found naked and disoriented at Southpoint Park, with no recollection of where you came from, or how you got there. Correct?” Nash eyed Walsh. “Seen a doctor about that?” he asked.
    “All of them.”
    “Got any residual side effects from it?”
    “Other than drinking too much and getting into the occasional fight,