An Hour of Skin

Lauren McKenna tattoos for cash under a condemned ballroom's dying chandeliers, four months behind on rent and hiding a left side of ink that isn't hers. Jonathan Creed owns the wrecking balls, half the river, and eight years of burn scars no artist will touch. His offer: eleven weeks, three nights a week, absolute secrecy. Her counteroffer: an hour of his skin costs one true thing. Neither of them counts on the truths turning lethal.