Mad Dog Second Skin Book One Ophelia Bell Animus Press Contents Description 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 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Epilogue One Epilogue Two Read On About Ophelia Bell Also by Ophelia Bell Description Not even the king of Los Angeles’s underground can stop me from loving Celeste. Arturo Flores could make me disappear with a snap of his fingers, and nearly did. Limping away from a beatdown when I was seventeen didn’t change the fact that his daughter was worth the pain. Running into her now twelve years later, she still makes my blood run hot with a glance. But I’m not a boy anymore. And Celeste isn’t the only one I want. Leo is a temptation I ache for, but in our world, admitting desires like mine could get me killed. The gangbanger is as ruthless as he is beautiful, yet he can’t see anything beyond Celeste. That hurts like hell to admit, but I would sooner die at her crime lord father’s hands than let either of them get hurt. I’m prepared to let them have each other when Leo comes to me with an offer. One that could connect the three of us in a way that flies in the face of the world we live in. His proposal ignites a fire in my veins. If it fails, we’ll all get burned, but for a man with nothing to lose, I’m just desperate enough to take that chance. 1 Maddox “You ever been in love, Mad Dog?” I’m mid-tattoo, my machine buzzing in my hand, when Leo asks this question. He’s facedown in my tattoo chair, a pillow clutched in his arms. The question catches me off guard and I pause, lifting the needle and glancing at his profile. My heart thumps because the first thing I think is that somehow he’s read my mind. Somehow he’s figured out the reason I look forward to our Saturday-night tattoo sessions. He shifts sideways a fraction and twists his head to look at me. A coiled lock of his crazy black hair falls across his forehead and he expels a breath through his mouth to blow it off. Is now the time to come clean about how I feel? But I rein in the split-second—and suicidal—impulse. Instead, I let out a grunt and shake my head. “Love is fucking dangerous in this town, man. Why? You have something you need to get off your chest?” I’ve been doing this job for long enough to know questions like his are usually a prelude to deeper confessions. I don’t really want to know his answer, but our friendship is more important to me than petty jealousy. I can’t have him. He’s straight. I’m not. End of discussion. I should at least let him know that detail—we’ve been friends going on a year now—but I can’t bring myself to confess it without opening the floodgates to deeper shit. Being queer in gangland is bad for your health, so I’ll just sit on my feelings and deal. He sighs, then buries his face back in the pillow. I get back to the tattoo. “You know this is a no-judgment zone. Tell me about her.” Whatever he has bottled up inside must be pretty intense because his shoulders tighten up hard as rocks. He gives his head a frustrated jerk, groans, then lets his body relax as he surrenders, and I brace myself to be the recipient of whatever secret he’s finally allowed himself to spill. “I shouldn’t even fucking look at this girl. Her father’s a goddamn killer. But I can’t not, you know? She’s always there, and so pretty. Half of me wonders if the reason I want her is ’cuz I know I can’t have her. That’s a thing, isn’t it?” I make a low hum of understanding. “La douleur exquise.” “I forgot your mom is French. What does it mean?” “It’s like what you said. ‘Exquisite pain’—because you want it so much it hurts, but not even that hurt will make you stop wanting it. I was hung up on a girl in high school, and when it became crystal clear I couldn’t have her, Mom taught me that phrase.” Leo snorts into the pillow. “Exquisite pain. Like getting tattoos, huh?” “Yeah, except you actually get to keep the tattoo.” He’s silent for a few minutes, and I keep inking his skin, absorbing the irony of that old memory popping up at the exact moment I’m yearning for Leo while he’s feeling the same about some girl. His tension returns to a point I can’t ignore and I pause again, swiping a damp paper towel over the growing swath of fresh ink on his back. “Whoever she is, she’s got you tied up in some serious knots. Maybe you need to distance yourself from her for a while.” “Not an option.” He clutches the pillow a little tighter, and his gaze cuts sideways to me. “There’s something you oughta know about me. About who I work for. La Valla is only part of it.” The gang he belongs to isn’t unfamiliar. In the year since I opened this shop, my clientele has largely consisted of members of La Valla, including Leo Reyes and his older brother, Manny, who are the shot callers for the gang. They were my first clients from the darker side of Los Angeles. They even tried to recruit me to join and become their in-house tattoo artist, but I turned them down. Not that it wasn’t tempting. The offer was sweet, and I’m not above exploring a few moral gray areas to make money, but after a decade in the military, I value my newfound independence too much to sign on for something like that. But if there’s more to his world than La Valla, I definitely want to hear. “I’m listening.” He turns a little
