by K. A. Tucker
Jackpot. I stifle my smile. “That’s a big area.” Does he realize how long that will take? How much that will take out of him, and me?
“Yeah. It is.”
“That’s going to take hours.”
His eyes flicker over me lightning fast. “All night, maybe.”
He’s flirting with me. I can’t read him at all, but I caught that.
My heart skips a beat as I get lost in his face. I’ve had a few clients turned flings. I try to keep things separate, but sometimes it’s hard. There’s a heightened level of intimacy that comes with this job that is impossible to replicate. These men come to me, vulnerable and full of trust from the moment they climb into my chair. I have all the control, and it can be intoxicating, having an attractive guy lie there and watch me with anticipative eyes, allowing me to mark him with something that bonds us for eternity—or until he files for divorce in a tattoo removal process. Though, I’ve had no divorces yet, from what I know. If anything, they search me out on the Internet when they want more. I have my own web page set up, with my portfolio and where I’m working at any moment in time. One guy from Portland actually vacationed in Ireland last summer, just so I could finish his sleeve for him.
“Do you have a sketch already?”
He reaches into his back pocket, his T-shirt pulling tight against the ridges of his chest, retrieving a sheet of paper that he unfolds and hands to me. I study the grim reaper on the page, the gown heavy and black, the scythe oversized. A little morbid, but I’ve seen worse. I recognize it as a popular sketch. I’m not a fan of popular sketches. If you’re going to mark your body, why not make it original? It disappoints me a little that he wouldn’t feel the same. But I guess that’s why he’s coming to me, so I can set him straight. He just doesn’t know it yet.
“Are you a virgin?” I like asking hot guys that question out of the blue and seeing how they react.
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Have you had any other work done?”
“Oh.” The slightest exhale sails from his lips, but I notice it. “Yeah. I have.”
My eyes roll over his form again, wondering where it could be. “Okay. Well, Sebastian . . . We should go inside and talk about this some more. This is about seven hours of work, and doing it in one sitting is hard, but I don’t think we have any other choice. Ideally I’d outline it all and then begin the detail a month or so later, once it’s healed. But I doubt I’ll be around in a month.”
“When are you leaving?”
I glance over my shoulder at the back of Black Rabbit, as dingy out here as it is inside. “As soon as this place is out of my hair.”
“You don’t like San Francisco?”
“I love it,” I answer too quickly. “Loved it. But there’s nothing here for me now.”
His gaze drifts over to the dented, dirty back door. “Was this place yours?”
“No. It was my uncle’s shop.”
“The one who was murdered in this chair I just pitched for you?”
I grimace at the callous way he says it, but I wasn’t any less callous when I said it yesterday, I guess. Of course he’s not going to forget something like that. “Yeah. He was more my father than my own father is. And now he’s gone, and I can’t stand being here so I’m leaving.” Wanting to get off the subject, I add, “And you’ll have to pay in cash.”
“Was it a robbery?”
“I have no fucking idea,” I snap, but then temper my tone. He’s a client, after all. “The cops think it might be, but it doesn’t make sense. I mean, you’ve seen inside. There wasn’t much to steal. A grand from the register and a VCR? Seriously. No need to tie someone up and torture, then kill him.” I clear my throat several times, trying to get the knot out.
“Junkies do stupid things,” Sebastian offers.
“These guys weren’t junkies. They had balaclavas and gloves, and silencers. And freshly polished boots.”
He frowns. “And the police have no leads?”
“Nope, nothing other than the one guy’s name, which I gave them—Mario. Some midwesterner with the thickest accent I’ve ever heard.”
His foot kicks a few loose stones as he closes the distance, his strength somehow radiating off him, that penetrating gaze distracting my thoughts. “I’m sorry that you lost your uncle in such a horrible, tragic way.”
I drop my eyes to the gravel between us and swallow back the tears that threaten again. “Thanks.”
Fingers grasp my chin and lift my face up to meet his again. “Will working on me help distract you from all that?”
“Yes.” Too breathless, Ivy. God, way too needy and breathless.
A small smile curls his lips. “Then I’m ready whenever you are.”
I swallow and take a step back, my heart hammering against my chest.
“There you are!”
For fuck’s sake . . .
There’s Bobby, ambling down the alley between Black Rabbit and the Happy Nails mani-pedi mill next door. He looks from me to Sebastian, and back to me.
“I’ve been waiting out front!” he says accusingly.
“Yeah.” I throw a hand haphazardly at the Dumpster, the energy firing between Sebastian and me deflating like a needle stuck in a balloon. “He was just helping me pitch the chair.”
Bobby frowns, holding up the long rectangular kit in his grip. “I told ya I’d bring a torch. I just had to wait until the guys were done with it.”
“Turns out I didn’t need one. Just a six-point wrench and some muscle.” I smirk, impressed with myself both for remembering the tool Sebastian mentioned and for finding a way around needing this biker.
“Huh.” Bobby doesn’t look as impressed. “Well, I brought it. I’ve got a few hours now, so let’s go and get this finished.” He holds his arm out.
“Unfortunately she’s booked for tonight.” Sebastian steps forward, that eerie calmness settling onto him again.
Bobby steps forward as well, straightening his back to his full height, his girth dwarfing Sebastian. “Yeah, with me.”
“You’re two hours late. You’ll have to reschedule.” Sebastian’s perfectly still and limber, seemingly unbothered.
Sebastian is fucking crazy.
And if he gets pummeled into the ground—or worse—I’m going to feel responsible, and I have enough guilt to carry on these narrow shoulders of mine right now. He may be able to launch a steel chair over his head, but going toe-to-toe with a guy like Bobby, who I’m sure doesn’t fight fair, is only going to mangle that face I like looking at. He doesn’t know who he’s up against here.
I force myself in between the two men, placing a hand on Sebastian’s stomach—the hard ridges beneath his shirt were begging for my attention. “Your design is going to take a lot more time than I have tonight, anyway. Come back tomorrow and I’ll start it for you.”
I don’t think he heard me. He’s not moving, not even acknowledging the contact.
“Hey!” I snap. That works, pulling his gaze down to me, to my hand still on him. “Can you come back tomorrow?” Will he be working? What does he do? Is he from around here?
“Yeah. Fine. See you tomorrow.” He steps away, leaving my fingers hanging in the air as he strolls around us and down the alley, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Ballsy fuck,” Bobby mutters, eying his back with disdain.
Hot, ballsy fuck. Who could be stretched out in my chair right now, if we’d gotten behind locked doors one minute sooner. “Come on, Bobby.” I sigh, taking in the bulky mass in front of me. I’m guessing his gut will be well on its way to a trip over his belt within two years.
Not exactly the same.
Definitely not something I’ll be thinking about alone in my bed tonight.
“You all right?” Bobby squints, peering down at me through deceptively pretty baby blue eyes.
“Fine,” I force out, wiping the last of the ointment over his arm and then tossing the paper towel into the trash. “We’re done h
ere.”
He frowns. “Aren’t you even going to show it to me, to make sure I like it?”
“There’s a full-length mirror right there.” Two feet over from where he’s sitting, the lazy ass. I start pulling apart my machine as he eases himself out of the chair and wanders over. He turns his body and twists his arm to get a good look at the underside, where I’ve incorporated red and blue into the zombie princess’s cape just like he asked, to represent the American flag. Ironically, this one-percenter is also patriotic to the country whose laws he regularly breaks. “Happy?”
“Yeah.” He eyes me warily. “It looks great.”
“Good. You owe me six hundred.”
His eyebrows spike and he starts to laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
“Two hours at three hundred per. The last I checked, that equals six hundred. I can bring you a calculator if you want.”
He shoots me a flat glare. “Three hundred is Ned’s rate.”
“It’s also my rate when I’m finishing my dead uncle’s work for you, when all I want to be doing is cleaning this place up and getting the hell out of here!” I’m yelling at him and I don’t give a damn, because raising my voice is the only thing keeping the tears at bay.
It finally started sinking in today. Listening to the familiar buzz of my tattoo machine for two hours helped chip away at the shock that’s dulled my senses up until now. Ned’s gone. My uncle, who taught me everything I know about this industry, who took me under his wing the day I finished high school, who was my guinea pig when I was cutting my teeth on technique—judging skin depth, offsetting movement, gauging pain levels—who never once made me scrub a toilet during my apprenticeship, who inspired a passion that I expect will live with me until I’m too old to hold a needle steady, is dead.
And the person who did it—that psycho Mario—will probably get away with it.
My teeth have been gritted for two hours, my answers clipped as I listened to that buzz that brought with it no serenity, no joy. All it did was remind me about the last moments of Ned’s life, when I couldn’t do anything but cower in the back room.
“Okay, Ivy.” He pulls his wallet out and pulls out a stack of bills. I don’t want to know how he earns his money. I really don’t care right now. “And here. You let me know if you need any help with anything else around here. It’s a lot for one person to handle on their own.” He hands me a business card: BOBBY AND BROTHERS TOWING AND AUTOMOTIVE.
“Thanks.” I chew on the inside of my mouth as guilt chews on my insides, watching him lumber out the door. Because, once again, I’ve been a complete asshole to someone who doesn’t really deserve it. “Hey, you’d tell me if you heard anything more about what happened to Ned, right?”
He turns to meet my eyes, an exaggerated frown turning his mouth down. “Nothin’ on our end.”
“ ’Kay. See ya.”
I clean and pack everything up into my case as I do after every shift, wondering if Sebastian will still come by tomorrow. I’m hoping that he does, because I’m desperate to shake the unease I felt today. I need his canvas in order to do that. Maybe working on him will somehow be different.
I’m wired. There’s no way I’m falling asleep anytime soon, and I can’t just sit around in Ned’s house with his ghost, so when my phone buzzes with a text from Fez, I jump on the chance to do my next favorite thing to inking skin.
Inking walls.
I have plenty of options. The owner of a building over on Forty-second and East Twelfth—who is coincidentally the owner of the sub shop down the street from Black Rabbit—has offered to pay me to paint a mural on his wall as part of the antigraffiti movement. Or, there’s an already colorful cube van parked off Lombard that draws in artists like three-year-olds to a bowl of gumballs. Heck, I could even vandalize the inside of Black Rabbit, seeing as it’s all being painted over on Friday.
But it’s eleven at night and I don’t feel like going the legal, good girl route. That’s why I’m in the bowels of San Francisco—inside one of the many abandoned buildings in the Mission District—with a box of spray paint and my portable speaker. Two things, aside from my tattoo case, that I never go anywhere without. I really shouldn’t be doing this. Ned warned me that the city has upped the punishment for vandalism to a misdemeanor. And I feel like I’ve outgrown that period of time when charges might pass as cool and excusable. At twenty-five, I’d just be a giant loser.
But it’s quiet inside this remote and derelict office building and the windows are all boarded up. Frankly, I should be more concerned about the junkies and homeless that will no doubt filter through here than the cops. That’s why I don’t come to places like this alone.
“Ivy, tunes?” Weazy, a twenty-nine-year-old Mexican with a well-known passion for depicting jungle scenes, to the point that his work is almost as good as a fingerprint, sets up one of his battery-powered lights. We have four in total. Enough to light up one corner of this building while leaving many others dark and accessible to any creepers who may want to hide. And they do.
That should bother me but most of them are harmless, I’m in a group, and . . . fuck it. Ned’s dead, Ian’s gone, the few good friends I have are nowhere around, and I’ve never been the kind of girl to cry on someone’s shoulder. This is the best way I have to work through my grief.
I crank the volume and my pocket-sized cube speaker pumps out a deep, rhythmic song. “It’s my playlist tonight, just in case you were wondering.” I hang out with these guys once every couple of weeks. They’re pretty cool. Other than Fez, none of them hit on me. I’m pretty sure Weazy is convinced I’m a lesbian. Whatever makes them leave me alone.
“As long as it’s slammin’, I’m down!” Fez hollers, swinging around the chain that connects his wallet to his jeans, his cargo pants staying on his scrawny hips by the grace of a belt.
“Seriously, Fez. Stop talking.” I can’t listen to that all night. If it wasn’t dangerous to put earplugs in around here, I would.
He waves his middle finger at me in response, but he takes no offense. He’s used to being told to shut up by Ned, every time he came in to deliver a pizza.
The ball in the bottom of the can rattles with my shake, as I size up the wall before me. It’s already been marred by taggers. Talentless fools with a can of paint. Nothing I can’t cover, though, and I will, even if it takes me all night.
“Who wants?” A guy I only know as Joker waves a bottle of Don Q in the air, his beady eyes settling on me first.
“Rum. Gross. Not me.”
The others flock to it, but I pull out my flask of whiskey instead, taking a small swig of it before I climb to the top of the three-step ladder. Not too much. Just enough to ease the tension out of my limbs.
With a spray can in my hand, I’m already feeling better.
TEN
SEBASTIAN
I have an obsession with time that I can’t readily cater to here, in my dark, dusty corner of this dump, the stench of urine and vomit permeating the stale air. Any flicker of light from my phone or my watch will go noticed, if not by the group of four graffiti artists in my line of sight, then by the many crackheads and vagrants that hide out like rats in rafters.
Watching with interest. Or, perhaps, for opportunity.
I’m really no different.
The last time I checked, it was two in the morning. Hours must have passed since, but Ivy doesn’t seem ready to leave yet. She must be a nocturnal creature, like me.
Ivy.
I’m no longer thinking of her generically. She’s no longer simply “the girl” in my thoughts.
Worse, I gave her my real name. Why the fuck did I give her my real name? I never do that and yet, in a split-second decision, I convinced myself that I wanted to. That it was harmless, because she’s not guilty of anything, and I’m not going to hurt her.
At least, I don’t want to hurt her.
I do need her to trust me, though. I found nothing of any interest in the dead shop owner’s files.
No property holdings, no safety-deposit boxes, nothing. Which means I have no choice but to get my answers out of her, one way or another.
Either Ivy’s a fantastic liar or she doesn’t know a thing about this videotape, or her uncle’s blackmail attempt. She’s just a twenty-five-year-old tattoo artist with a prickly exterior, who lost her father figure and is trying to move on.
It will take creativity now, to question her about the existence of this videotape without her realizing it. To find out where her uncle may have hidden it. It will take time. I guess it’s good that I’ve had this grim reaper tattoo in mind for the better part of five years.
The day I received my official discharge letter from the U.S. Navy, Bentley pulled up next to my parents’ San Francisco house where I was staying and told me to get in the car. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life, or what he would be proposing. He had left the navy a year prior, and took his skills, his reputation, and his family money, and founded Alliance. It was still very much in its infancy stage then, but he had big ideas and even bigger connections, which were already landing him major security contracts in Afghanistan, the exact place we had been battling suicide attacks and ambushes while we toured together.
I hoped that he would hire me to go back, to continue putting my skills to use. To prove myself.
But he had other plans for me. I was someone he trusted like no other, someone he would pay well. Someone he needed to execute assignments that are never documented, that no one “officially” talks about, and that the world would never have any proof actually existed.
I would become a reaper of sorts, delivering an end to those who needed it.
Without medals, without fanfare, but with quiet honor.
Getting this tattoo buys me seven hours with Ivy. And if that’s not enough, I’ll have to buy myself more time in other ways. Maybe that’s what drove me to bait her earlier, lifting my shirt to my forehead to wipe the sweat off my brow. A childhood of Krav Maga and boxing lessons, two years of intensive SEAL training, and almost eight years of daily conditioning have honed my body into what most women want.