Busted (Stacked Deck Book 11)

by Emilia Finn

  I rent my tiny corner of the shop from Ian, since I have no desire to set up my own place. I don’t want to work alone, and I don’t want to manage other people, so setting up a space in the back corner of Inkalot was the perfect solution. I get to work with four other guys on a daily basis – Ian, Carmichael, Gaston, whose name is actually Clay, and Clay, whose name is also Clay – and then there’s Zelda, our only other female in this testosterone-filled space.

  Everyone inks, but Zelda dabbles in piercings too, so when she does that, I like to watch, to learn, since I guess I get off on seeing people hurt.

  I’m extra tired today… not so bad that I’m going to get sloppy in my work, but enough that my hand is heavy. Luckily, my poor client is a veteran to ink, has already covered two-thirds of his body, and has arguably a higher pain threshold than, say, Grace, who came in here months ago asking for a cute little butterfly for the top of her foot.

  Once she got an eyeful of me as I held my not even plugged in tattoo gun, and heard my maniacal laughter as I offered to squeeze her into my schedule free of charge, she turned her ass around again and got her ‘art’ someplace else.

  Those are the days I especially like my life.

  However, my exhaustion today means my client is losing patience.

  “Yo, chief.” Chute – don’t ask me why that’s his name, it just is – hisses and shoots a filthy glare in my direction. “You need a break or something?”

  “Huh?” I pull away from my work, my slight obsessive focus on Grace Risotto, her ink, and her attempt at luring Rob away last night, and glance up to meet his gaze.

  Chute’s face is scarred from old acne, and perhaps a few knife fights, but though his lips are tight, his eyes are kind. “Your hand is getting heavy,” he says in a gentle tone – gentle, because perhaps I have a reputation around here for being mean when offended. “You need a minute?”

  “Oh… nah. Sorry.” I lift my gun away from his skin, away from the eyes I’m filling in on the meaty part of his calf.

  Chute is old military, which means that, while he’s still big, still muscular, he’s also getting a little soft around the stomach. He lays on it now, on my table covered in cling wrap, but pushes up to his elbows and studies me over his shoulder.

  “We’ve been at it for a couple hours already, kid. I might could do with a coke or something.”

  He wants a break. He wants my hands off his skin for fifteen minutes, or he risks crying out and never living that humiliation down. So I relent, even though I’d prefer to keep going.

  The sooner I’m done, the sooner I get to run back to Rob and ask if last night was real.

  I mean, I’m sure it was, but he hasn’t texted me since I left this morning, and missing him is messing with my feelings.

  The second my gun is away from Chute’s leg, he sits up and escapes my reach – he’s probably worried I’ll change my mind – but since he’s gone, I set the gun on the sterilized tray to my right, push my latex gloves off, and sit up tall to stretch out my spine.

  “Fifteen-minute break.” I groan as my bones crackle and shift.

  I’ve been sitting, hunched, for three hours straight. Which means I’ve had three hours to mindlessly work and obsess over my best friend and the events that took place over the last twenty-four hours.

  So much happened, I can’t hardly make my tired brain focus on any one thing.

  Standing from my stool in an attempt to draw a little fresh oxygen into my blood and legs, I push away from my table and work my way toward the mini fridge I keep under my desk. I grab out a can of soda and toss it over as Chute sits up, then I grab a second can and pop the tab so the sound of gas releasing echoes through the shop.

  “I’m not sure what I did to piss you off,” Chute says quietly, “but the heavy hand, and you’re a little distracted…”

  “I’m sorry.” I take a sip of the icy cold soda and feel it slide down my throat. I live in the moment, enjoy the cold liquid, then I set the can on my desk and begin walking tiny laps in my small space. “I’m not mad at you, I promise. I’m just…”

  “Distracted?” he offers. “You got guy problems?” Now that he’s out of trouble, Chute opens his soda and stops with a smirk just before taking a swig. “I never thought you’d be the type to wallow over boys.”

  “I’m not wallowing. And he’s not just any boy.” I turn at the end of my lap, start again, and push my hands up over my face and into my hair. My forehead hurts a little, but the blood was long ago cleaned up, ibuprofen stuffed into my system to go to war against the headache I’ve yet to get rid of. “You know Rob?”

  “Your puppy?” Chute laughs so that his belly kind of bounces a little. “Yeah, I know Rob.”

  “Yeah, well, him. Things are just…” I stop pacing, and turn back to the guy who was once, quite possibly, a member of the CIA – though of course, nobody heard that from me. “I’m just tired, that’s all. We were out late, we were having fun…” No need to tell the world about what we did in his apartment. “Rob’s ex-girlfriend tried to drag him away, and she’s annoyed me for years, so that pissed me off a little. But overall, everything is fine.”

  I begin pacing again as flashes of this morning pass through my mind. Rob’s hands on my thighs. His eyes staring deep into mine. His heart pounding beneath my touch, and his declarations of love, over and over and over again.

  “Everything is perfect,” I murmur.

  “I always thought you guys were cute together.” Chute smirks when my eyes snap to his. “Especially since you two fight every single fucking time you’re in the same space. In fact, I’m not sure you guys know how not to be at war.”

  “That’s not fighting, that’s…” I think on it for a moment, but before I can finish my thought, Ian stops by my small space, rests his arms on the cubicle walls I put up to afford my client a sliver of privacy, and grinning, he watches me with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “That’s flirting.” He taps his fingers – the nails painted black – against my wall. “What you and Rob do, sweetpea, that’s called flirting.”

  “Hush.” I snatch up my coke and go back to pacing. “It’s not flirting. It’s just… ya know. It’s our love language. It’s what we do.”

  “Also known as flirting,” Ian chuckles. “You think I don’t listen to you two bicker every single moment he’s in here?”

  “We don’t bicker! Most of the time when he’s in here, he’s a paying customer, so I behave with utmost professionalism.”

  “So that time you dry-inked ‘Emma is a badass’ into his arm?”

  “There was no ink!” I argue with a guy who has a teardrop tattoo on his cheek. No fucking exaggeration. “It healed up within a week. Now it’s gone, and no one even remembers it.”

  Snorting, Ian reaches up and taps his temple. “I remember. This shop used to be a haven for men, you know that? Male artists, male clients. The women stayed at home.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  “Now,” he continues over my interruption, “I got the baby peacock up in my space. She’s worse than—”

  “And Zelda too.” I stop in front of my desk and rest against it so I’m half sitting, half standing. “Don’t forget Zelda. She hates being left out.”

  “I can’t forget her! She delivered a fucking glitter bomb to my desk last week for my birthday. A glitter bomb! In a sanitized workplace,” he growls. “Some folks might consider that shots fired in modern warfare.”

  “Wow. Drama.” I bring a hand up, and circle my index finger beside my head to imply he’s crazy. Though, perhaps, in light of the teardrop thing, maybe I’m the one suffering from a lack of intelligence. “I can see that our hormones are getting in and addling your brain.”

  “Yeah! That shit started when the women synced up with the devil. Now, I’m half tempted to off myself, gift my shop to you ladies, and be done with it.”

  “Ew. No. Take me out of your will.”

  I glance to my left, to the computer screen with Chut
e’s design in high definition. Some artists like to hand draw, others like to work on a good ol’ fashioned light table. I prefer paper and pencil when it’s just for me, but at work, I mostly use drawing software so advanced, no device can handle it… except, of course, computers created and maintained by the good folks down at Griffin Tech.

  “I don’t want my own shop.” I glance away from the screen and meet Ian’s eyes. “If I wanted one, I’d have opened one and put you out of business.”

  Ian stands tall and shakes his head. “You’ve got balls, Kincaid. There ain’t a soul in this town – hell, this state – who would say that shit to my face.”

  “Yeah, well…” I set my coke aside and push to my feet. It’s time to get back to work. Time to dig in and finish this job. Then I get to run back to Rob and bicker some more, and if I’m really lucky, I’ll get the chance to knock some twin heads together just for the fun of it. “Boys don’t scare me,” I tell Ian. “You’re all nothing more than stupid bags of bones with your very own death-button strapped to the front of your bodies.”

  Surprised, Ian glances down. Then back up. “My what?”

  “Your balls.” I roll my eyes and make my way back to my stool. Dropping down, I grab Chute’s shoulder and shove him back to his stomach, then taking out a fresh pair of latex gloves, I carefully slide them on and pick up my gun. “Your balls are just sitting there, waiting to be kicked. And it takes just the slightest pressure for you to fold.”

  “Well…”

  “And as an aside, why is it that we merely speak of kicking a guy in the balls, and he almost passes out, but during sex, you slam those suckers around with serious violence, and nada, no pain?”

  “Uh… well…” Ian’s face pales. “You, uh… see…”

  “Darlin’…” Chute literally fans his face. “We can’t discuss this with you.”

  “Why the hell not?” I restart my favorite gun – it’s a rotary, quieter than the conventional type, light and easy to use, but with that kind of luxury comes a price tag to match. “I’m not thirteen anymore.”

  “Well… no.” Ian clears his throat and reaches up to loosen his tie – a solid plan, except he’s not wearing one. “But I knew you when you were thirteen. In fact, I knew you when you were just a swimmer in your daddy’s ballsack, and your momma was walking around my shop, smacking her own ass to get his attention. Which means that I can trust you to ink, I can put your name in the same hat as mine and know you’ll always produce quality. But I’m not gonna talk sex with you. Sorry.”

  I look to Chute in expectation. “I’m not a child.”

  “You’re fooling yourself if you think Bobby hasn’t already talked to every single person you will ever come into contact with in this shop. We’re men, sometimes we’re pigs, but we have a code of conduct when it comes to a dude’s daughter. Especially,” he coughs, “when that dude was once a world fucking champion fighter.”

  “You’re a couple of pussies.”

  “Wow,” Ian huffs. “I can see she’s got her professional face on now.”

  I blow out a soft, snorting laugh and go back to work on this image of Marilyn Monroe. Not entirely original, except for the fact Chute’s wife is an almost exact replica of the iconic sex symbol.

  “We’re in a tattoo studio,” I tell them and lean closer to work. “Not a nail salon, which means I’m allowed to say ‘pussy’.”

  “I’m gonna tell your father,” Ian threatens. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I brought you in here.”

  “You were thinking ‘Damn, she can draw better than me. And she’s cute too’.”

  He laughs. “Surprisingly accurate. Also, you can fight, and I’m getting too old to be fast on my feet.”

  “And yet,” my voice turns quieter as I work, my vision back to perfect after last night’s craziness. “You still pick on me.”

  “I don’t pick on you,” he tosses back. “I tell you the truth. You just so happen to not like it.”

  “I disagree, and will add that you’re picking on me again now.” I pull my gun away from Chute’s leg, grab my paper towel and soak it to wipe away excess ink. “Don’t make me cry on my daddy’s shoulder and get you both in trouble.”

  “Oh please.” Ian turns away, clapping my wall in farewell. “I said I won’t talk sex with you because of your father, but I’m not gonna let you use him as a sword. Bobby Kincaid can sit the fuck down and mind his damn bus—”

  “Emma Katherine?” Daddy’s voice grabs my attention, and Ian’s muted squeal makes me laugh so that I have to stop inking, or risk messing it up. “Ian? You were saying?”

  I look up in time to catch sight of Ian bouncing onto the balls of his feet. He lifts his fists, pretends he can fight a world champion, but as he bounces, he sure as shit bounces away, not forward.

  “She was being a smartass,” Ian says. “I was telling her to shove a sock in it.”

  “I heard my name,” Daddy pushes. “You got something to say to me?”

  “Yup.” Ian drops his hands and turns away. “I like your money, keep bringing it here. And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Chuckling, Daddy watches Ian walk back to his own cubicle, and when he drops down into his chair, Daddy turns back to me and takes the position Ian just had; his forearms on the partition wall, his chin on his arms.

  “Hey, baby. That looks good.”

  “Hey, Daddy.” I get back to work, since I would actually like to get out of here at some point today. “Missed you last night.”

  “Mm. I was out early, so I didn’t see you come in last night.”

  That’s because I didn’t come home!

  I scream it in my head, but I sure as shit don’t say it out loud.

  Instead, I tell him, “I stayed out late.” I feel the gentle vibrations of the gun move along my wrist. The weight of it, though it’s not all that heavy. Barely more than my cellphone. “I’m glad you stopped in,” I murmur. “It feels weird when I don’t see you before work.”

  “More reason for you to never move out.” His reply comes quickly. Definitively. “Bry left, Brooke left. You’re staying forever.”

  “Wow,” I shake my head and continue to work, but with a smile. “Took you three seconds to start in on me.”

  “So don’t leave, and we won’t have to do this.”

  “Bry lives next door! Brooke is two seconds away. Besides,” I pull back to wipe my paper towel over Chute’s leg, to study my work, then I lean in again and keep going, “who said anything about me moving out?”

  “No one. But Fart’s twins are bouncing out today.”

  I ignore the shot of electricity that zings through my heart. The memories of Rob’s bare chest beneath my lips. His strong arms, wrapped around my torso.

  “You afraid I’m gonna go with them?”

  Thinking on it for a second, Dad settles on a shrug. “I’m just getting in first, before you get ideas.”

  “But you realize I’m a grown woman, right?” I pull back and glance over at him.

  My father looks a lot like Bry: square jaw, chocolate brown eyes, dark hair, and a broad chest that, just like with Chute, stays broad, even when you slow down and retire.

  “I’m not a kid.” Frowning, I go back to working on the lines around Marilyn’s eyes. “I feel like I’m saying that a lot lately.”

  “I know what you are, Little Bit. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna tie you down and keep you in my home forever. What happened to your bumper?”

  My brows come together, as only about ten percent of my brain focuses on his words, and the rest is on my work. “My what?”

  “Your back bumper,” he repeats patiently. “Your car is only, what… a month old? And you already backed into something?”

  “Oh…” My heart jumps into my throat so that I’m forced to swallow, or choke. “Um, yeah. I backed into the corner of the skate ramp yesterday. Scraped it up a little.” In my family, we absolutely, un
der no circumstances, do not lie to each other… unless its me, lying to my father, because I’ve put myself into death-defying situations. In which case, I lie till my face turns blue. “It’s not bad, so I wasn’t gonna do anything about it.”

  “We should probably get rid of that ramp soon, huh? It’s old as balls, and breaks bones.”

  “Broke my arm on that masterpiece,” I chuckle. “And my baby teeth.”

  “Bry nearly lost half his face on that thing.”

  “And Rob broke his leg.” I hate that I want to laugh, but instead, I exhale a tired sigh. “Stupid boy.”

  Daddy’s head tilts in my peripherals. His eyes deepen, widen, to give me all of his attention. “What’s got you sad, baby?”

  I shrug and slide my wipe over Chute’s leg. “Not sad. I’m tired, though. I was out late last night.”

  “Yes…” he says dryly. “I know. My daughter runs this town late at night now, and with Jon Fart’s son. Yay me.”

  I snort. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Ya know, Jon was always pissing me off as kids. It’s likely why you and Rob are always bickering.”

  “See?” Chute pushes up to add his two cents. “Always bickering. That’s what Ian and I were just saying.”

  “Hush.” I push him back down with a laugh, then I turn to Daddy. “You’re lying. Jon’s a sweetheart, so of the two of you, it was always him being mad at you.”

  “This is also true,” Daddy chuckles. “Jon just wanted a quiet life… and the turkey leg at Thanksgiving. But I was always dragging him out to do dumb shit.”

  “Kinda like me and Rob,” I say with a grin. Except I’m the instigator. I’m the troublemaker. “I’m gonna head over to their apartment when I’m done here,” I tell him. “Either those boys will have moved their crap in without causing chaos for their new neighbors, or…” I stop working on Chute’s tensed calf muscle, and sit back to stretch my spine. “Or they might turn up dead.”

  “There are two of them, anyway,” Daddy reasons. “So it’s not like we don’t have one spare for easy disposal.”

  “Right. Though if we’re planning ahead, I’d bet it’s Luke who ends up losing his head.” I look over and meet Daddy’s eyes. “He’s too obnoxious to live, right?”