Assignment Austin

by Lucey Phillips

  I wanted to answer her. But I didn’t want to make any more promises. Especially promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.

  “You talking about Harris Myer?” Angel asked as she walked into the room. She casually leaned against a red metal Craftsman tool chest, where Mia kept her ink. “I heard they both had side relationships.”

  “What?” My mouth hung open.

  “Oh yeah.” Angel waved her hand. “I thought everyone knew. He had a girlfriend. She had a boyfriend. It was one of those marriages.”

  “One of those marriages?” Colin asked, looking befuddled—or maybe he was wincing in pain from the work Mia was doing.

  “You know—when their finances run so deep that getting divorced isn’t feasible. So they just, you know, keep things casual.”

  “This changes everything,” I said, looking from Angel to Colin.

  Angel waved her hand again. “The cops probably know all about it.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head.

  “This is great!” Mia said. “Maybe it’ll move the heat off of Neil!”

  Colin raised his eyebrows at me.

  “What, exactly, did you hear?” I asked Angel.

  “Well.” She folded her arms across her chest and looked up at the ceiling. “Supposedly he had one serious girlfriend for, like, years. And I heard Rita was always trying to get with a bunch of different men—trying to make Harris jealous.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I should believe her. My experience as a reporter chasing rumors had taught me that, although they were often distractions and exaggerations of the truth, fleshing out rumors was rarely a waste of time. Even when the rumors weren’t true, they could point me toward something real—something people actually did need to know.

  “Harris had a girlfriend? Why hasn’t she been questioned?” Colin asked without taking his gaze away from Mia’s work on his chest.

  “Maybe they don’t know,” Mia said.

  “Or maybe it’s just a rumor,” I said. “I mean, if there really was an extra-marital relationship, and it was obvious enough that everyone’s talking about it, then there should be plenty of evidence.”

  “Not if they stayed offline,” Angel said. “It’s not like people from their generation are used to hooking up on apps.”

  “Yeah,” Colin chimed in. “And you’re assuming the detectives are doing their jobs. Maybe they’re totally incompetent.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Mia said, wiping a cloth across Colin’s chest one last time. “Okay! All done! What do you think?”

  Colin smiled down at his chest, then up at Mia. “It’s great,” he said. “I should have done this years ago.”

  Mia grinned and peeled her gloves off of her hands.

  Colin looked up at me. “What do you think? Huge difference, huh?”

  I leaned closer toward Colin and tried to appear impressed.

  “Yeah, that’s nice,” I said. “Mia’s really good.”

  I meant it, too. But, for the most part, I couldn’t appreciate the art because I couldn’t get past the tiny specks of blood and the raised pink halos of inflammation that surrounded each stroke of ink.

  “When the redness settles down, you’ll see. It’s really good art,” Colin said with a barely-there edge of coolness in his tone.

  “Oh yeah, I know. It’s really nice,” I said. Now I was trying too hard.

  “Ooh!” Angel let out a little shriek and clapped her hands together. “You know what time it is?”

  “What time is it?” Mia asked with a smirk, as if she already knew the answer.

  “You know!” Angel said, nearly yelling. “Tatt-o-rita time!”

  “Okay,” Mia said with a laugh.

  “Grape or strawberry?” Angel asked Mia.

  “Grape,” Mia said.

  Angel pointed to Colin and asked, “Grape or strawberry?”

  “Uh. What’s a tatt-o-rita?” Colin asked.

  “Duh! It’s our signature drink,” Angel said. “It’s kind of like a frozen margarita, but it’s also a work of art.”

  “The way Angel makes them is pretty cool,” Mia said.

  “All right. I guess I’ll have strawberry,” Colin said. “Take it easy on the tequila though. I don’t usually drink liquor.”

  “Okay, a weak strawberry for Colin,” Angel said before pivoting toward me.

  She looked at me expectantly. “Grape or strawberry?”

  “I don’t drink,” I said.

  “You can still have a slushy,” Angel said.

  I smiled. “Okay. Grape.”

  Angel disappeared into a back room, and soon we heard a blender whirring.

  After a few minutes, Angel returned with four frosty glass mugs on a tray. Two of the drinks had a pink-and-white-swirled mixture and two were purple and white. One of the purple drinks had a straw in it.

  Angel handed that one to me.

  “A virgin grape for Jae,” she said, before turning toward Colin, who was sitting on the edge of the table with his legs dangling down. “And a light-on-the-liquor strawberry for Colin.”

  Colin looked skeptical while he took a sip. Meanwhile, Angel handed Mia a drink, which Mia immediately tipped back and started chugging.

  Angel shook her head and made a tsk, tsk sound. “Don’t come crying to me when you get brain freeze,” she said.

  Colin coughed. “Wow… tequila!”

  “You don’t like it?” Angel asked, frowning. “I’m sorry.”

  Colin instantly appeared apologetic. “No, no. I like it. It tastes good.”

  Mia hiccupped. “Well, if nothing else, you won’t be feeling the sting of that tattoo when you’re done with your drink.”

  Colin grinned, raised his glass, and tipped it back. Angel and Mia laughed and cheered.

  I looked down into my drink, swirling the straw and watching the white and purple blend into a misty shade of lavender.

  “Hey! Are you forgetting someone?” Dane asked when he walked into the room.

  Buzz followed him in, adding, “Yeah, you’re hurting that one feeling I have.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you guys were still with clients,” Angel said before asking the two men what flavors of tatt-o-ritas they wanted.

  Colin didn’t look up from his drink through the entire exchange.

  Dane sat down beside me. “You must be off the clock. You don’t seem like the type of person who drinks on the job.”

  “Didn’t you hear? Journalists are all supposed to be a bunch of degenerates.”

  “Yeah. And tattoo artists are supposed to be criminals,” Dane added with a smile. He leaned back and folded his bulky, muscular arms across his chest, which also looked a bit over-muscled. “I don’t believe in stereotypes.”

  “Well, you were right,” I said, holding up my drink. “There’s no liquor in here.”

  “Yeah?” he said, a smile revealing his sparkling white teeth.

  I took my notebook out of my messenger bag. “Actually, would it be okay if I interview you for my story?”

  I had started to worry that my story, with the focus on derby, would come out all female. I preferred a variety of people in my writing—to represent the entirety of a community.

  Dane smiled again. “Sure. Do you want to see my portfolio?”

  I followed him into another room, which was also set up with a table, a tattoo gun, inks, and other supplies. Neon signs in the storefront window lit up the room in a bright palette. The walls were covered with pencil sketches of tattoo art. There were drawings of everything imaginable—flowers, demons, landscapes, animals, and more. There were inspirational quotes and portraits of celebrities and cartoon characters.

  “Wow. I’d love to be able to draw like this,” I said.

  “You could,” Dane said. “People think drawing is, like, a mystical gift—something you’re born with. But I don’t really believe in that.”

  “No? You don’t believe in talent?”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t sa
y that. I said I don’t believe people are born with talent. Talent can be, like, learned—through practice.”

  I nodded along while I wrote furiously. That was a great quote.

  Dane went on to tell me about his childhood, growing up in poverty in a rural part of Texas.

  “All the other kids were outside throwing the football, and I was by myself—drawing. My mom bought me notebooks and plain paper when she could, but I filled them up so fast,” he said. “After that, I’d draw on old envelopes, paper grocery bags, anything that would hold a pencil mark.”

  Dane said he went on to get a college scholarship to study art.

  “I tried my hand at the fine arts—I still do some shows once in a while—but that doesn’t pay the bills as well as this does,” he said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  He leaned closer to me and made eye contact in a way that made me feel naked.

  “What do you mean?”

  While I asked that question, a burst of laughter erupted from the other room. Colin’s laugh was louder than the others. Usually, his laugh was just a low-key chuckle.

  “I’m talking about creativity,” Dane said, nodding toward my notebook. “I’m sure you’re a creative person and, I don’t know, maybe you wanted to write novels or poems or something. But poetry doesn’t pay the bills.”

  I looked down at the floor and shrugged, desperately hoping Dane didn’t see how right he was.

  When I was a little girl, I wrote stories until my notebooks were full. And now, in the bottom of my messenger bag, was a small, tattered Moleskine notebook full of fiction ideas and preliminary outlines.

  I didn’t work on them very often and when I did, they were just a distraction for me. Somewhere along the way, creative writing started to feel like an exhausting exercise in self-absorption.

  Journalism was so much easier. And, best of all, it took me away from home.

  Careful to avoid eye contact, I shrugged off Dane’s question and changed the subject.

  “Can you tell me about this one?” I asked, gesturing toward an elaborate image of colorful koi, all swimming in different directions.

  Dane tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “I drew that one a long time ago. I don’t know, maybe I just needed an excuse to play with color,” he said. “How do you feel about body art?”

  Dane seemed to be looking me up and down.

  “Well, I think some of it’s really beautiful, but it’s not my thing,” I said, taking a half-step away from him.

  But Dane just sidled closer. “Your skin tone is so pretty,” he said, taking my hand in his. “A cool palette would be perfect for you.”

  I looked at our hands. His nails were bitten down to the quick.

  I slipped my hand out of his grip.

  “So, thanks for talking to me. This is going to be nice for my story,” I said, stepping away.

  Why couldn’t he see that I wasn’t returning his flirtatious moves? Did Dane even care that I wasn’t interested? I brushed past him and left the room.

  I could hear his bright reply, “Sure, anytime!” while I turned the corner into Mia’s room.

  Mia, Angel, Buzz, and Colin were all laughing when I walked in. Mia and Buzz were telling stories about all the unfortunate tattoos they’d been asked to correct—misspelled words, portraits of exes, logos of defunct sports teams, and just plain ugly drawings.

  Finally, Colin noticed me leaning against a countertop, leafing through the notes I’d just written.

  “Jae!” he practically shouted, grinning. “You’re back!”

  Mia howled a laugh. “Dude, calm down. She was only in the next room,” she said. “Codependent much?”

  I wanted to laugh along with them, but I just couldn’t. My cheeks were starting to get warm.

  Colin ignored Mia. “Jae, you have to try this. Here,” he said, holding his mug out in my direction.

  My cheeks had gone from warm to burning.

  “Let’s get going,” I said.

  “All right,” Colin said. “But taste this first. You’ll like it, I promise.”

  His voice had a loose, almost sloppy quality. I’d never seen him like this.

  “No. Give me the keys. I’m driving,” I said.

  “Uh-oh. Colin’s in trouble,” Dane said, smirking from the doorway.

  Colin had a ridiculous grin on his face. “I’ll give you the keys when you taste this,” he said.

  Mia pulled the mug out of his hands. “She said no, dude. Besides, she’s driving.”

  “Okay, okay. Fine,” he said with a pout.

  Colin dug his keys out of his pocket, then muttered something I didn’t understand while he handed the keys to me. After he took a long time saying goodbye to everyone, we were finally back at the car.

  Colin clicked into his seat belt, rested his elbow on the passenger side door, propped his head in his hand, and watched me quietly. It seemed to take forever for me to get the driver’s seat situated so my feet could reach the pedals. I started the car, clicked on the navigation, and finally we were moving.

  “You were right about liquor,” I blurted without thinking. “You can’t handle it.”

  “What?” He sounded sleepy.

  “You were being totally obnoxious back there,” I said with a sharp tone.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Colin said. He sounded confused.

  “You kept trying to make me drink,” I said. “I never thought you would do that. I mean, I’ve been pressured to drink all my life, by all kinds of people. It’s not a big deal except…”

  “Except what?”

  “Except for when it comes from someone who’s supposed to be a friend.”

  My voice had started to shake, which just made me angrier.

  “I am a friend,” Colin said.

  For a moment, he sounded injured and I started to wonder if I was being unfair. Until he continued talking.

  “I was just trying to help,” he said. “To get you to see that just because your mom can’t handle alcohol doesn’t mean you can’t. You should be free to have fun instead of being all—all crippled by her issues.”

  “Crippled? You think I’m crippled?”

  I used the back of my hand to wipe the tears off of my cheeks before they started running down my neck. Colin sighed and started to respond, but I cut him off.

  “Do you know how many readers my column brings to ANA? Do you know I was the youngest person to ever win the Kelley Prize in Journalism? Does that really sound like someone who is crippled?”

  He started to reply but I talked over him until he was quiet. I ranted about how much responsibility I have—I’ve always had—and launched into a short monologue about my career path, practically reciting my résumé.

  Somewhere around the time I was bragging about being editor of my college newspaper, I actually heard myself. I wasn’t making a point. Instead, I just sounded insecure. So I stopped and let Colin talk.

  “Okay, Jae. I’m sorry.”

  I was crying too hard to respond to him.

  “Why don’t you pull over at this gas station?”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped. But I drove into the gas station anyway. My tears were making the headlights and street lights and neon signs blur into overlapping halos.

  I parked the car and grabbed the key. I couldn’t look at Colin. I turned to the window and whispered, “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Colin let out a sigh. “I know,” he said.

  We were silent for the next couple minutes. I watched people pumping fuel and counted customers while they walked in and out of the little store. Finally, when I was confident my crying was under control, I turned to look at Colin. His head was resting back on the seat and his eyes were closed.

  I started the car and headed toward the inn. Colin was silent until a pothole I hit jostled him awake.

  He rubbed his eyes. “You okay?” he asked with a hoarse voice.

  “Yeah,” I answered him. “I’m all right.”

 
For the last few minutes of the drive, I kept my eyes on the road. I wondered if Colin had gone back to sleep, but I wouldn’t dare look his way.

  When we got to the inn, I parked the car, handed Colin the key, and pulled my messenger bag over my shoulder.

  “Night,” I said without looking at him.

  “I’ll walk with you,” Colin said. His words sounded like a question.

  “No thanks,” I said. I finally looked him in the face, but there was no eye contact. He immediately looked to the side, toward the inn.

  “Okay,” Colin said. “Night.”

  I started on the path toward my cottage, the pea gravel crunching loudly under my footsteps. I wondered if Colin watched me walk away, or just went inside.

  | Thirteen

  I was lying awake, watching the stars fade against the light from the sunrise, when my phone started ringing. I thought of Colin immediately, but it wasn’t his name on my screen. It was Quinn, calling from East Coast time. I rubbed my eyes and let it ring a minute, trying to decide if I needed ibuprofen for my headache before I could manage having a conversation.

  It stopped ringing. I rolled over and pulled the blankets up to my chin. But about thirty seconds later, it started ringing again.

  “Hey, Quinn,” I croaked.

  “Hey. I finally got into that phone,” she said. “It was only used to contact one number.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Southwest Iron.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know what that was, but it didn’t sound like anything that would lead us to Harris’ killer.

  “It’s a corporate account, and the extension belongs to Bonnie Key,” Quinn said. “Sound familiar?”

  “Yeah…” I’d heard that name but I couldn’t remember where.

  “From Kruger’s notes!” Quinn was practically shouting.

  “Oh!”

  “Yeah. Southwest Iron sells weights and barbells and stuff like that. Bonnie Key was the rep who sold to SoCo Athletics,” Quinn said. “I pulled the records for the last ninety days. This phone and her number called back and forth at least a couple times every day.”

  “But the phone was in Minter’s desk. Maybe he was the one who was involved with her,” I said.

  “No way. If that’s the case, why would he leave the phone there? He’s been in Florida for weeks,” Quinn said. “Plus, why would he need a throwaway phone? He’s not married.”