“I don’t see that. At all.”
Scott was lying. The narrow face, dirty blonde hair and dark eyes were all familiar. He was both flattered and deeply confused. Sam didn’t even know he was still here in Melbourne. Was it a coincidence? What else could it be?
“I can’t believe I’m going to have you on my leg forever!” Kelly laughed. “Do you think Sammy did it on purpose?”
Scott was spared the difficulty of answering as a nearby speaker crackled to life.
“Attention everyone, the winners of Ink the Night are about to be announced. Charge your glasses and head over to the main stage. Artists and models, please head to the VIP room. Thank you.”
Kelly clapped her hands. “Ooh that’s me! I’ll have to head off, wish me luck!”
“Good luck,” Scott muttered, his mind full of the tattooed Adam.
“Thanks. Also, you should know, I think you sound just like Prince William.” She smiled up at him, her tongue sliding across her lower lip. “I used to have such a massive crush on him.”
“I…see.”
Kelly laughed. “You’re cute. Talk to you soon.”
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then dashed away, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined ever having game. He could swear he’d had it once but Melbourne appeared to have sucked the sexual competence out of him.
“Hey, how’s it going, Prince William?” Tabby had reappeared, clutching two full bottles of cider.
Scott winced. “You heard that?”
“I sure did. Pretty cringe, ey?”
“I think she was just flirting.”
“I meant your reaction. You looked like a fencepost with a tie tied around it. I was embarrassed for you.”
Scott frowned and extended his hand for a cider.
“I don’t think so.”
Tabby drank from both bottles at once, draining half before wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Sorry man, the TAB’s running thin. It’s every girl for herself.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go to the front and watch the presentation.”
They wove through the crowd as the artists and corresponding models assembled on the stage. They watched as the emcee interviewed the first artist—a short man with a goatee. The man talked about the feathering technique he’d used and Scott noticed all the models were attractive young women and all of the artists aside from Sam were men. “Are there many female tattooists?”
Tabby eyed him over. “Why?”
“I’m just curious. Sam’s the only woman up there.”
“That’s because tattoo comps are like music festivals or talk shows—put too many chicks on and guys think it’s a girl thing.”
“Seems illogical.”
“Yeah well, you’re not a dick. There are more female artists than there used to be but, nowhere near half, or even a quarter.”
Scott digested this information. “Why do you think that is?”
Tabby threw him another assessing look.
“You can say whatever you like, I’m secure in my masculinity.”
She grinned. “Glad to hear it. I think there’s a lot of factors, but if you want my take, you need to be pretty fucking cocky—arrogant really—to feel comfortable inking your artwork into other people’s skin for money. Arrogance isn’t something people like in girls. It’s way easier to sit down and cheer for the dudes while they tattoo and that’s the way most of them want it.”
Scott remembered Edgar DaSilva with his long hair and vegan leather jacket, arguing with a neighbor for saying he didn’t want to fly in a plane with a female pilot. “Your dad didn’t see it that way.”
Tabby’s face softened. “No. He was woke before woke was even a word. We were lucky.”
She glanced up at the stage where Samantha and Kelly were talking quietly to one another. “You don’t know how weird it is, being at a comp without him. Being at home without him. I have no idea how Sam handled it by herself for so long.”
His one beer and the Adam tattoo must have had him feeling sentimental because Scott wrapped an arm around Tabby’s shoulders. “He’ll be home before you know it.”
“I don’t know about that, but thanks, Prince William.” Tabby leaned into his side and Scott smiled. What would life have been like if Tabitha DaSilva was his little sister? Chaotic no doubt, but fun.
Tabby glanced slyly up at him. “Hey man, you’re still in love with Sam, aren’t you?”
It was one of those moments where, if he’d been drinking anything, he would have spat it all over himself. It wasn’t just the question, or the casualness of the ask—it was that she’d articulated the thing he’d been asking himself since they arrived at Ink the Night. Since he’d seen Samantha tackling that man in the street.
“No,” he said, because Tabby looked so bloody smug. “I’m not. And I was never in love with her. I had a crush on her when I was essentially a child.”
“Eighteen isn’t a child though, is it? If you didn’t love her, why’d you leave? Why’d you just pack up all your shit and bail without saying goodbye?”
He looked at her, unsure if she knew and was attempting to draw him out or if she’d never been told. “Ask your sister.”
Tabby opened her mouth to respond but never got the chance. Onstage, the emcee had reached Sam. “Ms DaSilva! Lovely to see you here tonight! How long has it been since you last competed?”
“Three years.”
There was a nervousness about her hands and smile that made Scott’s heart hammer against his chest—all he wanted was for her to win.
The emcee patted Sam’s arm. “Okay, talk us through your work.”
“It was inspired by Joachim Patinir’s earlier painting—”
“Okay love, maybe not that far back.”
The crowd laughed loudly.
Arsehole.
He looked at Tabby and saw she was scowling. “Brynn hates us. Heaps of the crews around here do because they think we didn’t earn our seat at the table. It’s bollocks and I swear to Christ, Sam better win or I’m staging a protest that will involve a lot of toilet paper.”
After less than a minute, the emcee finished with Samantha and was working his way through the rest of the artists. Scott paid little attention, he was watching Samantha. Having looked at the rest of the work on display, he still thought hers was the best, but it wasn’t a good sign. He decided to keep an eye on Tabby. The way she was staring single-mindedly at the emcee while picking at the labels on her cider didn’t bode well.
“It’s time for the moment of truth, ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said. “Envelope!”
An assistant rushed on stage and handed him a small white envelope. The MC paused, allowing the moment to calcify before he opened it. “Before we get to the big winner, we’d better announce the runner up. Tonight they’ll win two hundred dollars, a bottle of Jack and an entry into a runner-up ballot to tattoo at Fadeout Festival. You lot excited about Fadeout?”
The crowd around him burst into cheers.
“Yeah, should be a good one,” the emcee shouted. “Hope you’ve got your tickets booked. Well, without further ado, the runner up tonight is Sam DaSilva of Silver Daughters Ink.”
“No!” Tabby shouted, but Scott was the only one who heard her. The rest of the crowd cheered their approval.
Aside from a slight tightening of her jaw, Samantha gave no sign of disappointment. She tossed her hair and sauntered over to the emcee who gave her a rough-looking handshake. “Well done.”
“Thanks.” Without asking, she plucked the microphone from his hand and addressed the audience. “If you liked my work, come by Silver Daughters in Brunswick. Mention tonight’s theme for a ten percent discount.”
The crowd cheered and Scott grinned.
A woman behind her snorted. “I wouldn’t go to that shithole if it had a hundred percent discount.”
“Why not?” a man asked.
“It’s gone to the dogs. Shit reviews from ex-clients everywhere and Edgar’s not aro
und. They’re just wheeling Kat Von D out to try and win back some business. Second place, my arsehole.”
Scott turned to Tabby, worried she was about to retaliate, but she’d already vanished. He was relieved, then realised she’d probably gone to throw toilet paper at the emcee.
“…she barely knows one end of a needle from the other, her tits were just falling out of her leathers the whole time.”
Okay, that was the limit. Scott turned and addressed the middle aged couple behind him. “Samantha DaSilva’s work was exceptional and she should have won.”
The woman ducked her head, but the man sneered. “Who asked you, pommy?”
Typical. Scott turned back around, knowing arguing further would be pointless. The winner of the competition was announced, the bald guy with the goatee. He stepped forward to accept the small trophy and his model lifted her shirt to reveal the hell-mouth the man had inked just below her bare breasts. The crowd whooped and hooted their approval.
Sam and Kelly had already vanished from the stage, as had most of the other contestants. The crowd resumed chatting and drinking and he wondered what to do next. Tabby was gone. The sensible thing would be to go home, but he couldn’t leave without at least talking to Samantha.
He knew the artists and models had a VIP section—Tabby had been sneaking there to get free alcohol—and that was most likely where she was. He made his way to the stage and straightened his tie. When he was at university he and his Cambridge friends had made a habit of crashing black tie events. The trick was to dress exceptionally well and walk past security with as much confidence as possible. The kind of confidence that suggested you’d get sacked for daring to question it. Scott squared his shoulders and, to his relief, walked right past the bouncers.
He found Tabby standing by the bar drinking a glass of red wine. “Hello again.”
“Scottison! Beverage?”
Tempting, but he needed to drive. “No thanks. I was hoping to see—”
“Sam. I can help you with that. In fact I was going to help you after three quick wines.” She emptied her glass, set it on the bar and then grabbed his wrist. “She’s over here.”
Unwilling to be dragged across the room, Scott tried to extract himself and found he couldn’t break her grasp. “You’ve got strong fingers.”
“Tattooist, mate, we’re all like this. Aha! There she is.”
If Scott hadn’t already known he was in trouble, he’d have known it then. The mere sight of Samantha’s tattooed back made him inexplicably nervous. As did the fact that she was talking to two heavily tattooed men who were clearly interested in her. Though he supposed he should be grateful Kelly wasn’t there to tell him he looked like Prince William again. “Tabby, can I have a moment before—”
“Nope, seize the day, brah.” Tabby dragged him forward. “Samantha, you remember Scott Sanderson, right? Neighbor, roller skate destroyer, British, etcetera.”
Scott supposed he should be relieved she hadn’t said ‘panty stealer.’ “Hello, Sam.”
Samantha turned and when their eyes met, electricity prickled through his body in a way he’d not felt since he was eighteen. All he could see were her eyes, the flickering, flashing blue. No other woman had inspired this joyful terror in him. Tabby was right, he was still in love with Sam.
Bloody hell.
He cleared his throat, because everyone was looking at him and the show needed to go on. “Congratulations, you were fantastic.”
Samantha smiled. “I don’t know about that, seeing as I didn’t win.”
“You should have. Your work was magnificent.”
She flushed a little—just a tiny bit and Scott grinned. He was on the verge of asking if she wanted a drink when one of the men Sam was talking to shoved a hand at him. “Matt. Steelworks Tattoos, seven years.”
Scott shook with his hand. “I’m Scott, how do you do?”
“Good thanks. What’s your line of work?”
“I’m in finance.”
Matt grimaced. “Tough luck.”
Scott forced himself to keep smiling. Matt had angled his body so it formed a barricade between himself and Sam. If he stayed, this was going to get butch. He and Steelworks Tattoos, Seven Years would compete for Sam’s attention and hustle to buy her drinks and ask her questions until she rejected one, or both of them. The smart thing to do would be to leave. Go home and try to get his head around everything that had happened already.
“So, where to next?” Matt asked. “Sammy, feel like heading to the Black Pearl? I’ve got a mate behind the bar, we could drink away your troubles?”
Sam held up her unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. “I think I’m sorted.”
Matt grinned. “Well how about we all go back to your place and open it? Have a house party.”
“Could work.” Samantha turned to him. “Want to come back to Brunners and have a drink?”
Scott’s stomach lurched. Sam’s place was positively sagging with memories and going there tonight would have the added bonus of a romantic rival. “Actually, I should head—”
“I’m hungry,” Tabby announced. “I want to get something to eat. Sam, can we go get something to eat?”
“We’re headed back to the house.”
“We don’t have any food in the house. I mean, except zucchini and eggs and stuff. I want trash-food. Let’s go to 8-bit or something.”
Sam pursed her lips. “I don’t know, I’m not that hungry.”
“Sam’s a big girl,” Matt said. “Why don’t we—”
“We need to get you some food,” Tabby interrupted. “Hey, I haven’t been to Trippy Taco since I got back. Let’s go there! Matt, you’re parked nearby, can you drive me?”
The tall man looked from Tabby to Sam. “Ah…sure. You’ll be coming too, right Sammy?”
“Of course she will,” Tabby interrupted. “Scott can help her pack up her equipment and then drive her right over, right Scott?”
“Sure,” Scott said, trying not to sound as though he was in intense pain. The heel of Tabby’s boot had just crushed his toes.
Tabby clapped her hands. “So it’s settled. See you all at Trippy Taco! I can’t wait!”
She gripped the tall man by his shirt-front and dragged them toward the door.
He and Sam looked at each other for a moment. “I think we’ve been set up.”
To his relief, she smiled. “It seems that way.”
“So, shall we go get a drink? Or a taco?”
Sam glanced at the door Tabby had just dragged Matt out of. “You know, I think Tabby’s up to something. That usually means you should run while you still can.”
Oh God, she was letting him down gently. Scott cleared his throat. “If you want to head home without me, I d-d-don’t mind.”
The stutter came out of nowhere, turning his voice to rush. He turned away, rubbing at his mouth and feeling betrayed.
“I don’t stutter anymore,” he told Sam. “I never stutter anymore.”
Then something wonderful happened. Samantha DaSilva took his hand. “I know. Come on, let’s go not get tacos.”
Chapter 10
April 15, 2007
Sam spotted her underwear almost a block away. Nine pairs of panties and three bras were strung up in the bush in front of her house like fairy lights. She and Nicole ran to collect them, their school skirts flapping around their knees like flags.
Nicole tugged Sam’s leopard print bikini bottoms off a particularly prickly twig. “Who would do this?”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
“Scott?”
Sam yanked her favourite hot pink hipsters from the bush, tearing the already worn elastic. “No, Peter Pan. Of course, it was Scott. Who else has stolen my underwear and enjoys tormenting me? It was only a matter of time until he combined the two.”
Nicole frowned. “But he would have been at school today, wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know, all I know is he did it.” Sam jumped to collect her bright r
ed push-up bra. “God, he’s a knob.”
“You’re not going to do anything back, are you? His mum’s still sick.”
Sam glanced up at the Sanderson’s house, large, gated and even more sinister than when they were kids. Inside those walls was Elaine Sanderson who’d they’d learned six months ago had terminal ovarian cancer. Sam hadn’t seen her in months, no one had. When she was first diagnosed, her dad had gone over every day with tea and cakes but now Elaine didn’t open the door for anyone.
“I know his mum’s sick,” she told Nicole. “That’s terrible and I wish she wasn’t, but why should Galahad be allowed to rummage through my underwear, willy-nilly?”
Nicole covered her hand with her mouth.
“You can’t seriously be laughing at ‘willy-nilly.’ You’re the fucking school captain!”
“It was the way you said it. Look, I know this is shit and gross but please don’t confront Scott about this? We’ll just…get a lock and put it on the inside of your window or something, okay?”
Sam looked up at the Sanderson house. What would it be like to watch your mother fade away? She hadn’t heard from hers in forever, but Scott had it worse. She wanted to talk to him about it, make sure he was okay, but the last time they’d seen each other he’d been with a group of his private school mates. One of them had whistled at her and they’d all laughed as she’d flipped them the bird. He didn’t want her help.
“Fine,” she told Nicole. “But you should put a lock on your window, too.”
“Why would I do that? Scott Sanderson doesn’t hate me.”
Present Day
“Are you disappointed?” Scott asked as they walked through the car park. “Sorry, that’s a stupid question, of course you would be. Ignore that question.”
Sam looked across at him. He looked tense and seemed legitimately nervous about offending her. Jesus, did she come across as that hostile? She didn’t want to, but she’d just snatched defeat from the jaws of victory and her hopes of tattooing at Fadeout were circling the can. Silver Daughter was still firmly in the red zone and she had no idea what to do next.
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