He looks over his shoulder. “I’m not allowed to tell you.”
“What? Why the f**k not?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you that either. Go ask her, she’s at the shop. And tell that son of mine to bring me some smokes on his way home.”
“You quit smoking forty years ago, Gramps.”
“Not for me, I have a date tonight, dumbass. Who you think I’m cooking for?”
I let out a long breath and feel a little sorry for myself as I walk out and get back in my truck. Ronnie’s got secrets. Lots of them. She’s having dinner with guys who are not me, she’s selling her car, and she’s slapped a gag order on Gramps.
This is adding up to something.
I swing the truck back out, flip a bitch, and head towards College Ave. I’m not sure what’s going on with Ronnie, but I’m about to find out. I park next to Vann’s gray primer-coated Vespa and head into the tattoo shop. I swing the door open and I’m accosted by frat boys all waiting around like idiots and looking at the sample art on the walls. That’s one bad thing about living in a college town. College kids.
Of course, when Ronnie and I were in school together, we were the shit. But now that school is a distant memory best left forgotten, these kids annoy the f**k out of me. I’ve always lived out in Bellvue, even when I went to Colorado State for senior year, so I never had to put up with them much. But the new shop the Biker Channel and I decided on for Season Two is located a couple blocks up. Unlike my shop at home, this new shop will also have a showroom. So I expect the college kids will be dropping by often.
“Well, if it isn’t Shrike f**king Bikes!” Vic’s loud welcome blasts over the roar of excited frat boys and everyone turns to look at me.
“Where’s Ron?”
Vic smiles that big-brother smile and that can only mean one thing. “She’s not interested in talking to you, Shrike. Told me to tell you that if you came by.”
I flip him off and walk down the hallway. Vic is not going to mess with me unless I ask for it. And a friendly f**k you is not enough to get us brawling. Because we’ve been down that road before. Once we start, we don’t stop and there’s always medical bills involved.
I look into each of the tat rooms as I pass. Vern’s room is first, then Vic’s, which is empty now since he’s up front, then Vinn and Vonn—they share the biggest room—and finally Ronnie’s room is last.
Her gun is buzzing, so I know she’s got a customer. Her back is to the door so I slip in and lean over her shoulder. The customer is some wimpy eighteen-year-old, obviously a brother from the frat house since he’s getting Greek letters on his non-existent bicep. “Beautiful, Ron. Love it, babe.”
She never even flinches. Her machine never slows. She draws and wipes, and then draws again. Like I never said a word and I’m nobody.
I point to the other wimpy frat boy sitting in the only chair in the room. “Get the f**k out.” He gets, and I sit, rolling my eyes as the plastic covering over the seat of the chair crinkles under my ass. Ronnie never even huffs. Usually that’s what she does if I come in to her work acting like a caveman, but tonight I get nothing.
She’s pissed.
I bide my time until she’s done. She leaves and I stay put. I can hear her talking out in the lobby, then she tells her next victim to wait until she cleans the room and she’ll be right back for him.
Ronnie is a freak about blood splatter from the tattoo machines. She wears scrubs to work. She has both a facemask and a visor with a clear plastic shield that covers her face. She wears gloves from the minute she walks into the shop until the minute she leaves and there’s an air ionizer in the corner to clear out any microscopic bacterial byproducts that may or may not be floating around in the air.
Everything in this room is covered in plastic. From the tattoo chair to the cord on her tattoo machine. Even the flat screen mounted on the wall is covered in sheeting. You really have to use your imagination when you watch TV in Ron the Bomb’s room.
It takes her a good thirty minutes to remove all the plastic and apply new between customers. We’ve all learned to love this about her, even if she’s constantly behind schedule.
She returns to the room crumpling her mask up and holding her face shield in her hand. “Why are you here?” she snaps at me.
I shrug. “I want to see you tonight.”
She busts out a long low laugh as she shakes her head and starts pulling plastic off things. “Well, that’s not going to happen, Spencer. I’ve got a date after work.”
“I know,” I say back calmly.
She looks over at me now, her eyebrows all scrunched up in confusion. “How do you know?”
“Because,” I say sweetly, “your date’s with me.”
She whispers under her breath as she turns back to her room duties. “I’m busy, Spencer. Go away. Vic!” she yells over the music and buzzing of tattoo machines.
“Veronica,” Vic says in his how-can-I-help-you voice. He must’ve been right outside the door. Asshole. “You need me to give him the boot?” Vic says with a smile in my direction.
“Please,” she sighs. “I’m busy, Spencer. Just go away.”
“Out, Spencer,” Vic says. “She’s working until eleven.”
“Vic!” Ronnie screams. “What the f**k?”
Vic motions for me to follow him so I get up and grab Ronnie by the waist and haul her sexy little body up against mine. “Veronica Vaughn. You’re mine tonight, baby. I’ll be back at eleven. And don’t think you can duck out early, because I’ve got my recon hat on right now. I’ve got a lot of questions for you and I’m just gonna spend the next few hours between now and then trying to answer them myself.” I kiss her on the head and pat her ass gently as I leave.