Look elsewhere for that good woman, buddy. The loyalty to my uncle is charming, though, in a weird way. “Well, maybe your nonexistent son will still get his done in Black Rabbit. We’ll see who buys this place.”
“It won’t be the same, though.” He shrugs. “Unless you’ll still be here?”
“Nope. Not a chance.” I heave a sigh and, hoping Bobby takes the hint, begin carefully picking away at a photo montage on the wall—dozens of pictures of Ned at different stages of his life, from clean-shaven to handlebar mustache, stuck to the drywall with tape so old it’s peeling paint away with it.
“See ya tomorrow, Ivy.” The bell above the door jangles as Bobby leaves.
And the silence that returns now is somehow more unnerving than before.
I quietly sort and toss and pack, shifting around the chair, my irritation with that single bolt growing with each moment until I find myself standing there, glaring at it once again. Tomorrow just isn’t soon enough.
I get down on my knees again and, holding my breath, throw my full weight into the bolt, just as the door creaks open. “We’re closed!” I yell, whipping my head around, my anger at myself for not locking it launched.
A man I’ve never seen before stands motionless in front of me, amusement in his eyes as he stares. Nothing else about him betrays his thoughts, though. His stance is still and relaxed, his angular face perfectly composed.
My heart begins to race with unease.
“I’d like some work done.” His voice is deep, almost gravelly, his tone even and calm.
I climb to my feet, because I don’t like anyone towering over me. And because his piercing eyes unsettle me. Unlike the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound biker who just left, this guy makes me nervous. The wrench is still in my fist, and I grip it tightly now. “I’m not working today.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m not working tomorrow either.”
The corner of his mouth twitches as we face off against each other. “When will you be working again, then?”
He’s patient. It’s annoying. But he also seems very interested in this tattoo, which makes it less likely that he’s here to hurt me. I relax my grip on the wrench. “I won’t be. Not here, anyway. Black Rabbit is closed for good, or at least until it opens under new ownership.”
He pauses, his shrewd gaze weighing so heavily on me that I finally have to look away from him. I feel like a sophomore year science class dissection—the unfortunate amphibian donated in the name of education. “That’s a shame.”
Either he’s not from around here or he hasn’t read the news. Or he’s one of those sickos who gets a kick out of crime scenes. “It is.” What’s really a shame is that this guy didn’t come a few weeks ago, because I gladly would have agreed to mark his entire body with my hands then.
On first-glance impression, he actually reminds me of Jesse Welles, the love of my teenage life, though I’d never admit that to anyone. This guy’s eyes are lighter—a cool chocolate rather than near-black—but they have that same intensity; a similar smirk sits atop his full lips. He, too, has dark hair coating his hard, masculine jaw; it’s just sculpted to a perfect short beard. He’s taller and broader than Jesse. Harder looking, not just by a few years of age but as if by life itself. That’s a little concerning, given the kind of life that Jesse Welles has already lived.
But there’s something distinctly different about this guy, too. I can’t quite place it, but I can feel it. Something slightly “off.” Or maybe it’s just this place that’s making everything in my life feel off—after all, my mind is still in a haze over Ned’s death. The last thing I should be thinking about right now is this guy or Jesse or getting laid.
He takes slow, even steps around me, circling the chair, his hands resting in his pockets. “What if I offer to pay you double your rate?”
I frown. I’ve never had anyone offer to pay more. If anything, they’re haggling to lower my hourly charge. Is he an idiot? “Do you know what my rate is?”
His lips twist into a pucker, as if he’s thinking about it. “It can’t be too much.”
I eye him up and down. He’s wearing nondescript black hiking boots, a black T-shirt, and plain blue jeans. Not Wranglers but not custom-made. He looks good in them, but I think that has more to do with his impressive build than choice in fashion. “What if I said it was five hundred an hour?”
“Then I’d say that I heard you were really good at what you do.”
“You mean kick-ass, right?” To some people, I sound arrogant. But in this business, you have to exude confidence. People are allowing you to take a needle filled with permanent ink to their bodies. They’re not going to feel safe with an insecure artist. That’s something Ned taught me. He also said that you have to walk the talk, because you won’t fool a person more than once and this business is all about referral—except for the odd moron who walks into a shop and flashes his skin without ever so much as looking at a portfolio. It’s rare, but it happens.
Thankfully, I can walk the talk. I am that good.
“Who’d you hear that from?” I ask.
“A friend named Mike.”
I’ve traveled all over the world and inked hundreds of people. I’ve worked on at least five Mikes, Michaels, or Micks. Names mean little. “What’d I do for him?”
“A skull,” he answers without missing a beat.
Great. Just as useless. I’ve done at least a dozen skulls. So common.
His upper lip twitches ever so slightly. “Do you normally interrogate potential customers like this?”
“No,” I admit. I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it now. Looking for reasons not to trust this guy, a valid excuse to turn him away, perhaps.
“Then do my reasons for being willing to pay more really matter?” Again, that arrogant little smirk.
In another time, that may have held sway. I’ve always had a weakness for strong but quiet masculinity. “No, they don’t. Because Black Rabbit is closed and I have a ton of cleaning up to do to get the place ready for selling.” I can’t help my voice from cracking with emotion now. I’ve managed to keep down so far. If I can just get through this, maybe it’ll fade without ever truly surfacing.
He nods toward the chair. “What are you doing with that?”
“Throwing it in the Dumpster, if I can ever get this bolt off.”
“Why?”
I’m tired of being questioned about this stupid chair. “Because someone was murdered in it.”
Most normal people would flinch at an answer like that, or press with more specific questions. Not this guy. He simply leans over to reach into the toolbox on the floor for another wrench.
“Don’t bother. I need a torch,” I mutter as he crouches down, the cuffs of his jeans hiking up to show more of his boots.
He ignores me, latching the end onto the bolt. The muscles in his arms and shoulders cord as he works on it, his body rocking back and forth several times until the bolt gives way and begins to rise from the ground, flecks of orange rust dusting the floor.
“That worked?” I exclaim in shock, relief filling my chest. Bobby was wrong. Or he just tricked me into agreeing to finish his ink for him. Either way, I’m going to call the beefy biker on it—who must have at least fifty pounds and three inches on this guy—when he shows up here tomorrow.