Chapter 2 #2
Wisely, she made her way toward the front, but she took her damn time, making sure I knew that this was her choice. At the door, she paused, her face pinched. “I saw Maddie this weekend, at her aunt’s annual summer soiree.”
I went stiff, the name like a slap.
Mom’s expression darkened. “She asked after you.”
“Why?” I asked, unease creeping up my spine.
Mom shrugged. “Audacity?”
“Is she finally ready to take responsibility for what she did?”
Mom’s answering laugh was humorless, all the answer I needed.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I said. “Until she finally tells the truth, she and I have nothing to say to each other.”
“I told you because if she’s bold enough to say something to me, she might be bold enough to seek you out herself. And I’m not saying you should forgive her—”
“There’s no forgiving what she did,” I spat.
“But murdering her would probably give you wrinkles, and if you’re not even following a proper skin care routine, then you’re more susceptible to them than—”
“Okay, it was nice seeing you. Goodbye!” I said, practically shoving her out of the shop.
She paused, turning back with an expression close to regret on her face, like maybe she was about to come back inside and try to have a real conversation for once.
I was just about to reopen the door when she seemed to think better of it, giving me a terse nod of goodbye before striding toward the waiting Mercedes at the curb.
■ ■ ■
Many hours later, I was saying goodbye to my last tattoo appointment of the day.
She was a blond woman in her early twenties who thought she was the coolest person in the city.
Which, I mean, she probably was. She had over two million followers across her social media accounts and about as many YouTube subscribers, earning a respectable living as a cozy gamer.
Her right forearm was now covered by a large, stylized crow perched on a flower-wreathed skull.
We’d been working on it for months because she had a low pain tolerance, first laying down the line art, then adding in the shading, and finally, tonight, the last of the color.
The bright jewel tones popped even through the Saniderm bandage covering the tattoo.
My gaze lifted to hers. “Ashley, I swear to God, if you don’t follow the care instructions I gave you . . .”
She rolled her heavily lined eyes, looking harassed. “Yes, Mom.”
I stiffened. I wasn’t that much older than her. “That is some of my best work. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Or what, you’ll ground me?”
I shook my head. “I’ll get on your next livestream and tell all your followers that you use cheat codes.”
“Client privilege!” she said, whipping her head around to see if any-one overheard.
“That only exists for lawyers and therapists.”
Her face turned red in betrayal. “I trusted you.”
I grinned. “That was your first mistake.”
She flipped me off and stomped out the front door.
“Pleasure working with you!” I called after her.
A draft of balmy night air kissed my skin as the door slowly swung shut behind her.
Today had been another scorcher, the sun unrelenting, the humidity high enough to frizz even my bone-straight hair.
Summer was my least favorite time of year.
The moisture-laden atmosphere turned everything sticky and smelly.
All the concrete made it worse, absorbing the heat throughout the day and storing it up like a battery, expelling it at night, so it never cooled down.
I couldn’t wait for autumn to arrive. I had juuust enough basic bitch in me that September would find me standing in line for my first pumpkin spice latte of the season like everyone else.
The door closed, cutting off the heat of the night, and I returned to the front desk to exit out of Ashley’s transaction. It was 9 p.m., and the tattoo parlor was buzzing. Literally, because of all the needles, but that sound was nearly drowned out by voices raised in conversation.
The shop was mid-sized with a simple layout.
The reception area and front desk flanked the door.
A hallway led deeper inside, with six individual tattoo rooms branching off of it.
None of them had doors, and the cement floors made the acoustics echoey, so voices carried.
The music tonight was upbeat and punchy because Elayne had tuned us in to an alt-pop station.
I grinned, feeling content, borderline happy.
After nearly losing everything, I had made something.
Something that belonged to me and me alone.
With no help from anyone else, despite how much my parents tried to intervene in my life.
I wasn’t ungrateful they wanted to help.
The problem was that they’d already done so much for me (too much, really) that I was determined to do this one thing by myself.
Was I terrified of fucking it up? Absolutely.
Money was still tight because the business was new, and my inheritance was needed elsewhere, so I scrimped and saved where I could, making sure every dollar earned went to good use.
I was a one-woman handyman, cleaning crew, IT specialist, and, on one disgustingly memorable occasion, plumber.
And it was starting to pay off. We had regular, returning clientele.
Good online reviews. A growing social media presence thanks to my carefully curated pictures and videos.
I still lost sleep some nights, worried that it would all go up in flames, but my fear wasn’t constant anymore, and on weeks like this, when we were in danger of being overbooked, it made me think that I might actually pull this off.
That I might actually succeed at something for once in my life.
And that was all I really wanted. Not just to prove that I could do it, but because this was what I loved.
My gaze strayed to the Tiffany lamp next to the register. Mom was right. It looked perfect there. Okay, fine, so maybe letting them help just a little wouldn’t kill me, but I drew the line at paying my rent.
A heavy footfall pulled me from my thoughts, and I turned to see Derrick, one of my tattoo artists, strolling out of the hallway.
He was a rough-looking, silver-haired man in his mid-fifties.
Tall, beefy, white, with a mutton chop beard and more tattoos than anyone else I knew.
In his past life, he’d belonged to an outlaw motorcycle club down in Texas, but he’d had a falling out with its megalomaniac leader and hightailed it out of there before he wound up dead.
I wasn’t even sure Derrick was his real name, but I didn’t give a shit because his specialty was realism, and he was fucking good.
My gaze shifted to the client following him, a towering young Black man whose face was turned toward his forearm, admiring his new ink.
As he got closer, I saw why. It looked like something had clawed him, three long gashes peeling back to reveal a glimpse of a panther beyond.
It was almost spooky how good it was, like his skin had been ripped open.
In moments like this, I wondered how the hell I’d landed Derrick.
He was a world-class artist, regularly drew in famous clients, and could have worked anywhere, but for whatever reason, he’d shown up one day and applied.
Hell, he was the half the reason I didn’t have weekly panic attacks anymore—that’s how much money he brought in.
It made me wonder if one of my parents had gotten to him somehow.
This wouldn’t be the first time they’d done something sneaky like that, helped me from the shadows even though I’d told them I needed to do this on my own.
Whenever I hinted at it to Derrick, he expertly changed the subject or played dumb, and my suspicions only grew.
“That looks amazing,” I said.
Derrick let out an ambiguous huff, but his client sent me a blinding smile.
“Thanks,” he said.
I tried to pretend I wasn’t starstruck. “Will it have time to heal before training camp?”
He nodded. “Yeah, we don’t start until late September.”
“Good luck with the season,” I said.
His grin widened. “Thank you.”
I headed toward my booth before I did something stupid, like hit on an NBA All-Star.