2. Sam
2
SAM
I wipe the last streak of black ink off my forearm and stretch my neck, feeling the tension in my shoulders from hunching over all day. Somehow, this shit ends up on me, no matter how clean I work. Another long day at The Lethal Legacy, but this one feels heavier than most. It’s not the work—I could tattoo in my sleep at this point—but my energy’s not what it used to be. Forty-two isn’t old, but it’s not young either, not in this game.
Trick leans against the counter, all swagger, no brains. Well, I shouldn’t say that about him. It’s not entirely true. I’ve never known anyone who could read a person as well as Trick. But reading a person doesn’t pay the bills unless you’re willing to use that information against them, so he manages the shop when I’m not around.
The last client of the day, Rebecca Flowers, stands at the counter, all smiles as she bats her eyes at Trick. If she looked at me like that, I wouldn’t do anything about it. She’s nice enough, around my age, blonde, big tits—the whole package, really. But she just finalized her divorce yesterday, and I don’t fuck around with that kind of drama.
Rebecca came in today wanting a phoenix on her shoulder and said it was about new beginnings. She ain’t over it yet. She probably won’t be for a long, long time.
Divorce in Auclair is rare enough that I didn’t snicker at the cliché when she said it. That’s the kind of thing people always say when they’re getting a tattoo. If it’s their first time, they’re nervous and say some stupid shit. I get it. I was a nervous kid when I got my first one at fifteen. I lied about my age on the form, but no one even questioned it.
Even now, I can see that London shop clear as day. Three walls and a glass storefront, just like my place now, only my place has a few rooms in the back and two flanking the main. It’s too much room for what I do, but I like my space.
In that studio overseas, they had all kinds of flash on the wall, some of it overlapping each other. One had Bugs Bunny on it, so my first time in the chair, I rambled on about Saturday morning cartoons. I didn’t know how to speak to a bunch of older Brits about anything. I had no concept of small talk, so I was nervous about the tat and the talk. Truth is, I had no business being there. But they took mercy on me all the same, and I still have the Mom heart on my shoulder to tell the tale.
Sometimes, the ink is just ink, and sometimes it’s therapy. Either way, it’s not my job to judge.
Rebecca was pleasant enough while I worked, but I’m not the one who makes her light up. That’s Trick. It’s what he does.
“So it’s official now? No more Daryl?”
“Don’t even say that name to me,” she purrs, leaning onto the counter to flash him some cleavage framed by her black tank top.
“Bet I could make you forget his name by the morning.”
“I bet I’d let you, Trick.”
He’s giving her his signature grin right now, the one that says, I might ruin your life, but you’ll enjoy every second of it. And Rebecca? She’s eating it up.
Hugo snorts behind me. “He’s shameless, isn’t he?”
“What good has shame ever done any of us?”
“Fair point.”
I shake my head, watching as Trick hands her credit card back and casually brushes his fingers against her palm. It’s impossible not to roll my eyes at that. “He’s a walking HR violation, but it works for him.”
“Rebecca doesn’t seem to mind.” Hugo leans on the broom he’s pretending to sweep with, clearly entertained. “You think she’ll come back?”
“For Trick or another tattoo?”
“Either. Both.”
I laugh. “She’ll be back before the week’s out.”
Hugo chuckles and goes back to sweeping—actually sweeping this time. It’s always so strange to see him do real work around here. After all, he helped me buy the place.
I’m ready to call it a night, and I’m pretty sure they are too. “Rebecca, let me walk you out.”
When female clients leave at night, I always make sure they get to their car. Not that Auclair is dangerous by any stretch of the imagination. It’s more to make sure they don’t hang around or surprise us by popping up unexpectedly. Sometimes they turn into groupies, prowling around for something extra. Then there’s the old-school attitude around here that has caught me off guard a time or two.
Dads and boyfriends either love it or hate it when the women in their lives get inked, and I’ve had my fair share of guys who harassed a woman in our parking lot. Never again.
I guide her out the door and out to her car. “You’ll be sore for a few days. Don’t go swimming until you’re healed up?—”
“You know, there are rumors about you guys.”
“Oh? What rumors?”
“You and Hugo and Trick…” Her voice goes soft when she says the last name, and I know where this is headed.
But still, I ask, “What about us, Rebecca?”
“That you boys like to share.” She turns, facing me as she backs against her car. She flutters her eyes as she arches her back to thrust her breasts forward. “I’m up for a little adventure if you three are.”
I hate this part of the job. “Tempting, but to be honest, I’m wiped out. Had a long weekend, and I’m just catching up?—”
“Are you blowing me off?”
I smile to ease her down. “The last bit of energy I had went into your tattoo, so you can’t be too mad, right? You said you loved it.”
She chuckles and rolls her eyes. “I do. It’s just…I wanted to celebrate. Thought you three could show me what it’s like with real men. Me and Daryl been together since high school.”
Damn. Just one guy her whole life? Almost a virgin, as far as I’m concerned. But still. There’s nothing there. No spark, no heat. I couldn’t get it going with her even if I cared to.
“You’re a beautiful woman. I’m sure you’ll find someone or three at The Wild Goose to celebrate with.”
She lifts a shoulder and smiles. “Too bad it ain’t you, Sam.” She tosses her hair and slides into her pickup. “Next time.”
I smile politely, knowing it’ll never happen. Time to close the shop. Inside, it feels quieter than usual. The buzz of the tattoo machines is gone, and it’s just us now—me, Trick, and Hugo—cleaning up in the glow of the overhead lights, one room after the other until it’s darker inside than outside. The old lampposts barely do their job, illuminating the front parking and the street beyond.
On the other side is the library, and that’s when I see her.
Marie Durand.
I don’t mean to notice her, but ever since she’s come back to town, it’s impossible not to. Besides, movement outside the shop always catches my eye. Situational awareness is an old habit.
She’s standing by her car in a little sundress that hugs her generous curves. She complains that she gets pebbles stuck between her toes, but she wears sandals anyway. I think she likes the heel—the girl is short as hell, but I like that. I like a lot of things about Marie Durand.
From her thick body to her smile…that damn smile is the kind of thing a man goes to war over. It’s a little crooked and skews to the right side of her face, where she has a dimple that begs to be kissed or pierced. Her wavy brown hair goes golden in the summer—natural highlights she got from her mama. She’s got big, wide, honey-brown eyes that I have no business paying this much attention to.
She’s my best friend’s kid.
Okay, she’s twenty-six, but still. Preacher would kill me. Rightly so.
I sigh as I watch her, and only then do I realize her arms are crossed, and she’s shifting on her feet like she’s trying to make herself smaller as she backs up to her dusty old car.
What the hell is she backing away from? My eyes narrow to see better in the dark.
There’s a guy with her, and he’s way too close.
I don’t recognize him, but I don’t like the way he’s leaning in. My jaw tightens, and I give a sharp whistle to get the guys’ attention. “Check it out,” I say, nodding toward the window.
Trick looks up first, his playful grin fading. Hugo’s not far behind, and I feel the shift in the room as we all take in the scene.
“That’s Marie,” Trick says, his voice low.
“No shit.”
Marie’s been back in town for what, six months now? She came home after her mama died, all grown up and way too good for this place. I try not to notice her most days—hell, I’ve spent years pretending she doesn’t exist—but it’s not easy when she’s right across the street at the library, her dad’s doe-eyed little girl turned into something that’s way too tempting for her own good.
Not that it matters. She’s untouchable. Always has been, always will be.
The guy with her leans even closer, and my fists clench. My first thought is to hate him—to hate any guy who thinks he can get that close to her—but then I remind myself she’s not a kid anymore. She’s not the little girl who used to hang around the shop with her dad, begging to look at the designs we were working on. She’s a woman now, and if she wants to let some loser invade her space, that’s her choice.
But then she screams.
It’s not loud, not at first. It’s more of a muffled cry, the kind that’s half fear and half shock, but it’s enough to make my blood run cold. Before I can think, I’m already moving.
“Stay here,” I bark at Hugo and Trick, but I know they won’t listen. If they come too, this’ll get messy, and Marie doesn’t need to see that.
The door slams behind me as I step outside, and my boots crunch against the dirt road and gravel. The guy’s head snaps up as he notices me approaching.
“Hey!” I bark, my voice echoing down the empty street.
Marie looks at me, and her eyes are wide, panicked. That’s all it takes. I don’t need to know the details. I don’t need to ask questions.
I’m already crossing the street, and if this guy thinks he’s going to get out of this without answering to me, he’s out of his damn mind.