Chapter Twenty-one
Cormac
I couldn’t say how Zara had ended up riding with me to my appointment in Laramie. I couldn’t even remember how she’d found out I had one. One minute, she’d popped into my office, and the next, she was beside me in my truck, making me sing along to the song she’d put on.
Not that she’d had to twist my arm too hard.
Saying she’d made me was a stretch. All she’d said was, “Come on, Maccie,” and I’d sang like a damn bird.
It made her happy. Hell, it made me happy too.
Riding down the road, singing my heart out with Zara, wasn’t something I ever thought I’d do again, but here we were, enjoying the moment without looking forward or backward.
When the song was over, she turned the volume down and sighed. “Did I tell you Phoebe asked me to help out with the market in the park in a couple weeks?”
“Yeah?” I glanced at her. “Did you agree?”
Phoebe never missed the market Sugar Brush held in the park throughout the summer.
Last year, she’d come up with the idea of running a fundraiser for the library market and had dove in headfirst. Our sister-in-law, Alice, was the head librarian, and it was a fact our library was tragically underfunded.
Phoebe had donated her baked goods and time, and she’d raised a good chunk of money doing so.
And had even bigger plans for this year.
It was no surprise she’d roped Zara in for the cause.
“I did. I’m not really crafty or a salesperson, but she said all she needs is a warm body to man the booth. I’ve got that covered.”
I laughed. “I have a feeling Phoebe will have you doing a lot more than that while convincing you you’re enjoying every second of it.”
My sister had a way about her. Everyone thought she was sweet and soft—and she was—but she tended to get people to do things they would never agree to had anyone else asked.
“As long as I get baked goods as payment, I’m fine with it.”
“You might not think a few brownies are worth it when Phoebe’s done with you,” I warned.
“I heard there might be cupcakes too.”
I shook my head. “We’ll have to come back to this conversation in a few weeks when it’s all over.”
“I’ll be riding that sugar high all the way through,” she shot back.
“You say that now.”
I turned down a side street just off Grand, the old brick storefronts giving way to a squat building with blacked-out windows and a sign bolted above the door.
TATTOO
Succinct and to the point.
I parked along the curb and cut the engine, the sudden quiet ringing in my ears.
Zara leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “This is it?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my palms down my thighs. “This is it.”
She unbuckled immediately. “Well…are we going in?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Oh, are you stuck—is that the problem?” She leaned over and pressed the button on my seat belt. “You’re free now. Let’s go, Maccie.”
She pushed her door open, and the wind caught her hair, onyx strands whipping around her face as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. I came around the hood of the truck, trying not to notice how natural she looked standing there waiting for me. Or how much I liked it.
I pulled the door open and held it for her, the bell overhead chiming as we stepped inside.
The place was all dark walls and warm light. Framed flash sheets lined one side, bold traditional pieces mixed with fine-line work and black-and-gray realism. The floors were polished concrete, the whole space both industrial and welcoming.
“Wow,” Zara breathed, turning slowly. “I’ve never been in a tattoo studio. This is not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Skull wallpaper. A scary guy named Razor.”
A bark of laughter sounded from the hallway. “We had a Razor once,” Jett called out as he rounded the corner. “He wasn’t all that scary—and only lasted two weeks. Turned out he was allergic to gloves. And by allergic, I mean he kept ‘forgetting’ to wear them.”
Jett grinned at us, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He looked exactly like he always did: dark hair pulled back, ink crawling up both forearms, steady eyes that missed nothing.
“Well, I’ll be…” he said, his gaze bouncing between us. “If it isn’t Baby Kelly.”
“Don’t start,” I muttered.
“Too late.” He stuck his hand out to me first, clasping forearms instead of shaking. “You’re right on time.”
Then he looked at Zara, and an even bigger smile spread across his face. “And who did you bring me?”
Zara returned his smile. “I’m Zara, Cormac’s emotional support.”
“Ah.” Jett nodded solemnly. “We highly encourage those.”
“I’m not sure I require emotional support for this appointment.”
She bumped her shoulder into my arm. “You never know when you might need me, Maccie.”
“Maccie,” Jett repeated. “Adorable.”
Then he laughed and gestured toward the front of the shop. “Welcome to my shop. Make yourself comfortable while I get set up.”
I slipped my fingers around Zara’s wrist. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
She followed me to the reception desk, and I let go of her to smooth my hand over the lacquered top.
“It’s pretty,” she said.
“Deke built this for Jett. He built most of the furniture here, but this is his newest piece.”
My brother-in-law had more talent in one finger than most people had in their whole body. His custom carpentry business was still getting off the ground, but each passing year, he got busier and busier, and I was glad he was finally getting recognition.
Zara ran her fingers over the edge. “Wow. Phoebe is a lucky woman. Or is it, like, a cobbler’s-kids-have-no-shoes situation?”
I chuckled. “Not at all. I’m pretty sure Deke would build Phoebe the gates of Heaven if she asked. She has several pieces he’s made in their house.”
“Then I affirm my statement: she’s lucky. I guess they both are. She bakes, he builds. What a life.”
“They’re happy.” I rapped my knuckles on the desk. “Are you going to hang out up here or come back with me?”
“Maybe I’ll wander down the street and come back. How long do you think you’ll be?”
I rubbed my bicep. “An hour, tops. We’re just doing shading and a touch-up.”
“Okay. I’ll be up here when you’re done.”
“Don’t steal anything,” I teased.
She gasped. “I would never.”
“Mmmhmm. All right.”
She shooed me toward the hallway. “Go get stabbed.”
I followed Jett to his station in the back, leaving her standing at the flash wall.
A couple years ago, Deke had brought me here for my second tattoo, which had been a hell of a lot bigger than my first. Jett had made it so easy, and his company was so enjoyable I got hooked.
So far, he’d done my backpiece and the tattoo on my arm.
Jett snapped on fresh gloves and nodded toward the chair. I peeled off my T-shirt and draped it over the back, then settled in and flexed my arm.
Jett leaned in, studying it. “You’ve been in the sun.”
“It’s the summer. I keep it covered, but you know…”
“Do better.”
“I’ll try.”
He cleaned the area, the cold swipe of antiseptic sharp against my skin. A second later, the machine buzzed to life, that steady, unmistakable vibration settling me.
As he started in, he glanced up at me. “So…”
I exhaled through my nose. “So…”
“Zara.”
“Jett.”
He smirked. “You’ve never brought anyone other than Deke to an appointment. What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. She wanted to come along, so I brought her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Zara’s a childhood friend,” I clarified. “She’s visiting.”
“And nothing’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on,” I confirmed.
The needle bit into my skin, a familiar sting that barely registered beyond surface level. I’d always liked the sensation. Most of the time even found it easy to sink into.
Jett wasn’t letting me sink. “She’s gorgeous.”
I stared at the far wall. “I know.”
“She call you Maccie when you were kids?”
“Yeah.”
“And still does. That’s cute as hell.”
I didn’t respond, and he hummed like he’d proven some kind of point and went back to work.
For a while, the only sound between us was the buzz of the machine and the soft drag of paper towels across my skin. I let my mind drift the way it always did in this chair: counting ceiling tiles, tracking the rhythm of the needle, letting everything narrow down to sensation and breath.
It was easy to think here. Or not think at all.
Zara’s laugh floated through my head anyway. On second thought, it might not have been in my head at all. She was laughing somewhere nearby, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was funny.
A few minutes later, the click-clack of high heels approached Jett’s station.
“Hey, boys,” Giselle called.
I opened my eyes as she rounded the divider.
Jett’s mom had been tattooing longer than I’d been alive.
Not that you’d know it by looking at her.
Silver threaded through her dark hair, and sleeves of ink told half her life story, but other than those subtle signs of age, she could have been a thirty-year-old pinup.
“Hey, Mama,” Jett said without looking up. “What’s up?”
She tossed a paper towel in the trash. “Just finished up with a surprise client.”
“Yeah?” Jett replied absently. “Walk-in?”
“Mmmhmm. Pretty one too.” Her eyes flicked to me, amused. “Hey, Cormac. Your friend’s a little trooper.”
My brain stalled then restarted as I tried to understand what she was saying.
“Friend?”
She tilted her head toward the front. “Zara—the pretty one you brought with you.”
“What about her?”
Giselle blinked at me. “Her ink might be small, but she got it right on the bone, and the sweet thing didn’t even flinch. I’d love to tattoo more clients like her.”
I stared at her. “Wait. You tattooed Zara?”
“She said she’d been thinking about it for years,” Giselle continued casually. “Finally decided today was the day.”
“Years,” I repeated faintly. She’d never said. Not then. Not today. Not even a word. “She didn’t mention that.”
“Maybe she wanted it to be a surprise.” She slapped her hand against her leg. “Your girl will be up front when you’re done. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her, honey.”
After she left, it took a lot to sit still. Jett threatening to botch the lines in my tattoo was the thing that did it, but my skin was crawling to get out of the chair.
It was a good thing I was adept at waiting for Zara.
I’d been doing it most of my life.