26. Chase
26
CHASE
“Five point two million,” Skylar announces from her perch near my station. She’s here for a progress check, but mostly, she’s enjoying our reaction to her video’s success. “Comments are going crazy about booking appointments.”
I watch the numbers climb on her phone screen. The gallery’s email is already overwhelmed with requests, and our social media following has tripled overnight.
“Your color work is trending,” she adds, scrolling through comments. “And apparently, your arms have their own fan accounts now.”
Rick emerges from his office, grinning. “Just got another call from Inked magazine. They want to feature the gallery.”
“Legitimate fame at last.” I start setting up for my next client. “Tank would’ve loved this.”
The bell over the door chimes. Rose walks in, but not for another tattoo. She’s back in her usual polished look, though something’s softer about her today. Maybe it’s the way she’s smiling at her phone.
“Date day?” I guess, recognizing that particular expression.
She quickly pockets her phone. “Actually, I’m here about?—”
But Draven chooses that moment to walk in, and whatever business brought Rose here seems to evaporate. Their eyes meet, and suddenly the gallery crackles with a different kind of energy.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, moving closer.
“Err…I was just passing by and thought to stop by. Business is booming.” She gestures vaguely at the small crowd outside taking photos.
“Yeah, and it’s thanks to Chase and his talents.” Draven shifts closer. “I was about to grab lunch. Care to join?”
Watching them dance around each other almost makes me miss the dark sedan cruising past—the third time this morning.
“Our numbers are insane,” Skylar continues, oblivious to the undercurrents in the room. “The snake tattoo everyone glimpsed on your manager? People are obsessed.”
My hand tightens on my machine. In the corner, Evie’s shoulders tense slightly.
“Speaking of lunch,” Rose says quickly, drawing attention away from Evie. “Shall we?”
They leave together, Rose’s hand brushing Draven’s arm in a way that seems unconscious. Through the window, I watch him open his car door for her.
The afternoon brings a steady stream of new clients. Some just want photos, but others book serious work. By three, my schedule’s filled through December.
“Had to hire a second receptionist,” Rick tells me between appointments. “Evie can’t handle the volume alone.”
I glance at her desk, where she’s training the new girl—some college student named Maya. The dark sedan rolls past again.
Zane notices too. “That’s five times now.”
“Six,” I correct quietly. “They doubled back after lunch.”
Rose and Draven return, both looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen them. But Rose’s expression changes when she spots the sedan.
“Evie,” she calls casually. “Got a minute?”
They disappear into the back office. When they emerge, Evie is pale but composed.
“Probably just admirers,” Skylar says, watching another group take selfies outside. “Happens with viral content.”
“We should celebrate,” Rick suggests. “First viral video, magazine features…it’s what we’ve worked for.”
He’s right. This is everything we’ve wanted for the gallery. Legitimate success. Real recognition.
“Dinner at ours?” I offer, needing Evie close tonight. “We could celebrate with the girls.”
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Perfect.”
Outside, Rose and Draven linger by his car. He’s saying something that makes her laugh—real laughter that transforms her whole face. For a moment, watching them, I forget about suspicious cars and viral videos.
The sedan cruises past one final time as we lock up. This time, I catch a glimpse of the driver—sharp features, expensive suit. Not our usual stalker type.
“Chase?” Evie’s voice pulls me back. “You coming?”
I follow her home, watching mirrors for tails. Behind us, Draven’s car peels off toward The Den, Rose beside him. In my rearview, I glimpse Rick and Zane falling into escort formation without discussion.
Five million views. Five million chances for our lives to change completely.
Two days later, Kip strides into the gallery like he owns it, trademark grin firmly in place despite the tension in his shoulders. “So this is what internet fame looks like,” he drawls. “Gotta say, I expected more groupies.”
“They come for my art, stay for my charm.” I finish wrapping my client’s new piece. “What brings you away from your adoring fans?”
His smile slips slightly. “Need to talk. All of you.”
Something in his tone makes Rick emerge from his office. Even Zane sets aside his tablet.
“Not here.” Kip glances meaningfully at our busy gallery. “The Den. Now.”
We follow him downstairs, leaving Evie to handle the afternoon rush. The bar’s empty this early, but Sarah’s already setting up for tonight.
“Take five,” Rick tells her. She disappears without question.
“Those cars you’ve been seeing?” Kip pulls out his phone, showing us photos. “Not random fans or Death’s Head. They’re connected to someone in Sacramento.”
Ice forms in my gut. “Sacramento?”
“Major crime family territory.” He swipes through more photos. “Been watching them tail people around town. They’re looking for something. Or someone.”
Rick’s expression darkens. “They’re working with Death’s Head?”
“Hard to tell.” Kip sprawls in a chair, but there’s nothing casual about his posture. “These guys make Death’s Head look like Boy Scouts, though. Real old-school mob types.”
The word “mob” echoes in my head.
“They’re organized,” Kip continues. “Professional. They’ve been circling the gallery, the school, the market. Like they’re mapping routines.”
“Teller know?” Rick asks.
“Called me himself. Clay and I have been tracking their movements.” Kip’s usual humor is gone now. “They’re careful, but they’re definitely searching. The question is—for what?”
“We should increase patrols,” Rick says. “Especially around the school. And get Clay to run those plates again.”
“Already on it, brother.” Kip stands, that familiar grin returning. “Though I gotta say, your viral fame’s bringing interesting attention. Ayla’s gonna be jealous she missed all this excitement.”
Just like that, he shifts back to the Kip we know—the one who can joke through anything. But his eyes stay sharp and watchful.
“Keep us posted,” Rick says.
“Always do.” Kip heads for the door, then pauses. “Oh, and Chase? Nice arms, bro. The internet’s right about that, at least.”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving tension in his wake.