39. Tristian
Chapter thirty-nine
Tristian
Iwiped down my tattoo gun with a sanitizing wipe, the smell of alcohol pungent in the air. Ingrid was perched in a chair nearby, her head down, charcoals dancing across a page of the sketchbook I’d given her as her dainty little floral sundress flared around her.
I rolled my stool over to her. She was shading a rose. It was still simplistic in some ways, and kind of on the squat side, but her skills were getting better.
At my appearance in the edge of her vision, Ingrid looked up with a frown. “Your next client still isn’t here?”
“He’s late,” I rumbled. “It happens.”
“We should have stayed home,” she said, a flush climbing her cheeks. “We could have had a lot more fun.”
Heat flared in me. I knew exactly what she was suggesting.
Leaning in to nip at her neck, I growled, “You’re not wrong about that, doll… but I’ve got to support us somehow. Bills to pay…”
“And your mom,” Ingrid said quietly.
I leaned back, mood broken. I nodded. “Right. Mom.”
Ingrid chewed her lip. “I could get a job? Would that help things?”
I chuckled. “I appreciate the sentiment, doll, I really do. But her medical bills are… well, they’re a lot higher.”
“How much higher?”
I leveled a look at her. “A lot.”
She considered for longer. “I could get a high-paying job?”
I laughed. Between her Netflix binges, baking, and afternoons sketching, I doubt she’d have much time.
Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last long. My client, Marco, finally lumbered into the shop a moment later. I directed Ingrid to Kane and James so I could handle him at my station. She obliged, and I got to work on his touch-up.
With Ingrid distracted by the boys, and the needle humming to cover up our murmured conversation, we turned to the real reason for Marco’s visit.
“Kane and James told me what you were planning to do,” he muttered, his voice low.
I’d been building the plan for days. Hadn’t told Ingrid; she didn’t need to know how far I was willing to go.
But I’d run it past Kane and James, tested the weak spots, and they’d brought it to Marco.
He was Darragh’s man on paper. In reality he kept his ear to the ground and knew who to trust. Lucky for us he was on our side.
“You think this is a bad idea?”
Marco shrugged. “Lots of guys want the bastard gone, but a lot of them still need him. It’s a tough situation. Regardless of if he’s dead or alive, we’ve all got something to lose... and you definitely have something to lose.”
My eyes flickered to Ingrid. She was standing by Kane, who chatted to her idly about form as she set about trying to refine the slightly squashed rose she was working on.
“It’s worth it,” I growled. “She made a deal with him, and if either of us back out, I don’t care to think about what he’ll do.”
“He’s disappeared her sister, hasn’t he?”
I nodded.
“She couldn’t have gone far,” Marco said. “They keep those girls on a tightrope, you know. Especially if the debt they are working off isn’t close to being paid…” His eyes darkened. “And trust me, they never let the pretty ones drift too far.”
I clenched my jaw. “I need to find her. Before I deal with Darragh.”
Marco nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
He looked down at his sleeve. I’d finished his touch-up, lines thick and dark again.
“You know, all this digging around doesn’t come free,” he murmured.
I ground my jaw. “I’m not charging you for the touch-up.”
Marco smirked. “Figured. But I’m worth far more than that, Tristian, far more… however, I can let this favor slide.” He stood. Turning to the back of the tattoo parlor, he called to Ingrid, “Hey, baker girl. When are you stopping by the gym with those cookies of yours?”
I groaned, pulling off my gloves. “Get out.”
Marco continued as she wandered over, “The guys are requesting chocolate chip... a few macadamia nut and red velvet, too.”
Ingrid blinked. “Uh, okay? I guess I could—”
I cut in. “Say goodbye, doll,” I muttered, grabbing her hand possessively as I brought her over to stand beside me.
Ingrid looked somewhat confused, but waved nonetheless. “Bye, Marco.”
He tipped a wink at her. “See you later, Cookie.” A fist thudded my shoulder. “Ciao, Reaper.” Then he was off, the bell ringing over the door signaling his exit.
Kane turned to Ingrid. “Seeing as you’re taking orders now, I was thinking maybe you could bake us some—”
“Shut up,” I barked, pulling her into my lap. “Ingrid isn’t baking anything for you jackasses.”
“Aww, man,” James huffed dramatically. “I was hoping for some more of those raspberry and white chocolate cookies. They were so good.”
“I don’t mind,” said Ingrid brightly. “It’s nice to—”
“No,” I snapped.
“You suck the fun out of everything, man,” said Kane. “Why don’t you help out instead? I could just picture you in a chef’s hat and apron, all covered in flour, running around the kitchen, alarms going off—”
James lost it as I rolled my eyes.
Before I could tell Kane to knock it off before I bent him over and shoved his head up his ass, Ingrid’s phone began to buzz. She pulled it out, her face etched with confusion at the unknown number.
I looked down at the phone—and froze. I recognized the 1-800 prefix immediately. I’d seen it enough times from the other side of a precinct wall.
“Pick it up,” I said, my voice turning serious, hands tightening around her waist.
She answered, frowning: “Hello?”
The mechanical, robotic voice of a woman filled the small space between us: “This is a collect call from Samuel Rodríguez, an inmate at Oakwood County Correctional Institution. To accept this call, press one. To decline, press two. This call will be monitored and recorded.”
Ingrid’s hands started to shake. She looked at me, uncertain. I put my hand on her stomach, grounding her, and gave a slow, silent nod.
She pressed one.
We waited in the heavy silence for the line to click.
“Ingrid,” her father’s voice rasped through the speaker.
She bit her lip, her voice a fragile whisper. “Papa?”
“We need to talk.”