“Turns out I didn’t need one. Just a six-point wrench and some muscle.” I smirk, impressed with myself both for remembering the tool Sebastian mentioned and for finding a way around needing this biker.
“Huh.” Bobby doesn’t look as impressed. “Well, I brought it. I’ve got a few hours now, so let’s go and get this finished.” He holds his arm out.
“Unfortunately she’s booked for tonight.” Sebastian steps forward, that eerie calmness settling onto him again.
Bobby steps forward as well, straightening his back to his full height, his girth dwarfing Sebastian. “Yeah, with me.”
“You’re two hours late. You’ll have to reschedule.” Sebastian’s perfectly still and limber, seemingly unbothered.
Sebastian is fucking crazy.
And if he gets pummeled into the ground—or worse—I’m going to feel responsible, and I have enough guilt to carry on these narrow shoulders of mine right now. He may be able to launch a steel chair over his head, but going toe-to-toe with a guy like Bobby, who I’m sure doesn’t fight fair, is only going to mangle that face I like looking at. He doesn’t know who he’s up against here.
I force myself in between the two men, placing a hand on Sebastian’s stomach—the hard ridges beneath his shirt were begging for my attention. “Your design is going to take a lot more time than I have tonight, anyway. Come back tomorrow and I’ll start it for you.”
I don’t think he heard me. He’s not moving, not even acknowledging the contact.
“Hey!” I snap. That works, pulling his gaze down to me, to my hand still on him. “Can you come back tomorrow?” Will he be working? What does he do? Is he from around here?
“Yeah. Fine. See you tomorrow.” He steps away, leaving my fingers hanging in the air as he strolls around us and down the alley, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Ballsy fuck,” Bobby mutters, eying his back with disdain.
Hot, ballsy fuck. Who could be stretched out in my chair right now, if we’d gotten behind locked doors one minute sooner. “Come on, Bobby.” I sigh, taking in the bulky mass in front of me. I’m guessing his gut will be well on its way to a trip over his belt within two years.
Not exactly the same.
Definitely not something I’ll be thinking about alone in my bed tonight.
“You all right?” Bobby squints, peering down at me through deceptively pretty baby blue eyes.
“Fine,” I force out, wiping the last of the ointment over his arm and then tossing the paper towel into the trash. “We’re done here.”
He frowns. “Aren’t you even going to show it to me, to make sure I like it?”
“There’s a full-length mirror right there.” Two feet over from where he’s sitting, the lazy ass. I start pulling apart my machine as he eases himself out of the chair and wanders over. He turns his body and twists his arm to get a good look at the underside, where I’ve incorporated red and blue into the zombie princess’s cape just like he asked, to represent the American flag. Ironically, this one-percenter is also patriotic to the country whose laws he regularly breaks. “Happy?”
“Yeah.” He eyes me warily. “It looks great.”
“Good. You owe me six hundred.”
His eyebrows spike and he starts to laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
“Two hours at three hundred per. The last I checked, that equals six hundred. I can bring you a calculator if you want.”
He shoots me a flat glare. “Three hundred is Ned’s rate.”
“It’s also my rate when I’m finishing my dead uncle’s work for you, when all I want to be doing is cleaning this place up and getting the hell out of here!” I’m yelling at him and I don’t give a damn, because raising my voice is the only thing keeping the tears at bay.
It finally started sinking in today. Listening to the familiar buzz of my tattoo machine for two hours helped chip away at the shock that’s dulled my senses up until now. Ned’s gone. My uncle, who taught me everything I know about this industry, who took me under his wing the day I finished high school, who was my guinea pig when I was cutting my teeth on technique—judging skin depth, offsetting movement, gauging pain levels—who never once made me scrub a toilet during my apprenticeship, who inspired a passion that I expect will live with me until I’m too old to hold a needle steady, is dead.
And the person who did it—that psycho Mario—will probably get away with it.
My teeth have been gritted for two hours, my answers clipped as I listened to that buzz that brought with it no serenity, no joy. All it did was remind me about the last moments of Ned’s life, when I couldn’t do anything but cower in the back room.
“Okay, Ivy.” He pulls his wallet out and pulls out a stack of bills. I don’t want to know how he earns his money. I really don’t care right now. “And here. You let me know if you need any help with anything else around here. It’s a lot for one person to handle on their own.” He hands me a business card: BOBBY AND BROTHERS TOWING AND AUTOMOTIVE.
“Thanks.” I chew on the inside of my mouth as guilt chews on my insides, watching him lumber out the door. Because, once again, I’ve been a complete asshole to someone who doesn’t really deserve it. “Hey, you’d tell me if you heard anything more about what happened to Ned, right?”
He turns to meet my eyes, an exaggerated frown turning his mouth down. “Nothin’ on our end.”
“ ’Kay. See ya.”
I clean and pack everything up into my case as I do after every shift, wondering if Sebastian will still come by tomorrow. I’m hoping that he does, because I’m desperate to shake the unease I felt today. I need his canvas in order to do that. Maybe working on him will somehow be different.
I’m wired. There’s no way I’m falling asleep anytime soon, and I can’t just sit around in Ned’s house with his ghost, so when my phone buzzes with a text from Fez, I jump on the chance to do my next favorite thing to inking skin.
Inking walls.
I have plenty of options. The owner of a building over on Forty-second and East Twelfth—who is coincidentally the owner of the sub shop down the street from Black Rabbit—has offered to pay me to paint a mural on his wall as part of the antigraffiti movement. Or, there’s an already colorful cube van parked off Lombard that draws in artists like three-year-olds to a bowl of gumballs. Heck, I could even vandalize the inside of Black Rabbit, seeing as it’s all being painted over on Friday.
But it’s eleven at night and I don’t feel like going the legal, good girl route. That’s why I’m in the bowels of San Francisco—inside one of the many abandoned buildings in the Mission District—with a box of spray paint and my portable speaker. Two things, aside from my tattoo case, that I never go anywhere without. I really shouldn’t be doing this. Ned warned me that the city has upped the punishment for vandalism to a misdemeanor. And I feel like I’ve outgrown that period of time when charges might pass as cool and excusable. At twenty-five, I’d just be a giant loser.
But it’s quiet inside this remote and derelict office building and the windows are all boarded up. Frankly, I should be more concerned about the junkies and homeless that will no doubt filter through here than the cops. That’s why I don’t come to places like this alone.
“Ivy, tunes?” Weazy, a twenty-nine-year-old Mexican with a well-known passion for depicting jungle scenes, to the point that his work is almost as good as a fingerprint, sets up one of his battery-powered lights. We have four in total. Enough to light up one corner of this building while leaving many others dark and accessible to any creepers who may want to hide. And they do.
That should bother me but most of them are harmless, I’m in a group, and . . . fuck it. Ned’s dead, Ian’s gone, the few good friends I have are nowhere around, and I’ve never been the kind of girl to cry on someone’s shoulder. This is the best way I have to work through my grief.