Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Got it. No problem.” I gesture toward the inn. “Not like everyone inside didn’t hear your bike pulling up.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not—”
“Nope. We’re good.” I turn and hurry up the front stairs, wood thudding under my hurried steps.
The engine rumbles to life again. By the time I reach the porch and glance back, he’s pulling away. A few seconds later, he’s swallowed by the fog.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Declan
Emery still doesn’t seem to get it. There’s a literal glowing mark wrapped around her arm and she still doesn’t believe. She said we’re bound like it’s a romantic fairy tale instead of a fatal curse.
Maybe her refusal to believe will keep her safe. I wasn’t kidding when I said belief gives the Rider power. If she leaves town without finishing her story, she might survive.
But the thought of never seeing Emery again leaves a coldness in my chest I’ve never experienced before. I shouldn’t have left her this morning. Or I should’ve insisted she come into the shop with me for the day where I could keep an eye on her. To protect her? Or to spend more time with her? Does it matter?
By the time I pull into my spot behind the shop, guilt and longing have taken up residence behind my ribs.
Inside, the air smells like disinfectant and old ink. I turn on the lights and move through the silent shop. My first appointment should be here soon. I check the notes for the piece he wants—great white shark wearing a black conical hat, riding a unicorn with a rainbow-colored mane and tail.
My temples throb. It’s not the most absurd request I’ve ever had. Part of a tattoo artist’s job is to work with the client to turn their idea into something that will actually look good as a tattoo. Clients who’ve done their research understand this. And a good artist should be able to capture the key elements of the idea. I sort through the rough sketches, hoping one of them fits the client’s vision and won’t end up looking like an acid-fueled fever dream.
The bell jingles. I glance up, expecting it to be my client, but secretly hoping it’s Emery.
It’s neither.
A thick-necked guy in a stretched black T-shirt and combat boots lumbers through the door, all attitude and stale aggression. The hair on my arms prickles—years of tattooing have taught me to recognize when poison flows through someone’s soul. His thick arms are already inked with some questionable images, but I don’t waste time figuring them out. I keep my eyes focused on his face as he approaches the counter.
“Good morning.” I dip my chin in a curt greeting. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to get this on my chest.” He slaps a piece of paper on the counter and lifts up his shirt. I motion for him to put his shirt down with one hand and unfold the paper. Stark black lines form a hooked cross, tilted and balanced on one corner.
Anger shoots up my spine. He’s not the first asshole to walk into my shop and ask for garbage like this but he’s the first one I’ve had this season.
“No,” I say.
“What’s the problem?” One corner of his mouth curves into a disingenuous smirk. “It’s an old symbol. Holds deep spiritual significance in Buddhism.”
“Right.” I toss the paper at him. “Are you a Buddhist?”
He slaps his hands on his bulging belly. “Yeah.”
The fuck you are. “Get out of my shop.” I jerk my chin toward the door in case he’s forgotten where the exit is located.
“What do you care? Name your price. I’ll pay it.” He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and flashes it in front of my face. “My money’s as green as anyone else’s.”
But your soul’s as black as they come.
Ignoring the money, my gaze drops to the SS lightning bolt on his hand. “I don’t want your money.”
“I got rights.” He waves the paper in the air. “Free speech.”
“Yup, your freedom to be an asshole is protected.” Don’t I have enough shit to deal with today, now I gotta give a civics lesson to this lowlife? “But I’m a private business with standards. I’m not obligated to entertain your Nazi bullshit.”
“Asshole.” He jams the paper and money back into his pockets and storms out.
“Have the day you deserve,” I call after him.
Silence rushes in behind him. My pulse is still thudding as I head to the back room to reset for the real client. I line up the machines, the needles, the gloves—everything neat and predictable. Control, one piece at a time.
The bell jingles again.
In case it’s that same hateful bastard coming back for round two, I grab the baseball bat from the corner and stalk to the front.
Instead, a woman with a sharp pixie cut and too-bright smile stands in the doorway. A cardboard drink carrier dangles from one hand, a brown paper bag from the other.