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She snickered, and I almost grinned.
I bet she’d never heard of a tattoo appearing from nothing.
Perhaps I ought to be more freaked out over my back ink, but it wasn’t the first time something extraordinary occurred near me—bullies coughing up blood after I’d walked past their school lunches. Boys who thought they could touch without consent, often ended up screaming in pain when their nailbeds bubbled in pus until the fingernail rotted off. An ill foster sibling healing after I prepared him a breakfast smoothie and one of my tears fell into the cup.
When Care Bear’s hand emerged from her clutch with a black and gold foiled business card, she beamed, but a bit of heat flushed her cheeks, as though embarrassed. “Here’s my card if you’re into it. Oh, and my shop specializes in injuries—you know, surgical scars or self-harm. I could take a look at the scar on your throat, not that you need it covered, but I could think up an epic choker tat. Come see me, girl. No shame in our shop, okay?”
Boldly, she tucked the card forImagine-X Tattoointo the pocket of my bag.
Her pale eyes were filled with a touch of sympathy, but as promised—no shame to be found.
“Beth, show’s about to start, baby.” A man dressed like the grumpy Care Bear with gaged ears and a lip ring waved.
My heart aches about Beth. I am sorry she is gone . . .
A small gasp slid over my lips. What the hell? The heel of my hand pressed against my forehead. The memory flashed through me like a cracking whip, there and gone.
Who was Beth?
With another squeeze to my arm, Care Bear Beth gave me a tipsy smile and joined her partner.
I flexed my fingers and dropped my gaze to the red lines wrapped around every digit. Despite the impossibility of my back tattoo, the marks down my spine and hands were part of me.
When my pulse raced, or I felt as though anxiety might shred my gut to pieces, I’d trace the marks. Another compulsion, but comfort always came. Like they mattered on some deeper level.
Some of the red coiled around my fingers, others were straight and jagged lines. All were stretched and a little faded.
I hugged my middle and made my way to the Blackjack tables. I had a job to do.
Once I found a semi-secluded spot, I leaned one shoulder against a chirping slot machine. It took no more than twenty seconds to spot his ginger head. Idiot. It was Halloween, the night of disguise, and he couldn’t bother to wear a mask, hat, or even dye his stupid hair?
Graham, tonight is not going to be your night.
With a cinch of guilt in my gut, I pulled out my phone from the front pocket of my bag, and sent the text:
Spotted.
I blew out a long breath, watching Graham Masterson laugh and drape his arm around a busty woman at his side and nuzzle her breasts until she shoved him back, storming off.
Guilt gone. He was always a pig.
My phone dinged.
Satan: Lower Level. 10min.
I licked my lips, tucked my phone away, and cracked my neck to one side. Time to get this over with.
I made a move for the card table, and it was in that moment, Graham’s bloodshot eyes locked on me. Time seemed to creep at an agonizing pace yet drifted swiftly in the next two seconds.
“Graham,” I shouted. “Don’t do it, you idiot.”
Too late. The bastard flung his drunk ass off the seat, knocking over a man dressed like he’d popped out of the nineteenth century and ran.
Lloyd didn’t hire me for my tricky fingers alone. I was quick. Curses and threats followed Graham as he clattered through gamblers and servers, flinging trays, knocking off tiaras, and snatching wigs as he went.
When he aimed for the lobby, I raced down a row of slots, cutting him off. “Graham!”
He merely whimpered and fumbled with a door leading to the parking garage.
