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My client arrives early and ready. He sits quietly as I prep him. Declines offers of distraction or conversation.
For a few hours, we work in silence. Nothing but his grunts and the energetic pop-punk soundtrack Forest favors.
Some guy whines about how he wants his ex to drive off a bridge. Even though he totally doesn't care about her. Why does she think he cares anyway?
I guess music from high school trumps newfound happiness. After a ridiculous charade—Forest and his best friend Skye pretended they were a couple, all to make his ex jealous or something—Forest is now happily dating his best friend.
He still dresses in mostly black and listens to angry assholes.
But he's over the moon.
This isn't my sound, but I appreciate the passion.
I'd kill for this kind of energy. Even if it was all anger directed at someone who didn't really deserve it.
The best I have is Holden and we have such a long history.
The asshole is right. My attitude isn't helping Daisy.
I should let it go.
I want to.
I just can't.
Eventually, we finish our set time. I clean and bandage my client. Send him home with instructions and an appointment date next week.
It's a complicated piece. Lots of detail and shading. A few more hours and we'll be done, but, for now, it's a work in progress.
The afternoon moves quickly.
A sugar skull on a tough guy's bicep.
A butterfly on a cute woman's wrist.
An invitation to her place to celebrate her new ink.
For a second, I consider it. Then she mentions a wine vintage and I invent a girlfriend.
I walk her to the door. Promise I wish things were different.
Return to the desk. This is it. After I finish some admin shit, I'm done.
I stretch my arms over my head. Consider the instant coffee maker.
No. Good coffee is one of the only passions I have left. No way am I drinking anything from a pod.
I sit behind the desk. At the shop computer. Let the sounds of the afternoon fill my head as I finish scheduling.
The buzz of a tattoo gun, the energetic guitar riff, the murmur of conversation.
The ding-dong of the bell.
Luna steps inside. She's in a trendy outfit. A white tank tucked into her pale blue jeans. Purple back pack. Pink Chucks.
Silver hair, sexy messy.
Lips a deep pink-red.
Heart-shaped sunglasses covering her pretty eyes.
"Hey." She looks to the speakers and sticks out her tongue. "He's still playing this stuff?"
That gets the attention of everyone here. The buzz ceases. The conversations shift.
Forest looks at us. Loses interest.
Holden tells his client—a cute chick who's definitely flirting with him—to take a break. When she moves toward the bathroom, he turns to us.
Looks from me to Luna, then back to me. "Always good to see you, Luna."
"Yeah. You too." She half-smiles. "Glad you took my advice."
He actually blushes.
Fuck, it's something about Daisy. About their sex life.
That's information I don't need.
"You here for me?" He holds his hand to his chest. Makes a show of fanning himself. "You know what the attention does to me."
"Ollie," she says.
He shoots me a knowing look.
"You're off now, right?" she asks.
"You know his schedule?" he asks.
"Your schedules are on your website." She looks at Holden like he's saying something stupid. Which is a pretty standard exchange for them. "I have to ask you a favor."
"A sexy favor?" Holden asks.
She ignores him. "I have to pick up some stuff. At home. And I need, uh… someone strong. Who can carry a lot of things."
"So you came for Oliver?" Holden asks.
"Don't you have a client waiting?" She gives him another funny look.
"Yeah. Just contemplating a fact I heard earlier today." His eyes meet mine. "Think I may have found the reason."
I shoot him a don't look.
He nods of course not. "Any reason you're asking Ollie?"
"Will it be faster to tell you to go away or explain?" she asks.
"Explain," he says.
"If you promise to go away after that," she says.
He chuckles, not at all offended, and makes the scout's honor gesture.
"I'm staying at the Flynn's place for a while," she says. "While my parents, uh, remodel."
He nods, accepting her explanation. "Staying with Ollie. Damn, good luck."
"Thanks," she says.
"And you too, Ollie." He copies her tone. "I have a feeling you're going to need it."
Chapter Eight
Luna
Inked Love is a twenty-minute walk from the Flynn place. Since it's just north of the Venice/Santa Monica divide, just off the main drag—
There's no parking. Even in October.
He walked. I walked.
Now, we walk together. He's quiet. The usual Oliver quiet. Only it feels different.
Weighted.
He stops in front of a coffee shop. One of his favorites. Raises a brow you in?
"Always," I say.
He nods, opens the door for me, follows me into the tiny shop.
There's no one else here. Just the two of us and the one employee.
Oliver orders a cold brew.
I order an iced Americano. Whip out my wallet before he can swipe his card.
