I stripped the plastic from the armrest, wiped everything down, broke down the machine, and tossed used towels into the bin. The routine was automatic. End of the night work was never exciting, but it mattered. A clean shop kept people safe and kept me in business.
Bad Habit had been open eight years, and I hadn’t built it by cutting corners.
At twenty-one, I hadn’t known half as much as I thought I did, but I knew one thing. I knew I didn’t want anybody else controlling my money.
I’d had bosses before opening Bad Habit. A few of them were decent. Most were assholes who thought owning the building meant owning the people inside it.
I had decided young that wasn’t going to be me.
If I was going to be tired, I was going to be tired for myself.
The club understood that about me.
They’d asked once, maybe twice, if I wanted to prospect. I knew they meant it as respect. They didn’t ask every man who hung around. They didn’t offer that door unless they thought you were worth bringing in.
I appreciated it and I said no. I didn’t need a patch to know where I stood with them.
I did their ink. I went to their parties when I felt like it. I drank their beer, shot pool, gave them shit, and left when I wanted.
They had my back.
I had theirs.
That was enough.
I finished cleaning my station and headed to the sink to wash my hands. My forearms were stiff, and there was a tight spot between my shoulders from leaning over Grinder’s arm for hours. Three appointments in one night was doable, but it made for a long damn day.
I dried my hands on a paper towel and tossed it in the trash.
Then I looked across the street again. Still lit up.
I muttered under my breath and walked to the counter. My phone sat next to the register and I checked the time. Nine twelve.
She’d opened at ten.
If she had been there before opening, which I knew she had because I’d seen her lights on when I rolled in that morning, she had been working at least twelve hours.
Probably more.
I grabbed the cash Grinder left and tucked it into the register. Then I shut down the computer and checked tomorrow’s appointments. Two touch-ups. One small script piece. Easy day.
My gaze drifted back to the window.
Jesus Christ.
Josie had said she hadn’t eaten lunch.
That had been hours ago.
Not my problem.
I flipped off the back lights and went into the small break room. The place wasn’t much. Mini fridge. Microwave. Cheap table. Two chairs. A cabinet that held coffee, napkins, paper plates, and whatever snacks I remembered to buy.
There was a protein bar in the cabinet.
I grabbed it, stared at it, then tossed it back.
A protein bar wasn’t dinner. It was punishment wrapped in plastic.
