Page 60 of Hooked on Trouble

“The tattoo one?”

She nods. “I already moved the date once and don’t want to cancel. Can you step in for me?”

That’s like asking if black is my color. “Are you serious?”

I’ve been looking forward to this session since we booked it. A woman who suffered an assault had flowers tattooed over the scars, turning the horrific experience into something beautiful. We were given permission to shoot privately at a botanical garden.

Sasha’s leather pants crinkle as she picks up the fur blanket we used as a prop. She tucks it under her arms, then focuses her purple eyes on me. “Your skills have improved, and you know my gear better than I do. I thought it would be a great opportunity, and the tattoo theme is up your alley. You think you can handle it?”

“Definitely. I won’t let you down.” I better not. Sasha’s gone way beyond her job as employer. She encourages me to stage shots, even letting me direct some. And she asks to see my work. When I told her about my goal to shine a light on street life, using my lens to access the heart behind the heartache, her face lit up. We discuss my photos regularly—critiques that have forced me to up my game. She’s even mentioned helping me put on a show.

“You’ll do fine,” she says. “We’ll go over the angles and expectations, but you’ll be in charge. The more confident you are, the more relaxed the client will be.”

By the time we’re done discussing the details, I practically run to the bus. My feet barely touch the ground, Vancouver’s signature rain chasing me. My move here has proved more rewarding than I could have imagined. My photography is taking off. We’ve finished the website for Over the Top Events. I’m nervous about documenting client parties on my own, but the skills I’m learning are invaluable. Transferring them to my own business, being in control of everything from the direction to the shots to the final product, sets my head spinning. I have Nico, and a sister, too. I must have done something right in a past life, because the crap I pulled in high school couldn’t have led me here.

Still buzzing, I turn down the drive to my apartment as a guy in baggy clothes pushes out my front door, a small white box clutched in his hand. His shaggy blond hair covers his face, but I catch his profile as he slides into his car, and his crooked nose jogs my memory, a fleeting moment of recognition I can’t quite place. The troublesome kind, like an unidentifiable stench. He was obviously visiting Rose, but I’ve never met any of her friends, and she never volunteers much information. She’s careful to maintain a certain distance between us.

The visitor drives off, and I try to shake my unease. Rose’s acquaintance may be on the seedy side, but who am I to judge? My old crowd makes that guy look like a librarian.

I hurry inside, hang up my raincoat, and run into Rose’s room, eager to share my good news. “You’ll never guess what happened today.”

Her Greenpeace shirt is creased as if she picked it up off the floor, her jeans stained on the cuffs. She looks up from the Vanity Fair magazine I bought her. “Judging by the strange dance you’re doing, I’d say the news is good.”

I shift from foot to foot, my excitement bubbling up. “My boss can’t do our photo shoot tomorrow and asked me to fill in. Run it on my own.”

She lowers the magazine. “That’s awesome, Raven. You haven’t even had the job that long. She must be impressed with your work.”

I wave her off. “More like she was in a bind and needed a warm body to take her place.”

“Sure, but this is her business. She wouldn’t take the time if she didn’t think you had promise. And she certainly wouldn’t leave you with a client if you couldn’t pull it off. I’m proud of you. Seriously,” she adds when my gaze drops to her sweatshirt tossed on the floor. “This is a big deal.”

It is a big deal. Sasha’s been the perfect mentor, explaining why she does everything, not just shoving menial jobs my way. But the bigger deal, the thing that has unfamiliar warmth looping through my chest, is the word proud. When I buckled down in high school and my grades climbed out of town-idiot territory, my mother squinted at my report card and said, “You’re a Hunt. No point tryin’ to be somethin’ you ain’t.” My father shrugged and turned back to the TV.

But my sister is proud of me.

“Thanks,” I say, the only syllable left in my vocabulary. But the appearance of the man at my front door gnaws at me. “Who was the guy who just left?”

She pauses so long, I almost repeat the question. “Did you talk to him?”

“No, but he looked familiar.”

“Just a friend. He’s been here before. You probably saw him at his car or something.”

That lame excuse smells like leftover tuna casserole, but maybe his appearance could be the thing to bring us closer, a way to ease her into opening up. “You should invite him over. I’d love to hang out.”

“He’s not the hangout type.” With those clipped words, she shoves her magazine to the side and claps her hands. “We should celebrate your job. I bought ice cream last night. Mint chip. You inhaled the stuff as a kid. Figured it was a safe bet. Then we can watch a movie.”

Her usual avoidance grates on me, but I need to rein in my expectations. Could be he’s a boyfriend or ex she’d rather not discuss. I haven’t exactly opened up about Nico, either. I suppress a sigh. For now she wants to celebrate my job and watch movies and use words like proud.

I grab her arm as she passes. “I’m really happy you’re here, Rose.”

She blinks at my hand and chews her cheek. Then she smiles. “Thanks for giving me a second chance.”

The doorbell chimes, and her smile fades. She shoves past me, nearly body checking me into the wall to reach the door first. Annoyed, I rub my arm, wondering if that guy is back.

I poke my head around the hallway to see Nikki and Colin. A much nicer surprise. “You guys finally made it.”

Nikki holds her hand out to Rose. “I’m Nico’s sister, and this is my son, Colin. We’re here about a skateboard.”