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“Yessir.”
“And no lip.” I smirk at him and settle in to hear how the Inked Brotherhood and the Damage Boyz are doing.
Good, as it turns out. He was telling the truth after all, I guess. The Damage Control shop has expanded. The new shop is called Collateral Damage, and business is booming. Boys and girls and babies are all doing well.
Finally my muscles, strung tight since he walked into the garage earlier, begin to relax.
“And we have this collaboration with a tattoo shop in Chicago,” Zane is saying, “to… Jesus, who is that?”
I turn to look—together with the entire male population in the bar, it seems. A beer bottle crashes to the floor.
It should have been funny.
But I know that head of white blond hair with their blue and pink streaks, that wide mouth, that curvy body. I know her, and I curse.
I know this girl. Hell, I sure do.
“That’s a wild one,” Zane mutters.
“Yeah. That’s Octavia’s sister, Gigi.”
“That’s Gigi?” Zane whistles. “She changed a lot since I last saw her.”
Yeah.
“That girl can turn heads,” Zane mutters, taking a sip of his undefined juice. “Don’t get me wrong, Dakota is the only woman who turns my head, but oh boy this one’s gotta have her pick of guys. She only has to crook her little finger.”
“I know,” I grunt. I watch her slink by, hips swaying. “Dammit, I’m not her dad. Think I’ll be justified in punching any guy she brings home if he’s not up to par?”
I rub at my temples.
Suddenly Zane laughs. “Fucking hell, this has to be a headache for you. I bet you’re set on checking every potential boyfriend for flaws, as if it’s a car. Check the engine. Check for dents. Check the paint. Order an overhaul.”
“Shut up,” I say but I grin. He’s damn right. “So what?”
Not sure Gigi would appreciate it, though. She’s as strong-willed as her sister. I sometimes wonder if she knows the effect she has on guys.
Most of the time, Octavia doesn’t have a clue how pretty, how sexy she is. I have a feeling her little sister isn’t much better off.
But where Octavia just never believes it, it’s almost as if Gigi doesn’t want to know. Or doesn’t care. Probably also doesn’t care if she leaves a trail of broken hearts in her wake. A beautiful, natural disaster.
I watch her vanish into the dark end of the bar and wonder who she’s here to meet.
Wonder if I have a right to ask, later. If I should worry.
About her.
About him.
“You want to meddle, fucker,” Zane mutters. “You’re too much like me.”
“I am?”
“Yeah. I run around trying to get my buddies to talk to me when they have a problem, and it’s like pulling nails. And then the shit hits the fan, and I make them wish they were dead for not talking to me sooner. Stupid dicks.”
I snicker. “I doubt we’re alike, Zen-man.”
He mutters something under his breath and calls the bartender over for a refill, lifting his glass.
