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“Sorry, it was a tattoo emergency,” Nita replied with her usual excuse, but it was hard to give her a sincere smile.
Rose noticed instantly.
“What’s wrong?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know, I just feel off,” Nita replied, unsnapping her clear raincoat and hanging it on the coat rack.
“Bad day at work? You didn’t get laid off, did you?” Rose asked.
Nita shook her head. Nobody knew exactly where she worked, only that it was an exclusive dating service for rich-ass clients. Which it kind of was, except for all the sex. She’d shared that the company was struggling one night when she’d had one too many martinis down at McCleary’s.
“Nah, I’ve still got a job. I just have the blahs, I guess,” she replied.
“Well, come on in. Max is waiting for you,” Rose said, waving her through.
Nita walked around and saw Max at his station, pulling on some nitrile gloves.
“I’m filling in and not doing something new, right? This is a favor before my other client gets here in an hour,” he said, sitting his large body on his rolling stool and pulling his tray alongside the chair.
She climbed onto it, pulling up her tight skirt to expose the half-filled in tattoo on her inner thigh.
“Finishing more of the fox,” she agreed, looking down at the half-finished art.
It was a human with a fox face, winking as she licked a knife blade. She wore a red Betty Boop dress and had a red garter on a furry leg. It stretched from the top of her thigh almost to her knee, covering the whole inside of her leg.
“There she is, my little vixen,” Max murmured, examining his work, then blowing it a kiss. He looked back at his tray, prepared his gun, then shifted closer. His head hovered between her legs as he asked, “Have you named her yet?”
Nita smiled. Little did Max know, Vixen was her Cavendish code name.
“Not yet. Not until she’s done,” she said, laying back in the chair and staring at the ceiling. “I might just stay with My Little Vixen.”
Max chuckled from where he crouched between her thighs. His gloved fingers moved on her leg, pushing it wider, then adjusted the light.
The buzzing sting of the gun on the inside of her thigh was liberating. She didn’t know why, but the process of getting tattoos satisfied her more than having the final art displayed on her body. Like a badge of courage or something. And some of her art was exactly that. Medals of honor.
Of survival.
“Friday night,” Max murmured as he worked. “Odd that you’re in here instead of… partying.”
She snorted a laugh. Visiting Max for tattoo work had become a sort of religious experience. She confessed more to him than she had to her Cavendish colleague, Becca, or even Kensley. And she knew when he said “partying,” he really meant “getting laid.”
“I’ve been off my game lately,” she admitted, draping an arm over her forehead.
The words made her think back to her earlier musing.
Why was she off her game? Getting laid for her was as common as bruises after a roller derby bout.
Maybe the trouble at Cavendish was causing it. Back when Kensley was a co-owner, they had a ton of rich, happy clients. Then they’d sold the club to a group of sorority sisters. Except for Becca, who was a cool film nerd, and Hartley, who was so unbelievably bitchy you just had to respect her, they were all clueless about running a business. And when serious shit started happening, they’d been way out of their depth.
First, someone had pushed a female client out a window. Then the treehouse had burnt down. After that, one of the properties on the estate was trashed. Then the slaughtered cat and the kill kit had been found. Everyone thought a past client had it in for the company, but a weird feeling made her wonder if someone had it in for the women instead.
And since I work there, maybe I’m included in that group,she thought.
“Hey,” Max complained, lifting his gun when she shivered.
“Sorry,” she said, calming herself.
The breach of security had gotten the entire security staff fired. And she had to report to work tomorrow to present the contract to the new team.
