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I chew my food, recalling how Choppa and his wife, Reenie, were basically surrogate parents to both Connor and his sister when they were growing up.
After their mom died in childbirth with Gigi, Connor and Gigi’s father essentially buried himself at the bottom of a bottle. Both kids grew up with next to no supervision, except for Choppa and Reenie. Connor and Gigi’s dad died of alcoholism not long after Gigi graduated high school. I know that for all Connor pretends to find his baby sister a pain in the ass, he’s always been extra-protective of her as a result of their upbringing.
I tell Connor I’d like to see Gigi again sometime. “I’m sure she’d like that,” he replies. “I’ll be sure to say hello to her for ya.”
We finish our food just in time for me to go off to the hospital for my shift. Connor pays, and leaves a large tip for the waitress. He walks me to my car, then tells me he’s going to escort me to work in his pickup.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Connor,” I warn him.
He shrugs. “Don’t care.”
And just like that, the easy, comfortable banter between us is replaced by the tension of before.
“You know, some people would call this stalking behavior,” I point out.
“It’s not stalking if I’m just trying to make sure you’re safe. The stalker is who I’m trying to protect you from.”
“Connor…” I groan.
“Look,” he says, cutting me off. “I appreciate that you’re not happy about this. But I’m not gonna take no for an answer. I’m gonna be making sure that you’re safe until I’m convinced you don’t need me watching over you anymore. So you best just accept it, Katrina.”
In spite of being pissed at him, a giggle escapes me. “Ooh,Katrina. Using my full name makes you sound so serious.”
“I am serious,” he frowns. “As a heart attack. Matter of fact, not only am I gonna be following you to work, I’ll be there when you get off at the end of your shift, to see you home.”
“Oh, for god’s sake. This is ridiculous, Connor.”
“Call it whatever you want.” He crosses his arms. “It’s what’s happening.”
“Ugh, fine,” I say, flinging up my hands. “I don’t have time to argue with you anymore. I’m going to be late.”
I climb in my car and drive away, silently fuming as I see him pull behind me to follow. I consider gunning it and trying to lose him, but that’s not only dangerous, it’s probably also not something I could even manage to do. Eventually I just give up and drive. The idiot follows me all the way there, even into the parking garage, where he keeps pace with me until I pull into a spot and get out of the car.
“When are you off work?” he asks me as I start to walk away.
I consider ignoring his question. But I wouldn’t put it past him to follow me inside and trail me all shift if I do. So I tell him.
“Have a good day, Katrina,” he calls out as he leaves.
I go inside, knowing I should be irritated with him.
But for some reason, I’m smiling instead.
7
FURY
While Kat’s at work at the hospital, I go back to the clubhouse for church. And speak of the devil, my sister Gigi is there when I arrive. I know this before I even go inside, because her crazy-ass vehicle is parked in the lot is a dead giveaway. Gigi’s mobile tattoo studio is called “The Body Bus.” She painted it herself, of course, in a swirling mix of images in Blackwork and Anime tattoo styles, along with something she calls “Trash Polka” style. It’s hard to describe, but the effect is pretty freaking cool. It gets her a lot of recognition and publicity, too. Gigi drives The Bus in an annual art car parade that they do in Minneapolis, and apparently her appointments always spike in the weeks afterwards.
Even if I hadn’t seen Gigi’s bus parked outside, I would have known she was here as soon as I stepped through the door. The first thing I see when I walk inside is her crazy shock of fire-engine red hair, clear across the main room. With that mop of insanity on top of her head, even at five foot three Gigi stands out in a crowd. She’s got a punk-rock aesthetic that is definitely unique. She has clear, pale skin, and wears dark but skillful eye makeup that make her brown eyes look huge and doe-like. Intricate black tattoos twine around her arms and upper body. When she’s not working, a dozen metal bracelets adorn her wrists. On anyone else the whole thing might look cartoonish, but on her it looks distinctive and striking. Even though she’s my sister, I have to admit she’s beautiful.
Gigi’s got a personality to match, too. Spiky and sharp, intelligent as a whip, she’s the polar opposite of a girly girl. Guys flock to her like moths to a flame. But she’s almost as much of a heartbreaker as I’ve been accused of being. My sister goes through men like kids go through candy. And I’ve never seen her be serious about a single one of them. I asked G once if she was ever gonna settle down. Her answer? “If I could ever find a guy whose company I enjoyed more than my own, maybe. But Jesus, Con, why would I give up my independence just to put up with an endless parade of snoring and fart jokes? The only thing a man can give me that I don’t already have is a dick. And frankly, the battery-operated variety works just fine, and sometimes better.”
Sighing at the memory — and at the ongoing trauma I live with knowing my sister owns at least one vibrator — I stride toward where Gigi sits with a group of club bunnies. She’s hunched over with her back to me, clearly concentrating on something.
“Hey G, what’s up?” I call out to her as I approach.
“Shit!” She jumps, then turns around and gives me a scowl. “Don’t yell like that, dumbfuck! I’m working!”
