Her iron clattered on the bench. She flexed and relaxed her hand. “Have a look.” She nodded toward the full length mirror on the wall concealing the front door.
He jerked from the comfortable idleness he’d nestled into. Unease crawled over him, furrowing into his shoulders, tightening the muscles there. He tagged his shirt from the floor and pulled it on. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” Just like her.
“Oooh-kay. I need to bandage it.”
He moved to the door. “Nah, it’s good. I’m going to step out for a smoke.”
The humid night air embraced him, dampening his tobacco and slowing the burn as he puffed. Why was he lingering? He already paid her, and the guys were probably looking for him. He needed to get back. He couldn’t leave.
A few minutes later, she walked out, eyes scanning the street and settling on him.
“Thanks for the ink. It helped.” More than helped. It was the best distraction he’d ever tried. Or maybe it was her. “I underpaid you, but I’ll send you more money when I have it.”
Her mouth fluttered between a frown and a smile, and she locked the deadbolt. “Don’t do that, but if you decide to take a different approach with the ink, you know where to find me.” Her lips settled into a smile. Then she walked away, taking all the air with her.
“Wait.”
She paused, looked over her shoulder, lips still curved heavenward.
“What’s your name?”
Her smile faltered then resurrected into a blinding vision. “Charlee. With two e’s.”
Charlee. His future had a name.
He ground his teeth. She was on her way to see a man.
An unfamiliar pressure ballooned in his chest and boiled the blood in his veins. He locked his knees, forced himself to remain where he was. He knew where she worked. He would square his shit. Then he would come back and win her. “Charlee what?”
She shook her head. “Charlee of Kilroy Tattoo.”
His anguish over letting her walk away was overpowered by his determination to make her his future.
Purpose girded his spine, gave him strength. “Catch you later, Charlee of Kilroy.”
2
Why the hell did she give him her real name? Charlee practiced her alias daily, owned it for a year.
The tattoo was another stupid move. In the short session, she’d only started the outline, but the finished design would’ve been an unerring compliment to his masculine beauty. And exactly what he did not want.
An hour’s worth of anxiety had whooshed out of her when he didn’t check her work, and she wanted to get the hell away from him before he did.
Oh, he would catch her later. In a courtroom when he sued her ass for willful negligence. A problem she would’ve avoided if she’d turned him away to begin with. That was her first mistake. She never allowed a stranger in her shop after hours. She had been in St. Louis a year, the longest she’d stayed in one town, and she’d grown too comfortable with her business, with Noah. It was making her sloppy.
She’d always been good at reading people, and there was something identifiable about Jay. The perpetual dread that troubled his dark eyes reflected her own.
His eyes seared the spot between her shoulder blades, so she picked up her pace. She wouldn’t look back. In her four years of running, always looking over her shoulder, there wasn’t a single day she hadn’t thought about the shackles, the servitude, and the beatings. But she thought of those things in past tense. Freedom was forward, and Noah was waiting.
She approached the corner of the building. Her rusted out Gremlin sat alone in the lot. She chose that lot for the lighting. Enclosed on three sides by tall buildings, there were no shadows. No hiding places.
Keys in her right hand, she slipped her left inside her bag and gripped the Bodyguard 380, finger beside the trigger. One more scan of the street, and she ran to the car, circled it, checked the locks, and swept the interior. All clear.
Safe inside and on the road, she allowed herself a calming breath and dialed Noah.
“Hey, you.” Warmth flushed his voice.
Since the bars were shutting their doors for the night, the traffic closed in on all sides. She up shifted, building speed. “Hey. On my way. Still at the station?”
“Yep.”
“See you in five.”
“Don’t speed. Safety first, sweetheart.”
“Always.” She opened the messenger bag on her lap, the strap tugging at her shoulder, and tucked the phone inside. Dozens of headlights bobbed in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t distinguish one pair from another. Were any of them following her?
Did paranoia award safety? She wasn’t paranoid. She was aware.
The police station emerged up ahead. The bleached brick facade glowed under high-powered flood lights. She slid her rust-bucket to the curb and tucked it between two police cruisers.
The rear and side mirrors reflected the well-lit terrace, the empty visitor lot, and more police cruisers. No loiterers. She hurried to the entryway and paused inside the protection of the alcove, staring at the door.