His smile went from charming to shit-eating. “I sure do. You’d be surprised how much money a tattoo shop can rake in.”
I would have found his cockiness to be off-putting, but the truth was I knew nothing about tattoo parlors. All the ones I’d been to looked half-dead, with an artist who looked like he’d been regulated to piercing young girls’ ears in order to keep the lights on.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it. “In fact, I have an appointment in twenty minutes. Want to come see me in action?”
Normally, the thought of watching someone get jabbed with an inky needle would have turned me off, but there was something so earnest and open about his handsome face that I found myself nodding. There was also the whole guilt thing over how horrible I was to him in high school. And, let’s be honest here, I was curious to see how successful this guy was.
In my business, you had to stick to successful people like glue.
CHAPTER THREE
Twenty minutes later, I was pulling up Jose in front of a quirky, two-story house, Camden McQueen at my side. The drive was short and he alternated between pointing out what had changed since I left town and cooing over the car.
“How much was it, if you don’t mind my asking?” he asked as the wheels crunched to a stop over loose sand.
A smile tugged at my lips as I took the keys out of the ignition. “I wouldn’t know. I borrowed it.”
He opened the door and paused, giving me a suspicious look. “Borrowed it like you used to borrow the teachers’ books before a test?”
I matched his suspicious look, wondering how much Camden knew about what I did. After my parents became fugitives, everyone in Palm Valley knew they were con artists. People used to point at me and whisper, and I figured it was either over my injury (which was usually the case) or they were placing bets whether I was in on the con. I hadn’t been, not at that time. That didn’t stop me from pulling a few tricks in high school, but they were just minor things. I’d never gotten caught—teachers just looked the other way when they saw me. I think it’s because they felt sorry for me and they were right to.
“I always gave them back,” I told him and got out of the car. The sun had somehow gotten hotter. On days like this, I hated that I couldn’t wear shorts.
He was staring at me, his hand shielded over his eyes. I’d forgotten how much he used to stare. Now it was a bit easier to take since I didn’t think he was going to pull the rug out from under me, but it was still unnerving.
I turned my attention back to the house. It was clapboard and a bright yellow with cobalt blue accents. There really were life-sized replicas of Dracula and Swamp Thing on the porch as well as an intricate wooden sign that said “Sins & Needles.” The garden was of your standard rock, brush, and cacti variety, something that lazy people like myself would fall back on. It was a hell of a lot cheaper than maintaining a lawn in the desert.
“Like what you see?” he asked, his gaze following mine. “The house was built in the 1950s. I think it used to be at the air base, then they moved it over here when the town got started up. It even has a bomb-proof bunker.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded. “Well, Audrey will be here soon.”
I guessed she was his client. I followed him up the path, stepping only on the stones as if the ground was lava, and had a nice view as we climbed the creaking steps to the porch. Camden sure had one hell of an ass. That was something I thought I’d never say.
He unlocked the door and flipped over the “open” sign as we stepped in. The place was kitschy as anything. It was like walking into Graceland if it was owned by Jon Waters. The walls were an obnoxious green, the suede couch was orange, and the coffee table was pink and made out of alligator skins. I had to do a double take. A 1930s scuba diving suit hung in the corner by a paper maché Speed Racer. There was a stack of shiny guitars underneath a flatscreen TV that was showing Who Framed Roger Rabbit with Asian subtitles.
But for all the visual diarrhea, I couldn’t help but add up the dollar value of the place. He wasn’t kidding when he said he brought in the dough. As ugly and campy as half the stuff was, they’d be worth a pretty penny to purchase.
“Can I get you a beer?” he asked. There was a small, retro fridge beside his tattoo chair and when he opened it, it glowed glass green from all the Heineken.
“Please,” I told him. Probably wasn’t the best idea since my stomach was still growling and I was strangely nervous, but I could never pass up a free cold one.