Either he’s not from around here or he hasn’t read the news. Or he’s one of those sickos who gets a kick out of crime scenes. “It is.” What’s really a shame is that this guy didn’t come a few weeks ago, because I gladly would have agreed to mark his entire body with my hands then.
On first-glance impression, he actually reminds me of Jesse Welles, the love of my teenage life, though I’d never admit that to anyone. This guy’s eyes are lighter—a cool chocolate rather than near-black—but they have that same intensity; a similar smirk sits atop his full lips. He, too, has dark hair coating his hard, masculine jaw; it’s just sculpted to a perfect short beard. He’s taller and broader than Jesse. Harder looking, not just by a few years of age but as if by life itself. That’s a little concerning, given the kind of life that Jesse Welles has already lived.
But there’s something distinctly different about this guy, too. I can’t quite place it, but I can feel it. Something slightly “off.” Or maybe it’s just this place that’s making everything in my life feel off—after all, my mind is still in a haze over Ned’s death. The last thing I should be thinking about right now is this guy or Jesse or getting laid.
He takes slow, even steps around me, circling the chair, his hands resting in his pockets. “What if I offer to pay you double your rate?”
I frown. I’ve never had anyone offer to pay more. If anything, they’re haggling to lower my hourly charge. Is he an idiot? “Do you know what my rate is?”
His lips twist into a pucker, as if he’s thinking about it. “It can’t be too much.”
I eye him up and down. He’s wearing nondescript black hiking boots, a black T-shirt, and plain blue jeans. Not Wranglers but not custom-made. He looks good in them, but I think that has more to do with his impressive build than choice in fashion. “What if I said it was five hundred an hour?”
“Then I’d say that I heard you were really good at what you do.”
“You mean kick-ass, right?” To some people, I sound arrogant. But in this business, you have to exude confidence. People are allowing you to take a needle filled with permanent ink to their bodies. They’re not going to feel safe with an insecure artist. That’s something Ned taught me. He also said that you have to walk the talk, because you won’t fool a person more than once and this business is all about referral—except for the odd moron who walks into a shop and flashes his skin without ever so much as looking at a portfolio. It’s rare, but it happens.
Thankfully, I can walk the talk. I am that good.
“Who’d you hear that from?” I ask.
“A friend named Mike.”
I’ve traveled all over the world and inked hundreds of people. I’ve worked on at least five Mikes, Michaels, or Micks. Names mean little. “What’d I do for him?”
“A skull,” he answers without missing a beat.
Great. Just as useless. I’ve done at least a dozen skulls. So common.
His upper lip twitches ever so slightly. “Do you normally interrogate potential customers like this?”
“No,” I admit. I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it now. Looking for reasons not to trust this guy, a valid excuse to turn him away, perhaps.
“Then do my reasons for being willing to pay more really matter?” Again, that arrogant little smirk.
In another time, that may have held sway. I’ve always had a weakness for strong but quiet masculinity. “No, they don’t. Because Black Rabbit is closed and I have a ton of cleaning up to do to get the place ready for selling.” I can’t help my voice from cracking with emotion now. I’ve managed to keep down so far. If I can just get through this, maybe it’ll fade without ever truly surfacing.
He nods toward the chair. “What are you doing with that?”
“Throwing it in the Dumpster, if I can ever get this bolt off.”
“Why?”
I’m tired of being questioned about this stupid chair. “Because someone was murdered in it.”