I could have had that guy in the Dumpster with the rest of the trash in under ten seconds. If Ivy wasn’t standing right there, I might have. But I had to step away instead, because taking him on would have caused a scene, and I need to be a ghost. So I climbed back into my car and waited on the street for hours, until I saw her little Honda whip around the corner and head home.
Now I’m back to tailing her, learning about her. I haven’t learned much, though, other than that she hovers on the abrasive side with everyone—not just me—and her body doesn’t stop swaying when there’s music playing.
And she’s not just some miscreant tagger, marring city streets with spray paint.
She’s one hell of a talented artist.
She also surrounds herself with half-wits. These guys . . . I shake my head. I’m guessing at least one of the three—probably the one with the shaved head whom they call Joker and who moves like a street brawler—has a criminal record. I don’t think she intentionally seeks them out. They just have common interests. Biker gangs that love to get tattoos at her uncle’s shop, local petty criminals she hangs out with when she’s spraying walls. Who the hell knows why Bentley said she associated with the IRA. There’s likely another coincidental connection.
The more I learn about her, the more I’m convinced that she has no idea what kind of trouble her uncle was caught up in and that she’s just a young and edgy tattoo artist who simply doesn’t want to settle down.
As I refocus my attention on her, I realize that perhaps that’s only what I want her to be.
She’s shed the light jean jacket she wore over here, revealing an oversize white tank top that’s thrown over a second, tighter black one. It’s a casual I-don’t-care look. But with her skintight black pants and her boots, it’s sexy as hell. All the more so because I’ve already had a good long look at what’s hidden beneath. She shouldn’t be dressed like that out here. I wouldn’t trust the guys she’s with, let alone the junkies in the shadows.
She’s not at all concerned, though. If she were, she’d be glancing over her shoulder frequently. But she’s in her own little world under the glow of the lanterns, working on a disturbingly accurate portrayal of the man in the inset of the newspaper article. Her uncle, a person she clearly loved very much. Her twiggy little arms, tense with effort, work tirelessly with sweeps of blues and purple shadows, until she’s managed to capture finer details of his eyes, nose, and mouth.
She climbs down from the stepladder and backs up, simply standing there. She’s admiring her work. Or maybe just thinking about him, about her grief. Reaching down into the shadows, her hand comes back with a small pink object. She unscrews the top and brings it to her lips to takes a swig. Booze.
“Dat’s da bomb! Like a boss, yo!” The fucking moron with blue hair and pants barely holding on to his skinny thighs walks over with his idiotic limplike swagger to stand next to her, slinging his arm over her shoulder. Why does she associate with him?
It’s moments like these—seeing guys like this—that I wish the American government took a page out of other countries’ rule books and forced every eighteen-year-old male into the military to work this level of stupid out of him.
Of course, I don’t really believe that because most of these men—boys—couldn’t face a day of war. It would break them, just like it broke the strongest of us.
“Fez . . .” She turns to glare at him. “You sound like a douche bag. You realize that, right?”
“Whatchu sayin’? Everyone loves the Fez!” He actually sounds offended. Good.
“Not everyone.”
“Then how come I got over five hundred thousand followers on my channel?”
“Because their brains haven’t fully formed yet.” She swats his arm off her and steps away. “And don’t touch me unless I tell you that you can.”