I smirk, helping myself to one. Dakota’s unconventional, but even she wouldn’t drug homeless people with hash.
My gaze shifts around her rustic greenhouse, an attachment that runs along the back of the home she rents. It’s a simple frame of wooden timbers and hard plastic above and glass windows that make the sides and back. Beneath my feet are flagstones. And all around are plants. Vibrant purple orchids and blooming cacti, lemon trees with fat, yellow fruits hanging from them, even though I don’t think lemons are in season right now. Dozens of colorful planters rest on the floor and on tiered shelves. Giant trees form a canopy in the corners, vines climbing up the walls. It’s a secluded jungle in the heart of San Francisco, decorated with Christmas lights and countless chimes dangling from the beams of the ceiling.
And off to the side, hidden by innocent, floppy tropical green leaves, is her little marijuana grow-op.
“It’s really nice in here. Peaceful,” I offer.
“Isn’t it?” She beams, her almond-shaped eyes rolling over the space in wonder as she tightens her afghan to her shoulders and curls up in the wicker chair opposite me with her own coffee. Dakota has always been a natural beauty—she has Native American roots, with thick black hair that she keeps long, dark olive skin, and slender but supple curves to prove it. She wears very little makeup, if any, and in all the years I’ve known her I don’t think I’ve seen a single pimple mar her complexion. “So, what do you have planned for today?”
“Well . . .” I sigh. “I have to let the painters into the shop and call the insurance company about the house.”
“After all that you’ve been through, now this.” She offers me a sympathetic smile. “Is it beginning to sink in yet?”
I nod, avoiding an answer with another sip of coffee.
Helping herself to a square, she offers, “You can stay for as long as you need to. You know I don’t mind. And I’d rather you did. That area your house is in isn’t the safest. Clearly. I don’t like that you’re alone over there.”
I wasn’t alone. Not last night. Had those jerks not ransacked my house, I would probably be tangled up in the sheets with Sebastian right now. “Thanks. I may take you up on that.” That house isn’t fit for living in at the moment, anyway, even if I did want to stay there. “I’m going to get my things, and my car.” I glance at my phone. It’s eight fifteen. Sebastian will be here soon. If he’s coming.
He’s not coming.
“So, how did you meet this guy, anyway?”
Leave it to Dakota to change topics from grieving my murdered uncle to the guy I picked up with one sentence. “Someone referred him. He showed up three days ago, wanting a piece done on his rib cage. ” I chuckle, remembering the afternoon, how angry I was. “I turned him down at first, but then he helped me with a rusted bolt, and I felt guilty.”
“Hmm . . . So you gave him what he wanted?” There’s the mischievous twinkle in her eye that I saw that first day I met her back in Sisters. I was a high school sophomore and she was a junior, and both of us were skipping class to enjoy a sunny fall day on the grassy hill behind the school with our sketchbooks.
I smirk. “I did his ink for him, yeah. It took seven hours.”
She casually asks through a sip of coffee, “His design or yours?” The look on my face makes her laugh. “Have you ever actually finished someone else’s design without modifying it?”
I shrug. “It’s called creative license. Anyone going under my needle is warned. Even that hummingbird you sketched for Alex has a few Ivy-inspired adjustments.”
A normal person might get annoyed hearing that. Not Dakota. She sighs. “I miss Alex. She’s such a kind, strong soul.”
“I know. So do I.” Dakota is actually the reason I met our friend Alex. She sent her to the Bend shop that I was working in at the time, sketch in hand, bright ocher eyes filled with nervousness and excitement. She’s also now practically married to the only boy I’ve ever loved, Amber’s brother.