“I was here a few weeks back,” I say. “Your brother did my tattoo.”
Devanie splays her hands out. “Wait. You have a tattoo? You?”
I chuckle. “A small one. Hidden. But yes.”
Her jaw falls.
“Anyway,” I say, returning my gaze to Madden. “She asked me to drop her off here instead of at the club. I hope that’s all right?”
He licks his lips; his attention hasn’t left me once this entire time. “Yeah.”
“I should get going,” I say. Heat creeps up my neck and if I stick around any longer, something tells me it’s going to be deathly obvious that I’m growing more flustered by the minute in his presence. “See you Thursday, Devanie. Same time?”
“Yep!” She gives me a hug and I leave, making damn sure I don’t knock my head against the door on my way out this time.
By the time I get to my car, I’m running on sheer adrenaline while simultaneously floating on a breeze. I resist the urge to glance back at Madd Inkk as I drive past, on the off chance that he’s watching from the window—not that he would. I highly doubt I’m remotely close to his type.
I tried my hardest to keep my cool in there, but you never can tell what other people are going to pick up on.
For all I know, the fact that just standing in front of him was getting me all hot and bothered might as well have been broadcasting across my forehead in big, bold letters.
Taking a deep breath, I grip the steering wheel and continue home … with a giant smile on my face … because I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of him after this.
Fourteen
Madden
* * *
“You know child labor is illegal in this country.” Devanie spins in a swivel stool in my back room. Since she insisted on having her mentor drop her off at the shop and not at the club, I’ve decided to put her to work restocking bandages, grommets, and grips, and organizing the new shipment of ink bottles by color. “That’s so crazy that you know Brighton.”
“I don’t know her, Dev,” I say. “She came in here once.”
Twice actually. If I count her banging on my shop door at the crack of dawn because she left her ID here.
“Really? Because the way she was looking at you ...” Devanie doesn’t finish her thought. “I’m getting dizzy.”
“Then stop spinning and get back to work.”
“Not unless you agree to pay me.”
“Your cell phone is payment enough, don’t you think?” I unbox a package of needle cartridges. We can never have enough black on hand. This is actually Missy’s job, but she called in sick today. Sounded like ass. Hardly recognized her over the phone. She offered to come in, but I told her not to bring that shit into my shop.
Dev stops spinning and places her hands out to brace herself between a nearby table and a storage shelf.
“What’d you two do today?” I ask.
“We got frozen yogurt,” she says. “Talked about stuff.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of stuff?”
“Friends. Schools. Boys,” she says. “She told me about her boyfriend.”
A flash of heat rushes through me, though I don’t know why. Of course she has a boyfriend. I’m sure he’s some pencil-dicked Ivy Leaguer with connections up the ass. I’ve got no business being jealous. Can’t compete with that, nor would I want to.
“Ex-boyfriend,” Devanie says. “She dumped him last month.”
The heat beneath my flesh settles to a tepid warmth. “Oh, yeah? How come?”
“She said they wanted different things in life.” She spins to face me. “I knew you were going to ask me that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Psh.” She bats her hand. “Don’t act like you weren’t checking her out. You were both staring at each other like … whoa.”
“What does that even mean?” I slice through packing tape with a box cutter.
“You think she’s hot,” Dev says.
“She’s a very attractive woman, yes,” I say.
“I’m going to ask her what she thinks of you on Thursday.”
My stare flicks to her. “No, you’re not.”
She fights a smile. “Why not? What if she feels the same?”
“It wouldn’t matter. I don’t date,” I say. “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t date someone like her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
My mouth opens before I speak. I need to word this in a way that my twelve-year-old sister can comprehend, a way that doesn’t completely crush her spirit and her naive view of reality.
“She’s not my type,” I say, opting to leave it at that. “And I'm not her type.”
“You don't know you’re not her type.”
“Yeah, no. I’m pretty sure on that one, Dev.” I slice another box open and stack it next to the others. “Here you go. Sooner you get these done, sooner I can take you home.” I glance at my watch, realizing the time got away from me. “Actually, I’ve got someone coming in in fifteen minutes. Take your time. You’re going to be here at least another couple of hours.”
Devanie shoots me a look and grabs a box of cartridges, but she doesn’t say a word. I think secretly she likes being here with me. And she likes having responsibilities.
I read an article in some doctor's office magazine once about how teenagers secretly like discipline and responsibility because it represents the fact that someone cares about them.
Pierce pops his head behind the curtain. “Uh, boss. Your appointment’s here.”
“’K. I’ll be up a sec,” I say.
“Um. The, uh, name on the books doesn’t match up though,” he adds.
“What do you mean?”
“It says Ron.” His eyes shift and he pulls the curtain a little wider. “But it’s, uh, Veronica.”
Devanie rises from her chair, attempting to steal a look, but I place a hand on her shoulder and stop her. I don’t need my kid sister getting involved in any of this.
“You tell her to leave?” I ask.
“I can,” he says, forehead lined. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do. Thought maybe you two were patching things up?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I gather every ounce of calmness I can muster and push past Pierce. Marching to the front of the shop, I find Veronica paging aimlessly through one of the design books.
“The hell are you doing here?” I ask, thankful the place isn’t too packed. She’s lucky it’s the middle of the afternoon, though I don’t think she’d have the balls to show up here on a busy Friday night.
“I … I wanted to talk,” she says, rising. Her dark hair is cut shorter than it was last time, stopping at her jawline, but she’s still wearing that tired cat eye and bold red lip—her “signature” look as she always said. I always thought it was too much for her. Too much makeup. Too much drama. In the end though, it suited her perfectly.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”