“Let’s get it done,” Renfrew says to Lola and Benji. He looks at his watch. “It’s fucking late and I’m tired. Get started. Get finished fast.”
He turns to Cam and Soprano. “Put them in the cooler after so they can’t take off, just in case they don’t like their ink.”
“Cooler?” Oscar says warily.
“Yeah. That’s where we keep the people we don’t like and any dead bodies we might stumble upon. Lucky for you, we’ve got room for a couple more, because otherwise, we’d have to put you in barrels.” He snickers.
My heart leaps, not at the barrel threat, but going in the cooler. If mom and Eight are here, that’s where they’ll be. We’ll have a chance to rescue them. I glance at Soprano and Cam. We can take them, I decide. Oscar’s looking at them like he’s thinking the same thing.
As Benji herds us over to a table in a dark corner that’s pretty much hidden from the rest of the warehouse, I think our plan is working except for the tattoo part, especially when I see the setup. There are a couple of tattoo guns on a table that look like they haven’t been cleaned in a century and an open bottle of black ink laying on its side. Some of the ink is spilling onto the table.
Oscar stops in his tracks. “Where’s the rest of your gear?”
“What are you talking about?” Lola says looking confused.
“Geez. Sterilizer stuff mostly. Those tat machines definitely need cleaning.”
Benji rolls his eyes. “Fucking rich kids.” He stumbles around, eventually checking under the table. “Here it is,” he says as he pulls out a cardboard box and sets it on the table.
Oscar grimaces when he looks inside. “What a mess!”
I peek over his shoulder. “At least there’s some alcohol rub and gloves.”
“They’re used,” Oscar replies in a pissed-off voice.
“Better than nothing,” I retort.
Oscar pulls out the gloves and the antiseptic. “I need a cloth,” he says to Lola.
She rips off her tank, revealing a pink lace bra, which is propping up her boobs.
Oscar stares at her chest while I wait for him to take the tank. When he doesn’t, I elbow him in the ribs. “Eyes on the equipment, jerk face.” I grab Lola’s tee and shove it into my fake-boyfriend’s hand. I don’t know why I’m so angry at Oscar. He’s the annoying jerk who got me kicked out of school. Nothing else.
He glares at me, then rips the tank into rags.
Lola says, “Hey, I was gonna use that later.” She gives Oscar a sexy grin. He gives her a stupid grin.
I grab the antiseptic bottle out of his hands, resisting the urge to throw it in his eyes. Then I root around in the box for needles. I find some fresh ones and lay them on the table.
“Put these on,” I tell Lola and Benji as I shove the gloves into their hands.
“I don’t use gloves,” Benji says as he tries to shove them back.
Oscar manages to unglue his eyes from Lola’s chest and says to Benji, “Oh, yeah, you do. Put them on.”
“You’re so bossy,” Lola purrs as she puts the gloves on her hands. “I like that in a guy.”
Oscar nods his head grimly. “I’m with her.” He throws a thumb my way and I almost rip it off.
“Clean the guns!” I snap.
While he’s doing that, I wipe down the gloves with the antiseptic. Benji sniffs his fingers, then laughs hysterically. No explanation about what’s so funny. I don’t care anyway. I dribble some more antiseptic on the cloth. “Are you tattooing us in the same place as you have yours?” I nod towards Lola’s bare arm.
“Inking.” Oscar mutters.
“What?”
“Be cool. It’s inking, not tattooing.”
