I roll my eyes, laughing. “He’s just protecting his mother.”
Maverick glares at Rex. “I swear he’s got it out for me. He’s plotting something.”
Rex slowly blinks, tail swishing like a smug little bastard.
Once breakfast is over and the dishes are rinsed, I gather my bag and glance at the clock. “I need to go into town, I need a job or I’ll lose my mind.”
Maverick’s head snaps up. “I’ll take you.”
“I’m capable of walking.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a Southern gentleman, remember?” He tosses me a wink and grabs his keys. “Let me get dressed, then we’ll hit town, sugar.”
We walkthrough downtown Ruby Ridge, which I think is very charming, unlike Catalina when she first arrived here.
Rustic storefronts with flower boxes pass my periphery. People wave as we pass. The aroma of fresh bread from the bakery nearby makes my mouth water, and the faint scent of leather from the boot shop mixes with the twang of something herbal.
A tattoo shop comes into sight.
Blackbird Ink Co., the sign reads, as we walk closer to it. The sign is bold, the large windows are clear, and the door is propped open with an iron sculpture of a raven with flowerssurrounding it. The buzz of tattoo guns hums softly from inside.
I stop walking, the sound instantly calming my nerves.
“You good?” Maverick asks.
“I’m gonna walk inside and ask if they’re hiring.”
He raises his brows and smiles, “Damn right you are, baby.”
Baby? Damn this man with his Southern drawl.
The moment we step inside, the clang of the bell above the door echoes through the shop, followed by the low buzz of machines, and the faint tune of rock music pulsing through the overhead speakers.
Blackbird Ink Co. feels darker than the parlors I’ve worked in before — its walls are a deep charcoal shade with exposed brick showing through, and every surface is adorned with art; some are framed, others are directly painted on the wall, and many are tacked in wild clusters on a corkboard near the front desk.
On the left, a red velvet couch stands, its well-worn surface has seen many nervous clients waiting for their tattoo sessions.
Maverick lingers behind me, taking it all in with his usual curious expression and that infuriatingly perfect posture.
“This place has character,” Maverick mutters behind me, voice low and amused. “Are you sure you’re not secretly part raven? This vibe feels like you’d nest here.”
I shoot him a sideways glare. “I didn’t realize we were taking ornithology detours this morning.”
He smirks, but his eyes remain fixed on me, following every detail.
“Not a compliment,” I add flatly, as I’m already walking toward the desk.
There’s a brass bell, and I give it a quick tap. The sound rings sharp and clear throughout the parlour.
A petite woman with a buzz cut and a snake tattoo wrapped around her neck steps out of a side hallway while wiping her hands with a paper towel.
“Hey, my name’s Amelia,” I say, reaching my hand out towards her. “I’m looking to see if you’re hiring. I’m a tattoo artist, and I just moved here.”
She reaches for my hand, shaking firmly. “Got a portfolio?”
“Always.” I pull the black leather binder from my tote bag and hand it over.
She flips it open, glancing at the first few pages, pausing at one of my more detailed underbust pieces. “Damn, these are clean.”
