“I should be working,” she says to no one in particular. “I have clients. Appointments. Mrs. Liu is supposed to come in next week for her cancer survivor piece, and I haven’t even finished the design.”
“Mrs. Liu can wait,” Titan calls from the couch where he’s cleaning his gun. “She’d rather wait than identify your body.”
Bonnie spins around. “I’m not going to die giving someone a fucking tattoo.”
“Tell that to the dead rat Snake pulled off his door.”
Her jaw clenches. She turns back to the window.
I set down my water and cross the room. She doesn’t acknowledge me when I stop beside her. “You’re making everyone nervous,” I say quietly.
“Good. Maybe someone will let me leave then.”
“Ash isn’t changing his mind.”
“Ash can go fuck himself.”
Miller whistles low from the pool table. “Dangerous words, Mrs. President.”
She flips him off without looking away from the window.
I study her reflection in the glass. Dark circles under her eyes. Jaw tight. Fingers drumming against her thigh in a pattern I recognize—she’s counting. Trying to calm herself down.
It’s not working.
“When’s the last time you held a tattoo machine?” I ask.
“Five days ago. Why?”
“You miss it.”
“Of course I miss it. It’s the only thing I’m actually good at, and I’m stuck in this compound like a prisoner while everyone else gets to—” She stops. Takes a breath. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”
“You’re not.”
She looks at me, finally. “What?”
“You’re not being dramatic. You’re an artist who can’t work. That’s like cutting off a limb.”
Her expression softens slightly. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it feels like.”
I make the decision before I can talk myself out of it. “Tattoo me.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You need to work. I need ink.” I pull my shirt over my head and point to a blank space on my chest, just below my collarbone. “Right here. Whatever design you want. Your choice.”
“Ghost—”
“You can set up in your room. Bring your equipment. Take as long as you need.” I meet her eyes.
She stares at me for a long moment. Then her whole face changes. The frustration melts away. “You’re serious.”
“I don’t joke about ink.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “Okay. Yeah. Give me an hour to set up.” She’s moving toward the stairs before I can respond. She takes the steps two at a time.
Miller leans on his pool cue. “You’re a good man, Ghost.”
