“You have your own car? In the city?” Fallon asks as I open the door for her. “No cabs or Ubers?”
“Just easier,” I say smoothly. “Don’t like to wait.”
She seems to accept that, humming as she settles in beside me.
I weave around cars, cabs, and buses while I count the blocks until I have to explain what the hell I’m doing.
I pull up out front a brick building with a glass storefront. No flashing sign. No fancy name. Just a single word etched in the glass:Tattoo.
Jett’s brother Dirk Fields keeps things low-key.
“You’re getting another tattoo?” Fallon says, sounding shocked. Quite different from how she looked at me without a shirt, where she can see my current tats better.
“Aye,” I say and push out of the car.
“We should have talked about this,” she says, getting out before I can open the door for her.
“I’ve had an appointment for a while. This guy is booked solid.” Only when I get inside, the place is empty.
Fuck.
“D,” I call out.
“Back here.” Dirk’s muffled response means he’s in the back.
Jett’s brother emerges from behind a beaded curtain, huge and broad-shouldered. He’s older than Jett, but their resemblance is eerie.
“Rhys, my father isn’t going to like all your tattoos,” Fallon says, sounding upset.
My spine stiffens. Herfatheragain. I have to act aloof. I don’t know who’s listening.
“I can’t believe you’re actually forcing me to meet your father,” I mutter, flipping through Dirk’s design book just to keep my hands busy.
“There’s no way around Christmas Dinner at Daddy’s without meeting him,” she says primly, then leans closer. “He’ll like you once he sees how nice you are.”
“I’m not nice,” I mutter.
“You are for a killer.” She makes me sound like a tiger who’s been conditioned to like belly rubs. “You’re nice to me,” she clarifies.
“Being nice to you is easy.” I smile at her and turn to Dirk. “D, how long will it take to ink a skull on my neck?”
Her gasp is sharp enough to cut my nerves. “No!”
Then she glues herself to me, arms cinched tight around my torso. Every muscle in me goes rigid.
“I cut my hair for you,” I say. Then whisper, “I have to do this for work.”
I take a folded paper from my jacket and open it on the glass counter. “I need this for an undercover job.”
Dirk visibly shudders, looking at the skull with snakes and a serpent coming out of its mouth. “Where did you get this?”
“Why did you just lose two shades of your tan?” I worry there is even more Ares Zervas didn’t tell me. “Have you done this tat for anyone?”
“No,” he answers quickly. “And I won’t. A Fed came in here asking me about this mark.”
“You’re kidding?”
Dirk shakes his head. “Word is the men who get this are contractors. Hired by a ghost no one can finger.”
