“Aye, it’s not quite the same as throwing ink around, eh?”
“No, but that’s a different skill all of its own. I don’t have the balls to freehand like she does.”
Brix wondered if Calum knew he’d outlined their contrasting personalities better than any shrink could. Lee had a delicate touch, but her rebellious streak gave her the freedom to splash colour on skin with a unique reckless abandon. Calum was a different animal altogether. His intricate dot-work designs took a concentrated vision many artists—Brix included—didn’t have. Brix had never seen anything like the few custom pieces Calum had produced so far. Calum had always been in a class of his own, but now? Damn. Brix didn’t know a better artist. “She said you’re a good teacher.”
Calum shrugged. “Just picking up where you left off. She wouldn’t be inking in the first place if it wasn’t for you.”
“She’d have found her way eventually. We all do.”
“Yeah?” Calum’s half smile was unconvinced, but it appeared, like always, that he wasn’t in the mood to explore a conversation about himself. “Are you going to spend all day in here?”
“I wasn’t planning to. Not much of the day left now, though, is there?”
“I s’pose not.”
A knock at the door startled them. Brix tore his eyes from Calum to Kim, who glanced between them with a knowing smirk. “Sorry to interrupt, boss. Your old man’s here. Wants to see you.”
Great. Brix had already spent his morning chasing his father around town, a common occurrence on pension day, leaving Brix with the distinct impression that his father was avoiding him, which was never a good thing.
Brix followed Kim to the front of the studio, too aware that Calum wasn’t far behind him.
“So you let Calum buy you lunch, but not me?” Lee called out. “You wound me, Brix.”
Brix gave her the finger, hoping no one would notice the heat in his cheeks, and approached his father, who was standing in the waiting area, frowning at one of Jory’s latest abstract designs.
“What in God’s name is that?”
“Afternoon to you too,” Brix retorted dryly. “I’ve been looking for you all morning. Where’ve you been?”
“What do you care? Can’t a man have a morning to ’imself anymore?”
“Not if you want paying.”
His father’s face brightened considerably. “Got some papers for me, ’av ya?”
“Course I have. It’s the first of the month.” Brix ducked behind the front desk and retrieved the envelope he’d stashed in the till. “You know it would be easier if you let me put this in a bank account for you.”
John Lusmoore took the envelope and stuffed it inside his coat. “Easier for who? Bloody taxman to stick his oar in my business? Go on with yer.”
Brix let it go. Despite his and Abel’s best efforts, no Lusmoore above the age of fifty, save Aunt Mam in her posh bungalow up on the hill, had embraced the modern world. No doubt Brix’s hard-earned cash would find its way below John’s bathroom floorboards. “How are the chooks?”
“Oh aye, they’re fine.” John’s expression softened like it always did when conversation turned to his own beloved collection of scruffy rescue hens. “I’ve put ’em on that organic grain from Hunter’s and got that heavy straw in for the winter. Can’t have my girls getting cold.”
“Don’t want any more, do ya? Millstream Poultry are kicking out soon, but I don’t know if I’ll have any takers now the summer rush is over.”
“How many you getting?”
“Haven’t said I’ll do it yet.”
“Aye, but you will.”
Brix smiled. He had little in common with his father, but in this they were the same. John would be with him at every hen rescue in a heartbeat were it not for his propensity to twat rogue farmers when they showed none of the compassion he expected—demanded—from anyone who kept animals. Damn, his poaching dogs ate better than most folk. “You’re probably right. What the fuck am I gonna do with them, though? Got no space left out back.”
Especially with Peg’s lot dumping shite in my yard. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. John’s dark glance told Brix he knew all about the crates that had found their way into Brix’s back garden. Probably knew their contents too, perhaps even—
Stop it. Brix’s father was a Lusmoore through and through, but it had been years since he’d played much of a role in the family business. These days, his state pension and Brix’s cash-stuffed envelopes kept him fed and watered, and his beloved fishing boat occupied him until the pub opened.
Brix thrust his hands in his pockets. “What are you doing today? Do you want a pint later?”
