The bell jingles. I glance up, expecting it to be my client, but secretly hoping it’s Emery.
It’s neither.
A thick-necked guy in a stretched black T-shirt and combat boots lumbers through the door, all attitude and stale aggression. The hair on my arms prickles—years of tattooing have taught me to recognize when poison flows through someone’s soul. His thick arms are already inked with some questionable images, but I don’t waste time figuring them out. I keep my eyes focused on his face as he approaches the counter.
“Good morning.” I dip my chin in a curt greeting. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to get this on my chest.” He slaps a piece of paper on the counter and lifts up his shirt. I motion for him to put his shirt down with one hand and unfold the paper. Stark black lines form a hooked cross, tilted and balanced on one corner.
Anger shoots up my spine. He’s not the first asshole to walk into my shop and ask for garbage like this but he’s the first one I’ve had this season.
“No,” I say.
“What’s the problem?” One corner of his mouth curves into a disingenuous smirk. “It’s an old symbol. Holds deep spiritual significance in Buddhism.”
“Right.” I toss the paper at him. “Are you a Buddhist?”
He slaps his hands on his bulging belly. “Yeah.”
The fuck you are.“Get out of my shop.” I jerk my chin toward the door in case he’s forgotten where the exit is located.
“What do you care? Name your price. I’ll pay it.” He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and flashes it in front of my face. “My money’s as green as anyone else’s.”
But your soul’s as black as they come.
Ignoring the money, my gaze drops to the SS lightning bolt on his hand. “I don’t want your money.”
“I got rights.” He waves the paper in the air. “Free speech.”
“Yup, your freedom to be an asshole is protected.”Don’t I have enough shit to deal with today, now I gotta give a civics lesson to this lowlife?“But I’m a private business with standards. I’m not obligated to entertain your Nazi bullshit.”
“Asshole.” He jams the paper and money back into his pockets and storms out.
“Have the day you deserve,” I call after him.
Silence rushes in behind him. My pulse is still thudding as I head to the back room to reset for the real client. I line up the machines, the needles, the gloves—everything neat and predictable. Control, one piece at a time.
The bell jingles again.
In case it’s that same hateful bastard coming back for round two, I grab the baseball bat from the corner and stalk to the front.
Instead, a woman with a sharp pixie cut and too-bright smile stands in the doorway. A cardboard drink carrier dangles from one hand, a brown paper bag from the other.
“Morning, Big D.” Her wine-red lips tilt into a teasing smile.
I roll my eyes at the nickname. “Morning, Lucy.”
She grins wider. “I figured you probably skipped breakfast.” She gives the bag a shake. “Coffee and carbs—your two favorite food groups.”
Despite myself, I smile. “You’re not wrong.”
“Come on.” She nods toward the hallway leading to the back. “Let me feed you and we can catch up before your first appointment gets here.”
I study her for a moment, then nod.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing a hand through my hair, tamping down the unease curling under my ribs. “Sure.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
