“And how does that help?”
“It helps me not get changed.”
Nix looked horrified. “Tabby, I will never understand your need to fight for mediocrity.”
And I will never understand why you and Sam don’t understand me, Tabby thought.But fuck it. I’m running away.
* * *
She caughtthe 96 tram to St Kilda, watching the houses grow bigger and the streets get wider the further she trundled south. The leafy, non-native trees and ethereal boutiques were like warning stripes—do you have enough money to be here? She’d looked up Toby’s address on Street View. It was modern, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows and multiple terraces—the kind of place where rich people got murdered in California. God only knew why he’d gone for a place so big, but then why did rich people do anything?
St Kilda Bay, complete with honey-skinned beach babes, sparkled into view, and Tabby buried her face in her phone. Social media had nothing worth being distracted by, so she looked over her sketch of Toby’s tattoo. She’d been taken aback by what he wanted: a winter forest scene with a stag in the foreground. She’d taken liberties with the design, whipping snow through the air and drawing the young buck charging, his horned head lowered in determination.
Perfect, Toby had texted when she’d sent him a demo.I want this included.
It was a picture of a butterfly done with a fingerprint design.
You want a butterfly?Tabby asked.
I want fingerprints—five of them. Work them into what you have.
Whose fingerprints?she asked.
Whoever’s,he replied.Yours. I don’t give a fuck. I just like the look.
Irritated at his condescending tone, she was nevertheless intrigued. She’d started doing fingerprint tattoos a year ago, integrating them into her art to personalise designs. They were less cliché than loved ones’ names and more unique. She tried to lift some fingerprints off Shutterstock but realised they might belong to some weirdo. She knew she could bring ink and pads to Toby’s place and get him to use his own, but that would take time, and she didn’t want their tattooing sessions to go even longer. In the end, she had used her own prints. It would suck to have a part of her etched permanently onto Toby, but she was already consenting to do that by agreeing to tattoo him. Why not add fingerprints?
She had snuck into the studio after hours and scanned her right hand into the studio’s shared image base. She’d thought adding them to the design would be tricky, but it wasn’t. She worked her prints into the border of the forest, blurring them slightly so it looked like an invisible hand gripped the design. She’d spent hours on the sketch over the last few days, tracing and retracing lines, adding more detail to the leaves and snowflakes. Contrary to what her sisters might think, she did take pride in her work, and she’d grown to love the design. A quiet forest loaded with snow. A lonely deer surging at an unseen enemy. A godlike presence tearing at the scenery…
Great, Toby said when she’d sent him the final proof.Come around tomorrow at eight.
Now, ‘tomorrow’ was today. It was less than fifteen minutes away. Her winter forest stencil had been printed onto water slide paper and was curled up carefully inside her carry bag along with ink and her tattooing machine. Her fingertips were about to be embedded into her ex-friend’s right bicep forever…
For thirteen thousand bucks, she reminded herself. For enough money to get to Cartagena, and that was all that mattered.
It would take a minimum of three sessions to complete without her hands cramping to death, and Toby would have to be shirtless the whole time. She remembered the way he’d looked beneath her, his chest and abdomen slick with sweat. Maybe she could make him wear one of those little capes they gave you at the hairdressers? But she didn’t have one, and it was too late to buy anything.
The tram stopped outside a Westpac Bank, and Tabby’s stomach knotted. There was still time to run. Once she started inking, there would be no going back. She’d rather cut her hand off than leave someone with a half-finished tattoo—even Toby Tennant.
The tram beeped, and the doors started to close. She jumped up, dragging her bag behind her like a disobedient dog. She headed in the direction of Toby’s house, but when she passed a twee little wine bar, she turned inside.
The guy behind the counter was cute—big as Noah with bleached hair and tattoos across his knuckles.
“Evening,” he said, flashing her a big smile. “Getcha something?”
Tabby hesitated. She didn’t drink before work, obviously, but this was off the books, and she wasn’t a fucking brain surgeon. She’d tattooed her friends after numerous beers, and the ink had always come out perfect. Besides, at this rate, nerves would have her shaking worse than booze would.
“Tequila, please. 1806 if you have it.”
“Sure. Ice?”
“Great.”
She sat at a nearby table, putting her bag between her feet. The people around her were all dressed up for dinner. Nix was right—she should have changed her dress or worn something better. Or not agreed to be here at all. She checked her phone and found it was bang on eight, but fuck it, let the prick sweat. She wasn’t his lackey.
“All yours,” the bartender said, placing her drink on the table. “Tabby, right?”
She blinked. “Yeah. How…?”
