I’m no expert, either, but at least I havesomeexperience after my years of camping with Dad.
Taking a few timid steps, Chloe comes back and sits beside me, throwing her arms around my neck.
The hug should make me feel good. After all, I’m helping a friend, but this idea isstupidand I can already hear Nash’s clipped tone telling me I’m reckless, irresponsible, and that I need to besmarter.
Oh well, he’s not due back until tomorrow evening. We’ll be back by then, if Jensen isn’t already, and what the eyes don’t see...
34
Carter
Exiting the shower in my own home and grabbing my own clothes makes me feel alive. No jeans or t-shirts like my temporary alter-ego wears.
Finally all me.
I ignore the black waistcoats and pants, sick of the color. I skim over green and brown, too, pulling a rouge navy set off one hanger, and crisp, white, immaculately pressed shirt off another.
The jacket stays in the closet. I never wear suit jackets. They’re as uncomfortable as jeans.
Ten minutes later, I stand in front of the mirror smearing ointment over my new chest tattoo, courtesy of Koby who popped in earlier with his equipment.
He’s a self-taught, excellent artist. He started at fourteen, opened his own studio at eighteen, but only lasted three years as an upstanding citizen. His family’s ties with the mafia won him over and the rest is history.
Since he joined my crew three years ago, he’s the only man I trust with needlework. Tonight, he completed his tenth tattoo on my skin, but never was he this focused on keeping a straight face.
“Is that... blood?”he asked when I yanked my t-shirt off, showing him the two red lines.
“It is. Make sure the color matches. I want it to lookexactlyas it does now.”
He took pictures and spent ten minutes preparing the design, glancing at me over the laptop screen every so often, one eyebrow raised, a question on his lips. Probably more than one.
It wasn’t until he had the equipment ready that he finally caved and askedwhoseblood it was.
“Hailey’s,”I said, keeping the details to myself.
Clever as he is, he got to work, but he did wonder. I saw it in the way he kept pinching his lips together to stop askingwherethe blood came from orwhyI wanted it on my chest forever.
The reason is simple. Actions speak louder than words. Hailey’s so insecure she wouldn’t believe me if I simply told her I’m hers. The tattoo is permanent, it’s a statement.
Tattooing two red lines should’ve taken twenty minutes tops, but Koby spent almost an hour perfecting every detail.
Not that there were many.
Now, I stick second-skin foil over the two-inch ink, and shimmy into my shirt, buttoning up in front of the mirror. I roll up my sleeves to mid-arms, leather bracelets and a silver watch contrasting the tattoos wrapping my wrists. I slide my signet rings on, flexing my fingers.
“Someone’s pleased,” Broadway chirps after I descend the metal staircase, my shoes tapping against the parqueted living room floor. “Looking sharp, Boss. I almost didn’t recognize you earlier. You ready?”
“Not quite.”
I fetch my IWB holster from the desk drawer, and grab my Glock, taking a moment to appreciate the feeling of cold steel in my hand. Campus rules forbid me from carrying at Lakeside, so my gun’s tucked under the mattress. I have another in the glovebox for emergencies, but I’ve not had a reason to use either. I missed the power that comes with a concealed weapon.
Flipping the safety back and forth, I tuck it into the holster in the small of my back, adjusting the waistcoat. Hiding a gun without a suit jacket isn’t easy, so the small Glock is what I carry day-to-day.
As much leniency as Chicago’s finest offer Dante’s men, Chief Jeremy Smith insists we don’t draw attention, and a proper holster goes a long way toward that goal.
“Now we can go,” I tell Broadway watching him press the elevator button.
My home is a loft in the heart of the city. High ceilings, bare, brick walls and one of those old steel-gated elevators that takes us straight to the parking lot.
