The Merciless (The Merciless #1)(12)

“Aren’t you one of Riley’s?”

“What does that mean?”

“That she’s collected you.” Brooklyn fumbles with the gold ring at her neck, sliding it on and off one of her fingers. “Riley likes new girls. She takes it upon herself to ‘befriend the friendless.’”

“I can’t hang out with both of you?” I ask.

Brooklyn shrugs and starts walking again. “Do what you want.”

It isn’t exactly an invitation, but I follow her out the school doors and over to the bike rack anyway.

“What’s with the ring?” I ask, nodding at her necklace. Brooklyn grins.

“Souvenir from one of my lovers.” She holds the ring up to the light so I see the engraving on the inside: CARLTON & JULIANNA 1979.

I wrinkle my nose. “That’s sick,” I say. Brooklyn just laughs.

Even before we reach the bike rack, I can tell which is hers—the vintage eighties one with the handlebars that curl around the rider’s hands. Brooklyn painted it bright pink with flecks of black, so it looks like a watermelon, and the handlebars and seat are covered in peeling green duct tape.

I stand awkwardly next to her while she unlocks her bike, then loops the thick chain around her arm and starts to push it away.

“I’ve got an appointment,” Brooklyn says. The cigarette, still unlit, dangles from her lips. “Tag along if you like.”

I hesitate, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Sure.” I pull my bag over my shoulder and trail after her as she wheels her bike through the parking lot, toward a sidewalk that leads in the direction opposite my neighborhood. When she isn’t looking, I pull my cell phone out to check the time. Grandmother will be fine if I’m a half an hour late.

Brooklyn takes me to an old service road past the main street into town. We pass a dive bar and an alley leading to an empty parking lot. Brooklyn stops at a tiny tattoo parlor and starts to lock up her bike.

“This is where your appointment is?” I squint through the dirty windows. I can just make out the hazy shapes of a counter and plastic chairs.

“‘Appointment’ might be stretching it.” Brooklyn takes the cigarette she never did get around to smoking out of her mouth and sticks it behind one ear. Then she leans against the door of the tattoo parlor to push it open. It smells like smoke inside, and some sort of lemon-scented disinfectant. Brooklyn walks up to the counter and slides her elbows over the dingy vinyl.

“Ollie! You here?” she shouts. She leans over the counter like she’s trying to see into the back room. I take the rest of the shop in. The walls are covered with hand-drawn illustrations of rose and skull tattoos, with nude Playboy centerfolds taped between them. Classy.

“Hey, new girl!”

The voice comes from behind me and I jump, nearly tripping over my own feet as I spin around. Charlie is sitting cross-legged on the cracked plastic couch, a textbook propped open on his knees. In his rumpled polo and faded jeans, he looks as out of place here as I do.

“It’s Sofia, actually.” A blush creeps up my neck. “What are you doing here?”

“Homework.” He motions to the textbook on his lap and smiles. A dimple appears in his cheek, and for a second I can’t help but stare. His eyes shift behind me.

“Hey, Brooklyn,” he says with a nod.

“Charlie-boy,” Brooklyn says. “Your brother around?”

“Yeah. Don’t think he’s going to be happy to see you, though. He’s got a customer at four.”

“We’ll see about that.” Brooklyn shifts her weight to her arms, hoists herself onto the counter, and scoots across.

“Hey.” Charlie pushes aside his textbook and stands as Brooklyn slides off the other side of the counter. “You know we have a door, right?”

“Doors are for suckers.” Brooklyn sticks out her tongue and disappears into the back of the shop. I hesitate, not sure if I should follow her.

“Here.” Charlie unlatches a gate in the display case, swinging it open for me. “See? We’re not all heathens.”

“Thanks,” I say. Giving him one last shy smile, I make my way to the back to find Brooklyn.

The tattoo parlor is cleaner than I expected. The green-and-white vinyl floors are cracked and peeling, but it looks as if they’ve been mopped recently. The entire room has a worn-in, laid-back vibe that actually feels kind of homey. Like a familiar booth at your favorite cheesy diner.

Red plastic chairs are scattered across the room, all covered in duct tape, with metal trays set up next to them. Brooklyn leans against one of the chairs, talking to an older version of Charlie—a guy who’s tall and thin, with dark eyes. A thorny rose tattoo stretches across his neck, and three thick metal piercings jut out from his each of his ears like nails.

“Come on, Ollie,” Brooklyn’s saying as I approach. Ollie shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t have time today.”

Brooklyn peels a strip of duct tape off the chair. “Santos isn’t here. You can just let me use his equipment. I think I could do it myself.”

“You kidding? You’re sixteen.”

Brooklyn smiles, so wide I could count all her teeth if I wanted to. “That never stopped you before.”

The bell above the door out front jingles. I glance over my shoulder as a college girl in a jean skirt and Uggs walks in, her hair pulled into a high ponytail. Out front, Charlie says something to her about Ollie being out in a minute.