Razed (Barnes Brothers #2)(69)

So, without taking his head out from under the pillow, he grabbed the phone, answered with a tired, “Hello?”

“Um, you might wanna come in. Like now. Keelie is here and she’s all weird and quiet and I think she’s crying and Zach thinks you should come in.”

He frowned, tried to place the voice. Pushing the pillow aside, he pulled the phone away, squinted at the display. Steel Ink. “Who is this?”

“Anais.” She paused, and then added, “From Steel Ink.”

“I know who you are,” he said, sighing as he sat up. “I just didn’t recognize your voice. What’s going on . . . you said Keelie?”

“She’s crying. Zach wants you here, like now.”

Crying—

“I’m there.”

He was already heading to the bathroom, the exhaustion gone, chased away by something he couldn’t even name.

He barely remembered showering, dressing, or the drive. It was a blur, but one that inched by. All he could think about was getting to the shop. It was Saturday and the drive should have been fast, but it seemed to take eons.

Finally, the narrow lane of Fourth Street opened up and he sped it, hoping against hope for a decent spot to park.

For once, fate or God was smiling on him because he was right there near the store when somebody was pulling out. A miracle.

Arrowing into it, he climbed out and managed to not run into the store.

Zach looked up as he came through the door and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a look in his eyes that might have been relief.

He opened his mouth but Zach held up a hand and looked at the customer who was flipping through a design book. “Why don’t you keep looking? Remember, if you see something you sort of like, we can work with you to make it your own. That’s just part of the service.”

Then Zach came striding toward him, his face grim.

“Did you two fight?” he asked, his voice so low Zane barely heard him.

“What? No. What’s going—”

“Not here.” Zach closed his eyes, covered them with one hand and then jerked the other to the area behind the desk where the employees usually loitered between customers. “Can you wait for her? She came to cover for Javi and she’s working on somebody now. Something is . . . shit. She was practically crying, Z. That’s not her. That’s not ever her.”

Instinct told him to go find her. Now.

But he just studied his brother for a long minute. “What’s going on?”

“If I knew that, I’d . . .” Zach’s voice trailed off and he stared at nothing for the longest moment. When he finally looked at Zane, he said quietly, “Something’s wrong. She came in pissed—I’m used to her being mad, but not like this.”

Not like this.

If he didn’t know that Keelie would hate for him to barge in while she was working, he’d have gone to her then. So he took a seat where Javi would have normally been. Sitting down, he stretched out his legs and folded his arms over his chest.

I’m not in the mood to talk right now—

That edge of pain, brittle, encased in ice, had cut into him.

He should have said f*ck it and just gone to her.

Closing his eyes, he dropped his head back against the wall.

Nothing to do now, though. Not really.

Except wait.


*

It was a beautiful design.

There were names, nearly two dozen. And between those names, the design she was going to finish coloring in, there was the soldier’s cross, the weapon, with a pair of boots and a helmet. She didn’t have to ask what the names were for. She hated that there was so little room left on him.

“You ain’t asked who they are.”

His name was Myke. He was a few years older than her and he stretched out on her chair, all hard muscle and scars.

She glanced down at his face, managed to smile. The work had distracted her enough and he was quiet, so she didn’t have to force herself to talk when she didn’t want to.

But with that blunt statement, she couldn’t ignore it.

“Considering the work Javi started on you,” she said, choosing her words with care. “I don’t think I need to ask.”

He grunted and closed his eyes. “Some people are dumbasses. They still ask.”

“Yeah. Well, like you said, some people are dumbasses.”

It seemed he’d had enough time to reflect or think or brood or whatever he did when he was quiet. She hadn’t had more than thirty seconds of silence when he spoke again. “How did you get into doing this?”

“Tattoos?” she asked, even though she knew damn well what he meant. She paused, cleaning up the blood from his skin. “I’m good at it. When I was a kid, the few times I ever had a Barbie doll, I’d spend more time drawing on her and giving her bad tattoos than playing with her. Got older, had some of my own done but never thought about doing it for a living.” The only thing she’d thought about doing was anything and everything that would keep people from noticing her. “I did some waitressing, worked retail, other shit. Hated all of it. I was having this big design done on my back and while I was getting it done, I thought maybe this would be a good job.”

She didn’t tell him why.

The first time she’d actually considered it was when she thought about how much her mother would hate it. But then she’d started to see the beauty in it. She’d found her own healing, her own form of . . . penance, even.