“How many appointments did you have left today?”
“Three, if I’m counting you in that number.I can’t afford to close the shop and reschedule.”
“It’s late in the day to start on my ink.Let’s put that off for another day, yeah?”
“Right.”She smirked at him.“Sounds like we’ll have the time.”
“Where’s home?”
Riley angled a glance up, then winced when his expression turned incredulous.
“No way.You live here too?”
Riley straightened, slapping the gloves against the palm of her hand.“And what if I do?”
“We’re worried they’re not done yet.”Dan stood, towering over her.“You got any security cameras?”
“Cheap ones.Mostly for show, because they don’t record half the time.”
He muttered a curse.“You got somewhere safe to stay tonight?”
Riley arched a brow.“I’ve been taking care of myself longer than you’d think, big guy.No reason to babysit me.”
“Not asking if you need it.Advising you you’ve got it.”
The words hung between them, heavy as the summer heat outside.
Riley’s pulse kicked.She should tell him to get lost.She didn’t do damsel, in distress or otherwise.Ever.But the way he looked at her, like she was something worth protecting, made her knees traitorously weak.
“I close at ten,” she said instead.
“I’ll be back here at nine-thirty.I’ll have your housing sorted by then.Just give me a minute.”He pulled out his phone and sent off a text, receiving a response within seconds.“Okay, I’ll have someone here before I pull out.Don’t want to leave you vulnerable after what happened today.”
“Whatever floats your boat, Just Dan.I promise I’d be okay here, but I get that you’ve gotten a direct order.Wait though, don’t you want to see my sketches?”
“I’ll go over them with you tonight.I can already tell you that I’m going to say yes to everything you recommend.Lookin’ at the flash on your walls, you’ve got a hell of a talent.You might change your mind after you see the damaged canvas.”He stared at her with a flat expression on what she could see of his face.“Riley, lock up behind me.”
He shrugged back into his cut with brusque movements, gave her a short nod, and walked out.The vibe in the shop lasted long after he was gone.
Riley glanced over at the empty doorway, heart hammering against her ribs.
“Get a grip, Monroe,” she muttered.“He’s just another biker with a hero complex.”
Except she already knew he wasn’t.
A few minutes later a bike came to a stop in front of the shop, and almost immediately another bike started up, pulling away.She won the battle to not rush to the window to watch him but then wasn’t sure she’d wanted to win this time.
She turned to the sink, washing her hands longer than necessary, letting the cool water chase away the heat in her palms.Her mind wandered the way it always did when she was alone and restless, back to the reasons she’d ended up with ink under her skin and a machine in her hand.
Prison visiting room tables.
She’d been nineteen, scared shitless, sitting across scratched Formica from her father while he told her, in that calm, reasonable voice that always made her feel small, that she’d brought this on herself.That if she’d just listened, just been a good girl, he wouldn’t have had to teach her manners with his fists.He wouldn’t have had to discipline her so often.That if she’d just been good for one fucking minute, she might not have ended up in here.
The guards had let him keep talking because he could be charming when he wanted to be.Riley had sat there, split lip stinging, watching the movement of his hands.They were big, wide, and calloused, the same hands that had shattered her mother’s cheekbone when she was twelve.
That was the day she decided she’d never be small again.
Her bunkmate later that year was a big, quiet woman named Carla, who was doing time for armed robbery.Carla taught her the basics of tattooing while sitting on the bunks on the unit.They used prison contraband for everything.The tools they had were shaved metal acting as needles, ballpoint pen ink, and a nylon guitar string for a grip.Carla had said giving and receiving a tattoo was about taking back control: “They can lock your body up, but they can’t lock up what you choose to put on it.”