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“Just stop going to dangerous places, honey.” Her attention is back on her TV program. “Blake is right. You could get hurt.”
***
I won’t let Blake destroy my life. I won’t live in fear. I need to be myself again.
Yet when I see a man rolled up in a sleeping bag lying on a bench, I hurry past, an itch between my shoulder blades. Is Blake watching me?
Christ.
The morning flies at work. I stash the walking stick away again, and the boss says nothing. Cassie and I exchange hurried words as customers go in and out.
Well, Blake’s threats won’t stop me from seeing Micah. I’m worried about him. Blake wouldn’t dare touch him. Micah isn’t one of the homeless he marked.
Then why am I still scared? Shaken.
My boss manages to keep me later than the end of my shift, and I say nothing, hoping to keep my job. As soon as I’m allowed to go, I grab my walking stick and my bag and hurry out and down the street.
The tattoo shop comes into view, and I slow down.
Damage Control. What an odd name for a shop. I swallow hard as I cross the street and stand in front of its narrow facade with the colorful tattoo designs stuck inside the glass and the neon blue sign over the door.
I wipe my palms on my pants and suck in a deep breath. Letting it out, I push the door and enter. Bells jingle overhead, startling me. The door clicks behind me, shutting out the noise of the street.
Soft ambient music and the buzzing of tattoo guns fill the air. A thin Goth girl with long black hair sits in an orange armchair, flipping through a magazine. The chains on her boots clink as she swings her leg up and down.
There’s a tall desk, manned by a muscular, dark-haired guy. He looks up at me expectantly, his handsome face illuminated by the glow of his computer screen.
“How may I help you?” he asks, and I suddenly feel eyes on me from every direction. When I glance around, sure enough I see heads poking over booth walls to see who walked in.
Self-consciously I lean on my stick and wish I’d left it outside when the eyes swivel to focus on it.
“I, um.” I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Micah?”
The guy behind the desk lifts a dark brow. “Are you?”
“What?” I blink, confused.
“Are you asking me if you’re looking for Micah?”
I blink again. Is he serious?
Then a corner of the guy’s mouth lifts, and I relax. Right. Very funny.
“I think he works here.” I glance around again, searching for him, but the curious eyes have disappeared back inside the booths. “Or maybe you know where he might be?”
The guy clucks his tongue and chuckles. “Micah!” he calls. “A pretty girl here to see you.”
My mouth falls open. Fire licks my throat and cheeks. Now the guy is laughing out loud, a hand on his side. Why is he so keen on seeing me self-combust? Do I have ‘easy-to-tease’ stamped on my face?
But then Micah comes around the desk, his cheeks flushed, too, and I realize the teasing is probably meant for him. Typical guy thing.
“Cut it out, Tyler,” he says, then stops in his tracks, his blue eyes bright.
My mouth runs dry. My mind blanks out. God. My memory is faulty. I didn’t remember him quite so handsome. His smoothly-shaved jaw is strong and square, offset by a soft mouth and long-lashed eyes. His short hair glints like metal, and his thin gray T-shirt stretches over his muscled chest and broad shoulders. Faded jeans hang low on his narrow hips, and I can’t help but stare at his package. Impressive is the word that springs to mind.
He tilts his head to the side and hurriedly I look away. I think the skin on my cheeks must be blistering by now.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse. “Is everything okay?”
