Page 53 of Shadow Secrets
He was still adjusting to the possibility that she might be right about them being okay.
Iron Rose was a different kind of wreckage. The parlor had been untouched since the break-in. The stations had been overturned, flash art torn off the walls. Drawers had been pulled out of every cabinet and dumped onto the floor. The empty cash drawer had been flung across the room. Dom’s beloved needle-and-ink portraits of his Navy buddies, which had hung behind the register for a decade, lay scattered on the floor in various states of damage.
“Okay.” Sutton stood in the middle of it with her hands on her hips. She was wearing paint-splattered overalls she’d dug out of her apartment, her hair tied back in a bandana. There was a streak of dust across her cheekbone from loading the first round of debris into a contractor bag. “This is going to take a week. Maybe two.”
“With the two of us?” he said. “Three days, tops.”
“You keep forgetting I have client appointments to reschedule, a website to rebuild with Jasper’s help, and a fan base that apparently exists now and has opinions about my art.”
“Told you.”
“The dragon drawing from last week has nine thousand likes. Nine thousand.” She picked up a fallen frame, examined the broken glass, and set it carefully on the counter. “I’m a tattoo artist from rural Montana with a half-finished portfolio site, Lynx. Nine thousand people have opinions about my dragons.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s data.” She grinned over her shoulder at him. “I’m trusting it.”
He felt his mouth curve. She’d been weaponizing Vivi’s therapy advice for two days now after he’d been stupid enough to share it with her. She used it every time he started doing the thing with his face. It was infuriating. It was also working.
Outside, the street was quiet. Garrett and Mack had chased off stray photographers who’d been trying to get a shot of Sutton at the parlor. Paparazzi and fans, too.
CB had called in a favor from his motorcycle gang, and a handful of Canon Outlaws had been cruising the block, a rolling deterrent that had reduced the lingerers from fifteen to zero in under an hour. A Harley’s exhaust was a very effective means of communication.
They had the block. For today, at least.
Sutton bent to pick up the wreckage of Dom’s Navy buddies’ photos, their young faces staring up at her from creased paper. She set them on the counter with the kind of care she reserved for Penn’s sketchbooks. “So. Reopening.”
“Got a plan?”
“The original one was a quiet reopening with Dom back behind the register, me at my station, a couple of regulars showing up, and some new walk-ins if we were lucky.” She pulled a broom from a closet of cleaning supplies. “That plan is out the window.”
“Agreed.”
“New plan: soft reopening in three weeks. Website goes live again next Monday—the portfolio side and the print shop side, with a waiting list for custom tattoo appointments. I’m going to have to turn people away. That’s—” She shook her head, like the concept hadn’t fully landed yet. “That’s a thing I get to do now. Turn people away.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’ve spent years hoping for enough walk-ins to cover my rent. Turning people away is not a problem I’ve had before.” She started sweeping broken glass into a neat pile. “The fandom thing cuts both ways. A lot of them are awful, yes, but a lot of them are—just artists and fans of ink. People who’ve been waiting for a female tattoo artist doing unique fantasy work, and now they’ve found one because the tabloids accidentally put her on their radar.”
“Silver lining.”
“Bright silver. I’m making them earn it. Dom’s shop, Dom’s rules—no appointment, no ink. And no photographs inside the parlor.” She pointed a finger at him. “Which is a rule that also applies to you, by the way.”
“I’m not going to photograph you.”
“No, I mean—” She paused, leaning on the broom. Her expression shifted, serious. “The lynx. When I ink it on you, and I will ink it on you, it doesn’t go on the website. It doesn’t go on Instagram. It doesn’t go anywhere. Nobody copies it. Nobody knows it exists but us.”
“Swear?”
“Top secret.” She held up her hand like she was taking an oath. “That design is yours. Nobody else gets a version of it. Not as a knockoff on some dude in Phoenix, not as a flash piece in a book, not as inspiration for an Etsy print. It’s a one-of-one. As soon as we have a free afternoon, I’m going to ink you.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He watched her sweep. The rhythm of the broom, the dust motes catching the late-morning light through the front windows. She was covered in cobwebs from hauling stuff out of the back office, and she’d never looked more beautiful.
“I’m posting up at your station when you reopen,” he said. “At least for the first few months, in case anybody tries to harass you in person.”
