“Hang on,” Tabby protested. “Why don’t I call Sammy and—”
“Stop stirring up drama.” Nicole turned and headed for the hallway, cutting a wide path around the giant tattooist. Noah followed her with his gaze, watching until she disappeared into a side room.
“See you around,” he said to Scott and the subtext was ‘watch yourself buddy.’ Considering what his father had done, Scott couldn’t blame him. “I doubt you’ll be seeing me again. I’m in South Melbourne and I don’t want to cause the DaSilvas any more distress.”
The big man nodded, leaving the room so he and Tabby were alone again.
“Goodbye,” he told Sam’s sister. “Sorry about your skates.”
Tabby beckoned him closer. “Fuck the skates, c’mere.”
Scott hesitated, then moved. “What’s up?”
“Sammy’s in Ink the Night. That’s why she’s not here. She’s setting up for the comp.”
“What’s Ink the—”
“It’s a tattoo comp. They pick a theme out of a hat and you have three hours to give someone a tat that relates to the theme. Sam hasn’t done one in ages, but the winner gets a spot in Fadeout Festival so she has to compete.”
“Okay…what does this have to do with me?”
Tabitha cast a quick glance behind her. “You want to see her again, don’t you?”
“I…”
“Then it’s settled, you give me a lift to Ink the Night and I’ll get you into the competition so you can talk to Sam. She’ll be rapt to see you. She’s been talking about you heaps.”
Scott’s heart leapt in spite of himself. “I shouldn’t. I don’t want to bother her when she’s working.”
“She won’t mind! Come on, she wants to see you. And besides, you owe it to her, what with your old man going ape on her this morning. Let’s just go to Ink the Night together.”
Scott frowned. “What’s in this for you?”
“Nothing!”
Scott gave her his best Paddington stare, the one he used on clients being finicky about their offshore accounts.
“Okay fine, there’s a free bar for the artists and I want to drink infinite cider. Still, Samdoeswant to see you, so can you just take me, yeah?”
“Why don’t you catch an Uber?”
“I don’t have any money and you owe me for my roller skates.” Tabby flashed him a winning smile. “Besides, didn’t you get away with stealing a bunch of Sam’s underwear off our washing line? Replacing those would have been expensive.”
Scott flushed from hairline to collar. He wanted to tell Tabby she had it wrong—it had only been one pair of panties, stolen when he was fourteen and he hadn’t ‘gotten away with it.’ He’d been apprehended by Sam’s dad, who’d encouraged him to ask Sam for a pair if he wanted to wank over them.
God, remembering that made him want to commit seppuku where he stood.
“Fine,” he told Tabby. “I’ll give you a lift. Just don’t tell Noah, or Nicole or anyone else about the underwear.”
Sam’s little sister beamed at him. “I’ll go get my coat.”
Chapter 8
Afew yearsago, Sam had been interviewed by a tattooing blog. They asked questions she’d answered a hundred times—where do you get your ideas? Why don’t you have a fucking phone? How long did you have to practise to get good at tattooing?
She gave cheerful stock answers—Eighteenth century Flemish paintings! I like my privacy! A couple years! She figured a baby blog with fewer than a dozen readers didn’t deserve the truth. Which was—I don’t fucking know! Because I’m scared of what I might do if I could contact anyone I wanted at any time! I didn’t have to practise! I was always good!
She’d been six when her dad first let her hold a tattoo machine. She’d inked a smiley face on the banana he’d offered and the lines had come out as fluid as when she drew on paper. In that moment, she knew she was going to be an artist. Other artists whispered that her career was the product of nepotism, that she never even had to try. It was bullshit. Her dad wouldn’t have given her an apprenticeship if he didn’t think she had talent. She’d inherited his ability to take images from her mind and print them perfectly onto skin, the first time.Everytime. She was good, goddamit, but in the eyes of her peers, she was never good enough.