“Okay love, maybe not that far back.”
The crowd laughed loudly.
Arsehole.
He looked at Tabby and saw she was scowling. “Brynn hates us. Heaps of the crews around here do because they think we didn’t earn our seat at the table. It’s bollocks and I swear to Christ, Sam better win or I’m staging a protest that will involve alotof toilet paper.”
After less than a minute, the emcee finished with Samantha and was working his way through the rest of the artists. Scott paid little attention, he was watching Samantha. Having looked at the rest of the work on display, he still thought hers was the best, but it wasn’t a good sign. He decided to keep an eye on Tabby. The way she was staring single-mindedly at the emcee while picking at the labels on her cider didn’t bode well.
“It’s time for the moment of truth, ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee said. “Envelope!”
An assistant rushed on stage and handed him a small white envelope. The MC paused, allowing the moment to calcify before he opened it. “Before we get to the big winner, we’d better announce the runner up. Tonight they’ll win two hundred dollars, a bottle of Jack and an entry into a runner-up ballot to tattoo at Fadeout Festival. You lot excited about Fadeout?”
The crowd around him burst into cheers.
“Yeah, should be a good one,” the emcee shouted. “Hope you’ve got your tickets booked. Well, without further ado, the runner up tonight is Sam DaSilva of Silver Daughters Ink.”
“No!” Tabby shouted, but Scott was the only one who heard her. The rest of the crowd cheered their approval.
Aside from a slight tightening of her jaw, Samantha gave no sign of disappointment. She tossed her hair and sauntered over to the emcee who gave her a rough-looking handshake. “Well done.”
“Thanks.” Without asking, she plucked the microphone from his hand and addressed the audience. “If you liked my work, come by Silver Daughters in Brunswick. Mention tonight’s theme for a ten percent discount.”
The crowd cheered and Scott grinned.
A woman behind her snorted. “I wouldn’t go to that shithole if it had a hundred percent discount.”
“Why not?” a man asked.
“It’s gone to the dogs. Shit reviews from ex-clients everywhere and Edgar’s not around. They’re just wheeling Kat Von D out to try and win back some business. Second place, my arsehole.”
Scott turned to Tabby, worried she was about to retaliate, but she’d already vanished. He was relieved, then realised she’d probably gone to throw toilet paper at the emcee.
“…she barely knows one end of a needle from the other, her tits were just falling out of her leathers the whole time.”
Okay, that was the limit.Scott turned and addressed the middle aged couple behind him. “Samantha DaSilva’s work was exceptional and she should have won.”
The woman ducked her head, but the man sneered. “Who asked you, pommy?”
Typical. Scott turned back around, knowing arguing further would be pointless. The winner of the competition was announced, the bald guy with the goatee. He stepped forward to accept the small trophy and his model lifted her shirt to reveal the hell-mouth the man had inked just below her bare breasts. The crowd whooped and hooted their approval.
Sam and Kelly had already vanished from the stage, as had most of the other contestants. The crowd resumed chatting and drinking and he wondered what to do next. Tabby was gone. The sensible thing would be to go home, but he couldn’t leave without at least talking to Samantha.
He knew the artists and models had a VIP section—Tabby had been sneaking there to get free alcohol—and that was most likely where she was. He made his way to the stage and straightened his tie. When he was at university he and his Cambridge friends had made a habit of crashing black tie events. The trick was to dress exceptionally well and walk past security with as much confidence as possible. The kind of confidence that suggested you’d get sacked for daring to question it. Scott squared his shoulders and, to his relief, walked right past the bouncers.
He found Tabby standing by the bar drinking a glass of red wine. “Hello again.”
“Scottison! Beverage?”
Tempting, but he needed to drive. “No thanks. I was hoping to see—”
“Sam. I can help you with that. In fact I was going to help you after three quick wines.” She emptied her glass, set it on the bar and then grabbed his wrist. “She’s over here.”
Unwilling to be dragged across the room, Scott tried to extract himself and found he couldn’t break her grasp. “You’ve got strong fingers.”
“Tattooist, mate, we’re all like this. Aha! There she is.”
If Scott hadn’t already known he was in trouble, he’d have known it then. The mere sight of Samantha’s tattooed back made him inexplicably nervous. As did the fact that she was talking to two heavily tattooed men who were clearly interested in her. Though he supposed he should be grateful Kelly wasn’t there to tell him he looked like Prince William again. “Tabby, can I have a moment before—”