“My mum’s home,” Sam whispered. “You should go before they find out you’re here.”
Scott Fitzwilliam Sanderson didn’t have to be told twice. He headed for the window and had one foot on the tree when he turned to face her. “C-can I hang out with you again?”
Sam considered her new neighbour and decided it could be fun. “Tomorrow night. Come up the tree at seven. I’ll show you my Mulan stuff.”
He smiled, making his face look very pretty, indeed. “See you then.”
He clambered out of the window with such ease she couldn’t help but hate him a little less. She ran to find Nicole and tell her what had happened, but her sister wasn’t in her room. Sam found her sitting outside the office door, crying. Their parents were fighting and it was louder and angrier than Sam had ever heard it. Their dad said their mum needed to be grateful for what she had. Their mum said she was sick of every single day being the same.
Sam was trying to tug Nicole away when their mum burst out of the office, her hair all over the place. She didn’t look at her or Nicole as she raced up the stairs. “I’m leaving,” she said to no one. “I can’t stay here, anymore.”
And she did leave, that night. Their dad wouldn’t say when she was coming back and it took Sam two weeks to figure out she wasn’t.
Chapter 1
Sam’s emergency alarmclock buzzed, the sound sharp as a hornet’s sting. She jolted upright and without even opening her eyes, knew she was late for work. The sun was blaring through her eyelids and she was too warm—though that was probably because of the guy beside her. Sam wasn’t entirely sure who he was but she knew he’d be dark-haired and muscular, his job some combination of creative and practical. A guitarist/barista or a comedian/plumber. He’d have tattoos and call her ‘sexy’ or ‘babe.’ They’d date for a bit after this, have some fun and then they’d get bored or he’d ask her to give him some free ink and it would be over.
The circle of life.
Sam got out of bed without opening her eyes. She staggered to her bathroom, her head swimming with a combination of booze and tiredness. Her friend, Banksia had a gig in Northcote last night and when it was over, she and the band had gone to a cocktail bar, then another gig, then a pub—or had the house party come next? She sat on the toilet trying to recall the place where she’d drank the whiskey sours, the place where she’d met and seduced the man in her bed. Nothing came up.
God, she had to stop doing this. She was twenty-seven and drinking harder now than when she was on the burlesque circuit. Though in fairness, you moderated your alcohol consumption when your pay check depended on you taking your clothes off inside a huge, slippery cocktail glass.
“How you feeling, babe?” the man from her bed called.
“Not bad,” Sam lied. She stood, washing her hands before reaching under the sink for the paracetamol. “How about you?”
“I’m alright. Be better if you got back in here with me.”
Sam looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t too shabby in spite of last night’s activities. Her skin was clear and her dark blue eyes were strangely enhanced by the mascara smudges beneath them, as though she was modelling trashiness rather than the real deal. Still, best not to appear too hungover in front of the clients. People liked their tattoo artists to look rough and ready, but if you looked too fucked up they thought you’d spell their kid’s name wrong. She located her concealer stick and began dabbing under her eyes.
“Babe,” the man in her bed called. “Want to come snuggle?”
Jesus, who was this guy? Winnie the Christing Pooh?
“I’d like to, but I have to get to work,” Sam said, running a makeup wipe over her cheeks. “Maybe later.”
“Sounds good. What do you do again? Wait, I know this, you’re a…myotherapist?”
“Tattoo artist.”
“How’d you get into that?”
About ten years of art classes, borrowing dad’s machine to doodle on bananas, a two-year apprenticeship, logging close to five thousand tattooing hours, competing in state, national and international competitions and ultimately being labelled a hack riding in on her family coattails—but who wanted to hear about all that?
“It’s the family business.”
“That’s cool. If I’d known you were a tattoo chick, I’d have asked you heaps about it last night.”
“It’s all good.”Because I would have remembered exactly none of it.
Sam turned on the tap and moved her mouth over the moving bar of water, sucking in enough to swallow the painkillers. Guilt at oversleeping,again, was gnawing at her insides. She didn’t have any clients booked until the afternoon but her dad had asked her to come in early to do a stock take. Silver Daughters Ink was a small business and he needed all hands on deck.
Tomorrow,I’ll be on time tomorrow.
“Everything okay in there? You’re not sick are you?”
Sam cleared her throat. “I’m fine, thanks. Also, I don’t mean to be a dick, but is there any chance you can get up?”