“Is it something you can do here?”
I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and stepped gingerly across the icy parking lot. “At the shop?”
“Yeah. We have Wi-Fi and it’s just me and my client so it’s quiet. You can grab some food and then work here for a couple hours until I’m done. We can go back to my place later if you want.”
I so totally did want. I bit my lip and got into my car. “Are you sure you can work with me hanging around? I mean, I don’t want to distract you or anything.”
He gave a soft laugh that sent goose bumps running up and down my arms.
“While you are quite a distraction, Casper, my client is a fifty-five-year-old retired homicide detective who would gladly wring my neck if I screw his piece up. It’s a memorial tattoo in honor of his son who died in Afghanistan. Feed me so that I can do a good job and not get my ass kicked.”
I laughed and clamped the phone between my shoulder and ear. I hadn’t ever been in Rule’s shop. That seemed like a line that our previous relationship didn’t cross, but I had to admit I was curious to see what the inside of a real tattoo parlor looked like. “What do you want me to bring you?”
“I don’t care. I’m not picky, just make sure there is a lot of whatever it is.”
“All right, I’m still at the school so give me a half hour or so.”
“Cool.”
He hung up without saying good-bye, something that drove me nuts because he always did it, but I was learning that he had a lot of weird quirks that I’d never noticed before. There was a lot I was learning about him, things that I had missed over the years that surprised me, like the fact that he was such a good friend. I had seen him interact with Rome and Remy so I knew he was giving and loving to those he cared about, but he was the same way with his boys. Nash and Rule were most definitely a team. When one zigged the other zagged instinctively. They lived in sync, worked in sync, and it was clear to see that they just got each other, and as high maintenance and complicated as Rule was I had to admit it was fascinating to watch. They made each other laugh and made each other mad. Rule was kind of a slob and Nash was a neat freak, but they took care of each other in different ways. Nash tended to be quieter and let things slide—like the jerk across the street taking his parking spot even though it was snowy and cold, didn’t bother him enough to make a fuss—but Rule was a born fighter, a hothead who refused to let anything ride. The guy in Nash’s spot came out to find an elaborate scene of a big purple dinosaur getting head from what looked to be a perverted Yoda on the hood of his car in washable paint. Sure he was furious and wanted to call the cops, but Nash had talked him out of it by pointing out that he could have had the car impounded, which would cost more than a trip to the car wash. It showed how the boys just balanced each other out.
I decided on Chinese because I could grab a decent variety of things and I love sesame chicken. There was a line and I had to wait for what seemed like an eternity to get it. It was closer to an hour by the time I found the shop and a place to park that wouldn’t take me an hour to walk there. Parking on Capitol Hill was a nightmare and walking on the crowded sidewalk with bags full of takeout and my laptop case proved to be an interesting challenge, but I made it, and the glass door painted with an interesting mélange of old-school sailor tattoos swung open before I had to figure out what to juggle in my full hands in order to pull it open. Rule took the food from me, pressed a quick, hard kiss on my startled mouth, and ushered me into the tattoo parlor. He flipped the sign on the door to closed and guided me past a long marble counter that had a series of portfolios laid out across it and a massive high-tech computer system propped up on top.
Each of the workstations was divided by a waist-high wall and a mounted flat-screen TV. Everything was bright and shiny clean, and there was a myriad of different artwork and all kinds of interesting old-school tattoo designs for people to choose from plastering the available wall space. It was visually stimulating and there was old Bad Religion playing quietly on the house sound system. It was all very Rule, as if he had found a place to work that completely and totally embodied who he was as a person, and that was just really special to see. He led me to a back room that had a table and couch as well as a mini fridge and a bunch of different stations that had drafting tables and special lights for artists to use. Sitting at the table was a middle-aged man who could have easily been one of my father’s golf buddies, except for the fact that he had his shirt off and the entire center of his chest was covered not in gray hair but a stark black outline of a bald eagle and an American flag.
Rule dumped the bags on the table and began digging through them. “Shaw, this is Mark Bradley, Mark this is Shaw. I hope you don’t mind if she sticks around for a bit since she was nice enough to bring us dinner.”
He started dishing stuff out onto plates that he pulled out of nowhere. “Sure thing. I didn’t know you went out and got yourself a girl, Rule. A pretty one at that.”
Rule winked at me over the guy’s head and handed me a loaded plate that I probably wouldn’t even put a small dent in. “She sure is that.”
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes but I kept checking out the bold outline on Mark’s chest. It was huge and seemed like such a massive commitment for someone in his fifties to be making.
“That piece is pretty impressive,” I said between bites.
He looked down at himself and then back up at Rule. “The kid has real talent. I looked all over town to find someone who would do what I wanted justice. Rule got it right away, and it didn’t hurt that his brother is enlisted, so he understood the importance behind it all.”
“He mentioned it was a memorial piece for your son.”
“Unfortunately. Roadside bomb a few years ago. He was my oldest and nothing else seemed an appropriate way to honor how proud I am to be his father.”
I felt tears well in my eyes. I was so used to parents being too thoughtless or lost in their own grief to really express their heartache in a healthy way. I reached out and squeezed the older man’s hand while blinking away the moisture gathered in my eyes.
“I think that is beautiful.”
“My kid was a sucker for a good old-school tattoo. I gave him crap every time he came home with something new. It would tickle him pink that this was the way I chose to keep his memory alive.”
“You’ll be finished with it today?” I asked Rule, who was eating while standing up and watching the interplay between me and his client intently.
“No. Something that big takes a few sessions. Today we’ll hammer in the rest of the solid black and the gray, get some of the highlights and all the shading done. His next sitting will only be an hour or so and I’ll get the color in it. It’s going to be classic when it’s all done.”
We finished eating and I offered to clean up the mess while Rule went out to set up for Mark. I had just finished cleaning up and was pulling out my computer and books to set up in the back room when Rule poked his head into the room and crooked his finger at me. “Come out here and post up in one of the empty stations.”
“I don’t want to be in the way.”
“Come on, Casper, you make the view better.”
I rolled my eyes at him and moved to set up across from him. I settled into the surprisingly comfy chair and propped my computer on my lap. The music switched to a song by The Gaslight Anthem and I hummed along.
“What are you studying?”
I glanced up at Mark, who was making an interesting face as Rule bent over him, the constant buzz of the tattoo machine surprisingly lulling and comforting.
“I want to be a doctor. I would eventually like to work in emergency medicine.”
“That’s a pretty big goal. Why emergency medicine?”
I