“How do I fix this?” she demanded.
“You don’t.”
“I must,” she insisted. “Tell me how.”
“Do I look like a shrink?” I snapped.
“No, but you charge more than one, so you should go the extra mile.”
I didn’t answer that. Getting life advice from my ass was as good as celibacy tips from a whore.
“And what about you?” she redirected. “Do you have feelings or sensations?”
“Neither.” I pushed my sunglasses up my nose. “And thank fuck for that.”
I parked at the back of the tattoo shop so as not to draw attention, but when we rounded the alleyway, spilling onto Main Street, Brat pointed out we’d have to enter through the front, anyway.
As soon as we appeared on the corner of the street, next to a Starbucks, dozens of paparazzi photographers swarmed us like raptors, aiming their cameras at us, crouching to try to catch an up-skirt money shot.
Hallie stopped, smiled, and blew kisses to the cameras. She waved at all of them, practically glowing. She was giving them old Hallie. The person they wanted to mock. The one who drew bad press.
“It’s good to be in Texas again, y’all.”
This was her little payback for last night. Inviting the paps and making me look like I didn’t have control over her ass.
“Hallie! Are you here for your sister’s wedding?”
“When’s your turn?”
“Is it true that Wes Morgan dumped you because you’re having an affair with your bodyguard?”
“Are you pregnant?!”
I grabbed her wrist and ushered her inside.
“Did you hear?” she purred. “We’re having an affair and I might be pregnant. Should I tell them your favorite flavor is unwilling?”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“I’m sure the tabloids will listen to reason instead of capitalizing on a juicy detail.”
Never have I wanted to murder and kiss someone more. Simultaneously.
I pushed the door open. We both entered a tiny space with checkered flooring and posters of skulls and zombies on the coral-hued walls. Very refined.
“Oh, come on. You couldn’t expect me to just let you get away with what you did yesterday.” She laughed, her throaty voice filling the small space, drowning out “Young Folks” by Peter Bjorn and John.
Now she wanted to talk about last night. In front of a three-hundred-pound tattoo artist with a bushy beard and enough bodily piercings to moonlight as a sieve.
“You wanted to watch,” I snarled.
Case in point: she’d stood there and stared at my cock like it was a Broadway show.
“I was shocked, is all.”
“Bullshit. You’re curious.”
“And if I am?” She twirled a piece of hair around her index finger. “What does it mean for us?”
It meant my cock was about to fall off for wanting her so badly, but I was never going to act on it.
I turned around, giving her my back.
“Just get your shit done.”
While Brat was getting inked, I hopped on the phone with Tom. He was back in Chicago, shadowing Mayor Ferns, and sounded bored out of his ass.
I didn’t call him to hear about his day-to-day life. I called about Ian Holmes and the soap opera we’d left in L.A.
“The feds are taking their time,” he complained. I heard him unbuckling his belt, taking a piss. “And the LAPD is so overworked and underpaid, my guess is they’ll try to bone up some bullshit info just to get someone to trial, but it doesn’t look great. Mainly, there’s not enough evidence against Kozlov.”
“They aren’t digging deep enough,” I insisted.
“If Ian couldn’t stop them with his resources, ya think they’ll want to stitch up a case against these career criminals? This is not the eighties, Ran. These people have lawyers on retainer. The type who charge four figures an hour.”
“Are you saying they’re scared to touch the Bratva?” I asked.
“I’m not saying they aren’t, is all.”
This meant I had to drag out Brat’s stay here in Texas until I had a better idea of how to protect her in Los Angeles. If the Russians had impunity, and didn’t fear getting caught, I was certainly the next one in line to get offed.
The best course of action was to tell Anthony Thorne there was a threat to Hallie’s life in L.A. She wasn’t going to be happy about it, but sparing her feelings wasn’t as important as keeping her safe.
Brat was done three hours later. She wobbled out of the back room toward the register, wincing with each step she took. The artist slipped behind the desk and checked her out. With a faux smile on her face, she snapped her fingers in my direction, like I was her butler. “Pay the man, Lockwood.”
“My apologies, ma’am. I forgot my checkbook in the suite, along with my servant uniform and, apparently, your sanity.” I smiled cordially.
What made her think I’d pay for this shit?
“Cash’ll do. So will a credit card.” She didn’t spare me a look.
“Nonetheless, I’m still not reaching for my wallet.”
“I haven’t received my daily allowance in days,” she reminded me. “Go on. Pay up. That should cover the tattoo and the tip.”
“I’m not paying for this.”
“Well, someone is,” the man behind the desk said, popping the buttons of his leather vest open. “And I ain’t got all day, pals.”
“Gee, I understand,” she sassed, draping herself over his desk seductively. “The last thing we need is a headline, sir. Anthony Thorne’s Daughter Leaves Local Tattoo Shop without Paying Bill.”
Yeah. Hallie Thorne wasn’t dumb. She simply channeled every cell in her brain to being a manipulative little minx.
Reminding myself that I was about to keep her in Texas for a long time, and that was retaliation enough, I took out my wallet and handed him my card.
Brat twirled her way out of the shop, all sunshine and rainbows. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
After a quick stop at a bridal shop to get her measurements for the maid of honor dress, we drove to her parents’ house in silence. My favorite soundtrack.
About halfway through our journey, she let out a little sigh, and that was when I knew my luck had run out and she was about to start talking.
“I think I might be a horrible person.”
“Finally, a statement we can both get behind.” Was she expecting a pep talk? We were in the midst of a cold war.
“I mean it, Random. I think I am.”
I didn’t want to get to know her better right now. I didn’t want to hear about her woes. In fact, I regretted the moment I made the error of telling her about my humble beginning, but at the time, she’d looked about ready to off herself and a dead client would’ve looked really bad on my résumé.
She stared out her window with a slight pout. I thought I saw a tear sliding down her cheek.
I guess self-realization was part of the ‘grow the fuck up’ itinerary I’d thrust upon her. Sighing, I said, “Why do you think you’re a horrible person?”
“I just realized yesterday that I have no real friends. No real connections. My relationship with my family is in shambles. My life is keeping up appearances. It’s an empty shell.”