“You know where the towels are. I’m going downstairs for a minute to put this baby away, then I’ll be back up in case you need anything.”
As soon as he’d gone, she dug into her gear bag for her street clothes, the ibuprofen in her first aid kit, and the spare underwear she kept in a pouch with her just-in-case tampons. Then she headed for the bathroom.
She lingered under the hot spray for a few minutes longer than usual, because it felt so good on her aching back and stiff neck, but she wasn’t the sort of person to take long showers, preferring to be efficient and keep her water use to a minimum. And who could dawdle with a first tattoo appointment waiting?
He met her on the stairs; he was coming up to find her as she headed down. “You’re all set? Let’s go. We’ll get something to eat on the way; I told her I’d bring breakfast.”
“Her?”
“My tattoo artist, and now yours.”
I’m not going to ask. I’m not. “Ex-girlfriend?”
Eamonn chuckled. “Ghostflower is more likely to hit on you than me, babe. I’ve known her since high school. She’s a good friend and a fantastic artist.”
“That can’t be her real name.”
“It’s what she prefers.”
“Did she do your angel?”
“Yeah. She’s done all my ink. You can trust her.”
Nell nodded. The artwork on his body was testimonial enough.
There was a bakery below the second-floor tattoo studio, the strong aroma of cinnamon rolls wafting from it immediately noticeable as Nell got out of Eamonn’s truck. This was evidently the “breakfast” he’d meant, since he headed straight for the bakery door instead of the one with the sign that said TATTOOS UPSTAIRS.
She followed him in, just in time to hear him asking one of the bakery workers for a dozen cinnamon rolls. How many does he think we can eat? And she wasn’t sure she could face a giant, sweet, sticky bun just then, anyway.
“Can I help you?” another of the bakery workers asked her.
“Maybe. I’m looking for something breakfast-y that isn’t sweet.”
“Sure. We’ve got some savory breakfast rolls just coming out of the oven now — they’ve got a caramelized onion and apple jam filling, with toasted pecans and vegan pepper jack cheese. Would that work for you?”
“That sounds amazing.”
“You don’t want a cinnamon roll?” Eamonn asked, coming over as the bakery worker vanished into the back of the shop.
“Honestly? Not really.”
The bakery worker returned with a paper bag, and Nell fished a ten-dollar bill out of her pocket.
“Add it to my order,” Eamonn said, gesturing for her to put her money away.
“No. You can’t always be paying my way. I’ve got this.” She turned back to the bakery worker, holding out the money. “And I’ll have a large tea as well, please. In fact, I’ll pay for his coffee too.”
“Nell!” He looked as though he wanted to say you can’t but realized that would be a mistake.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You can get Ghostflower whatever it is that she drinks. I know you’re a rock god and all that, but sometimes I need to pay for my own food and get your coffee. It… keeps the balance.”
He paid for the box of cinnamon rolls and a coffee for the tattoo artist. She thought he’d dropped the subject. But as they were fixing their drinks at the cream and sugar station, he said, “Nell, I want to take care of you. I’m in a position where it’s nothing for me to get your food and drink. Why shouldn’t I?”
She shook her head. “Rub it in, much?”
He snapped his head around to look at her, equal parts offended and rueful. “I didn’t mean—”
“And that’s why you have to let me pay my own way or treat you sometimes. Otherwise, I feel like a charity case, whether you mean it or not.” And then, firmly changing the subject, “This bakery is great.”
He nodded, accepting her point and the subject change. “The tea and coffee are pretty basic, but the baked goods are on point. Coming here is kind of a pre-tattoo ritual for me. Shall we head up?”
“I’m ready.”
Going out the bakery door and in through the neighboring door took only a moment. The stairs, trim, and handrails looked original to the building — old hardwood, well-maintained and smooth with varnish — but had new-looking grip strips for safety. The walls were white, with a trail of black tattoo art leading up the stairs. There was a buzzer just inside the door with a sign that said, Please ring if assistance is needed. Elevator access is available at the back of the building.
Nell had expected a warren of dark hallways and cubicles, like a dark version of a doctor’s office, but as they reached the top of the stairs, she found herself in a big open space instead. The front third of the room had varnished hardwood floors and sleek black couches. Big windows overlooking the street let in a flood of natural light. Portfolio books lay on a low coffee table, and an antique reception desk was positioned at one end, with a skinny teenager in baggy black clothing lounging on a chair behind it.
The rest of the space had black and white checkerboard tiles on the floor and was clearly the tattoo artists’ workspace, with an assortment of padded chairs and tables to sit and lie on, a couple of wheeled workstations that looked almost medical, and several freestanding adjustable lamps. This part of the studio was cordoned off from the sitting area with a purple velvet rope that made Nell think of a nightclub entrance or red-carpet gala. A big man with bodybuilder-style muscles lay on one of the tables, and an artist in a Doctor Who t-shirt and cargo shorts looked up from his work on the man’s chest.
“Hey, Easy,” he said. “Ghost’ll be back in a minute. Stell, this is Ghostflower’s eleven o’clock. Good friends.”
“Hiya,” said the teenager behind the reception desk, holding out a clipboard. “Got
