It’s a slow day right after Thanksgiving before Mom’s first class starts, and I’ve finally talked her into renovating the old locker rooms in the back of her studio. I have enough cash flow through my business, even if a good chunk of it isn’t close to legit, but I don’t want to just sit on it. It’ll be six more months before Elle graduates, and I want something to show for the trouble now rather than later.
“I’m very proud of you, you know,” Mom says, pausing by the old lockers after we finish walking through the area, discussing the demo schedule. “You don’t have to use your money to fix up this place.”
“I want to. It’s the least I can do after you let me move in. It isn’t like I won’t be reimbursed by the landlord when it’s finished anyway.”
“You and I both know I needed you here. I wasn’t ready to move to a new location after all these years.”
“Consider it a Christmas present then.” I give her shoulder a squeeze, and my gaze catches on one of the lockers near the end. The initials etched in the metal are still visible despite the paint that covers them, and I wince at the unwanted memory. It’s time to let go.
Mom sways on her feet, and my attention snaps back to her. She’s squinting, and her face constricts like she’s in pain a second before she tilts to one side.
“Mom!” I catch her against me and settle her onto the bench. “Are you all right?”
She raises a hand to her head and blinks rapidly. “Just a headache. They usually pass in a few minutes. I’ll be fine.” She squeezes my hand and pushes me away. “Don’t worry, honey, I promise I’m fine.”
Alarm bells go off in my head. “Do you get these often? Headaches and dizziness?”
“No, honey. I mean it. I think it’s just low blood sugar. I skipped lunch. I’ll have something before class starts.”
I crouch down and narrow my eyes at her. She’s pale and delicate, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun as always. The lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth are deeper than I remember, but she’s still the strikingly beautiful woman she always was. Not even a hair is out of place today, which is nothing new; she always makes a point of presenting herself like a pro no matter how chaotic her home life is.
She squeezes my shoulders with both hands and gives me that maternal stare of tolerance, then stands and brushes her hands down the front of her black leotard and the flowing gray skirt that falls to her knees over black leggings. She’s steady now, so I stand back and exhale a relieved breath. My family is all I have. Keeping them safe is all that matters.
“I’ll contact the landlord to arrange the necessary paperwork so we can get going on this,” she says. “Thank you for your help. You should go though. I think you have a customer.”
When I leave the locker room, I’m surprised to see she’s right. Someone is in the front area of my shop, inspecting the photographs on the walls. I didn’t hear the bell jingle, but Mom’s episode distracted me.
“Welcome to Mad Dog Tattoo,” I say, annoyed that Sam isn’t here to greet the woman until I remember he’s up at my place studying for midterms with Elle.
From the rear, I’m impressed. She’s slight, yet curvy, in faded denim with a black leather motorcycle jacket that’s short enough to highlight a nice eyeful of toned ass. Her jet-black hair is pulled into a braid with wavy strands escaping, and she holds a shiny black helmet in one hand, propped against her cocked hip. A hot girl who rides and likes tattoos. Maybe my luck has changed.
Her profile intrigues me, and recognition sparks, but it isn’t until she turns toward me that it hits me full force who she is, and my brief interest is replaced by a wary excitement.
“These are good,” she says, nodding toward the photographs. “Really good. Are they all yours?”
“Tattoos and photos,” I say with a nod. “I’m Maddox. It’s an honor, Ms. Valentine.” I hold out my hand to her.
“Everyone calls me Toni,” she says, taking my hand. Her brief smile fades quickly. “Leo Reyes told me about you. Or more specifically about your brother, I think?” She reaches into her inside pocket and pulls out her phone. She taps the screen and shows me a familiar tree-of-life drawing from Sam’s sketchbook—the one Leo caught with his camera the night I finished his lion tattoo.
I was only halfway checking her out, testing whether my libido might be up to the challenge of hitting on a pretty girl who I clearly had something in common with. Part of me is relieved that she’s actually here for Sam. Then my brain connects the dots between her, Leo, and Celeste—and Manny.
“I owe you,” she says in a low tone, glancing toward Mom’s studio, where her afternoon students have started to arrive. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Sure.” I lead her back to the cubicle where I tattoo clients, but she keeps going, pushing through the door toward the garage as if drawn there by some unseen force. My stomach coils tight as I follow. We stop in the center of the space beside my bike, and she looks around.
“I know they said he was killed in Compton, but Celeste told me they brought him here before the funeral home took him away. I just wanted to see . . .”
I move beside her and let her have a moment in silence. She stares up at the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the high windows, then at my truck. The presence of the guns hidden under the old tires in the corner nags at me like a telltale heart, but
