Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

Not that I don’t spend on what matters, I think, my mind finally, thankfully drifting away from a certain pretty, pissy girl. And I know what matters. Since I was a kid I had to make decisions that could well mean life or death. Buying a burger instead of a chocolate. Buying a shirt instead of a toy. Eating fast when there was food. Getting out while things were good before they went south.

Some habits are hard to break.

I chew on this as I serve a lovey-dovey couple their tacos with extra cheese, extra chili, extra zing. I never thought about it this way, but could it be why I like being around Embers so much? Because I do like being around her, despite her temper. She makes me feel calm, in control. Excited but also peaceful.

Being around her isn’t moonlight and roses. She doesn’t pretend to like me, doesn’t make it easy for me. Doesn’t invite me in, or offer me anything. Hell, at her apartment she didn’t even offer me a glass of water. Every little thing I drag from her—a pet name, a smile—is a victory I worked for.

Being around her isn’t easy. It hurts when she treats me like shit, when she seems disgusted with me. Things between us aren’t good, even though we seemed to reach some sort of truce.

And that means I don’t have to run away, forget her name. Not yet, at least, and it’s funny how relieved that makes me. Never felt this way before, and if that’s crazy, well then, frankly, crazy doesn’t scare me anymore.

“Earth to Jesse Lee.” Zane pokes at my chest, and I take a step back as he brushes by to grab the tattoo gun. “Trouble?”

“Nah.” I blink, afterimages of Amber in her see-through blouse flashing behind my eyes. “Just a bad night.”

“You seem to be getting a lot of bad nights lately,” Zane says and grabs the drawing from the bench. “Just saying, man.”

I rub a hand over my face, try hard to find my calm. “My roommates were having a sort of party when I came home.”

It didn’t help that I kept dreaming of Amber and waking up with my hand down my briefs, stroking myself. Can’t stop picturing her pouty mouth, imagining what it’d be like to touch her, fuck her. Kiss her, suck on her soft lips.

Hell.

“Fucker, are

you even listening to me?”

“Yeah.” I run a hand over my closely-cropped hair and sigh. “What?”

Zane chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m saying your jeans have holes so big I can almost see your balls, and that’s not something I wanna experience.” His eyes narrow when I wince. “What’s going on, J? If it’s money you need…”

“No, I don’t need any goddamn fucking money.” I snap my mouth shut. What the hell’s wrong with me? I scrub a hand over my face. “Sorry, Z-man. I just can’t take—”

“—pity? Charity? Well, it’s neither.” His jaw is clenched tight, and a seed of apprehension shoots roots inside my chest. “Try worry, fucker. That’s what it is, and hell if I’m ever gonna apologize for worrying about you.”

I lean back on the bench and grip its edge until my knuckles turn white. “Yeah. I…” I lick my dry lips. “I know.”

“Good.” Dark eyes flashing, he motions at the drawing. “Ready to give this a try on real flesh today?”

My breath catches in my throat. “On a customer? Today? No way, man. I’m not ready.”

“I think you are.” He nods wisely, Yoda-like, and hands me the tattoo gun. Or tries to hand it to me.

“Wait, Z-man. What if I make a mistake and piss off your customer? It’s not something you can just wipe away, and I’ve never fucking tried—”

“You have to start one day,” Zane says, slow and low, giving me a steady look. “And I judge that you’re ready. If you piss my customer off,” he lifts a hand to forestall whatever I’m about to say, even if I have no fucking clue what that might be, “then you’ll piss him off. It’s okay. Mistakes can happen to the best of us. You don’t stop because of a mistake, fucker. You keep going, keep learning.”

I clamp my mouth shut and take the gun. When the customer arrives, I hide my nervousness, follow the steps Zane taught me in my mind and ink part of the tattoo covering the man’s entire back.

Sweat drips into my eyes, and I let it, not daring to stop sinking the needle into the man’s flesh, drenching it in color. Again and again and again, until I feel Zane’s hand heavy on my shoulder and pass the tattoo gun back to him.

Faintly I hear him say I did a good job, and the elation from having done it and from my mentor’s praise is lost in the buzzing in my ears and the staccato of my pulse.

What he said earlier is perfectly logical. Nothing can happen to me if a customer is upset—unless Zane gets upset with me, too, and throws me back out on the street.

Then again, I’m pretty sure that’s only a matter of time.

The sky is only starting to pale outside my window when I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, my heart pounding. Snatches from my dreams ricochet inside my head, bouncing back and forth. Rough hands grabbing me, pushing me against the wall. Fire radiating through my back and chest. Dim streets, cold and hunger.