Surviving Ice (Burying Water 4)

I glance over my shoulder at the back of Black Rabbit, as dingy out here as it is inside. “As soon as this place is out of my hair.”

“You don’t like San Francisco?”

“I love it,” I answer too quickly. “Loved it. But there’s nothing here for me now.”

His gaze drifts over to the dented, dirty back door. “Was this place yours?”

“No. It was my uncle’s shop.”

“The one who was murdered in this chair I just pitched for you?”

I grimace at the callous way he says it, but I wasn’t any less callous when I said it yesterday, I guess. Of course he’s not going to forget something like that. “Yeah. He was more my father than my own father is. And now he’s gone, and I can’t stand being here so I’m leaving.” Wanting to get off the subject, I add, “And you’ll have to pay in cash.”

“Was it a robbery?”

“I have no fucking idea,” I snap, but then temper my tone. He’s a client, after all. “The cops think it might be, but it doesn’t make sense. I mean, you’ve seen inside. There wasn’t much to steal. A grand from the register and a VCR? Seriously. No need to tie someone up and torture, then kill him.” I clear my throat several times, trying to get the knot out.

“Junkies do stupid things,” Sebastian offers.

“These guys weren’t junkies. They had balaclavas and gloves, and silencers. And freshly polished boots.”

He frowns. “And the police have no leads?”

“Nope, nothing other than the one guy’s name, which I gave them—Mario. Some midwesterner with the thickest accent I’ve ever heard.”

His foot kicks a few loose stones as he closes the distance, his strength somehow radiating off him, that penetrating gaze distracting my thoughts. “I’m sorry that you lost your uncle in such a horrible, tragic way.”

I drop my eyes to the gravel between us and swallow back the tears that threaten again. “Thanks.”

Fingers grasp my chin and lift my face up to meet his again. “Will working on me help distract you from all that?”

“Yes.” Too breathless, Ivy. God, way too needy and breathless.

A small smile curls his lips. “Then I’m ready whenever you are.”

I swallow and take a step back, my heart hammering against my chest.

“There you are!”

For fuck’s sake . . .

There’s Bobby, ambling down the alley between Black Rabbit and the Happy Nails mani-pedi mill next door. He looks from me to Sebastian, and back to me.

“I’ve been waiting out front!” he says accusingly.

“Yeah.” I throw a hand haphazardly at the Dumpster, the energy firing between Sebastian and me deflating like a needle stuck in a balloon. “He was just helping me pitch the chair.”

Bobby frowns, holding up the long rectangular kit in his grip. “I told ya I’d bring a torch. I just had to wait until the guys were done with it.”

“Turns out I didn’t need one. Just a six-point wrench and some muscle.” I smirk, impressed with myself both for remembering the tool Sebastian mentioned and for finding a way around needing this biker.

“Huh.” Bobby doesn’t look as impressed. “Well, I brought it. I’ve got a few hours now, so let’s go and get this finished.” He holds his arm out.

“Unfortunately she’s booked for tonight.” Sebastian steps forward, that eerie calmness settling onto him again.

Bobby steps forward as well, straightening his back to his full height, his girth dwarfing Sebastian. “Yeah, with me.”

“You’re two hours late. You’ll have to reschedule.” Sebastian’s perfectly still and limber, seemingly unbothered.

Sebastian is fucking crazy.

And if he gets pummeled into the ground—or worse—I’m going to feel responsible, and I have enough guilt to carry on these narrow shoulders of mine right now. He may be able to launch a steel chair over his head, but going toe-to-toe with a guy like Bobby, who I’m sure doesn’t fight fair, is only going to mangle that face I like looking at. He doesn’t know who he’s up against here.

I force myself in between the two men, placing a hand on Sebastian’s stomach—the hard ridges beneath his shirt were begging for my attention. “Your design is going to take a lot more time than I have tonight, anyway. Come back tomorrow and I’ll start it for you.”

I don’t think he heard me. He’s not moving, not even acknowledging the contact.

“Hey!” I snap. That works, pulling his gaze down to me, to my hand still on him. “Can you come back tomorrow?” Will he be working? What does he do? Is he from around here?

“Yeah. Fine. See you tomorrow.” He steps away, leaving my fingers hanging in the air as he strolls around us and down the alley, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Ballsy fuck,” Bobby mutters, eying his back with disdain.

Hot, ballsy fuck. Who could be stretched out in my chair right now, if we’d gotten behind locked doors one minute sooner. “Come on, Bobby.” I sigh, taking in the bulky mass in front of me. I’m guessing his gut will be well on its way to a trip over his belt within two years.

Not exactly the same.

Definitely not something I’ll be thinking about alone in my bed tonight.

“You all right?” Bobby squints, peering down at me through deceptively pretty baby blue eyes.

“Fine,” I force out, wiping the last of the ointment over his arm and then tossing the paper towel into the trash. “We’re done here.”

He frowns. “Aren’t you even going to show it to me, to make sure I like it?”

“There’s a full-length mirror right there.” Two feet over from where he’s sitting, the lazy ass. I start pulling apart my machine as he eases himself out of the chair and wanders over. He turns his body and twists his arm to get a good look at the underside, where I’ve incorporated red and blue into the zombie princess’s cape just like he asked, to represent the American flag. Ironically, this one-percenter is also patriotic to the country whose laws he regularly breaks. “Happy?”

“Yeah.” He eyes me warily. “It looks great.”

“Good. You owe me six hundred.”

His eyebrows spike and he starts to laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

“Two hours at three hundred per. The last I checked, that equals six hundred. I can bring you a calculator if you want.”

He shoots me a flat glare. “Three hundred is Ned’s rate.”

“It’s also my rate when I’m finishing my dead uncle’s work for you, when all I want to be doing is cleaning this place up and getting the hell out of here!” I’m yelling at him and I don’t give a damn, because raising my voice is the only thing keeping the tears at bay.

It finally started sinking in today. Listening to the familiar buzz of my tattoo machine for two hours helped chip away at the shock that’s dulled my senses up until now. Ned’s gone. My uncle, who taught me everything I know about this industry, who took me under his wing the day I finished high school, who was my guinea pig when I was cutting my teeth on technique—judging skin depth, offsetting movement, gauging pain levels—who never once made me scrub a toilet during my apprenticeship, who inspired a passion that I expect will live with me until I’m too old to hold a needle steady, is dead.