Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138274 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
There was a fire escape off to the side of the building, and as her nerves were too raw, even after her shut-up pep talk, she went down the rungs hand over hand, jumping free off the six-foot drop at the bottom, her boots landing with a slam on the grimy snowpack.
Heading out to the main street, her strides were more confident than she was feeling, and she told herself to get a grip all over again. The fact that she was losing her mind after talking to that male a couple of times and hooking up a little with him probably meant Bitty was right all along: She needed to get out more.
Although feeding Nate had been more than just a hookup. At least on her side.
Crossing Market Street, she sized up the shop as well as the area in general as she went along. Everything was closed for the night, and there were no pedestrians or cars around, but she felt safe enough. The neighborhood was not fancy, yet it wasn’t nasty, either.
Stopping in front of Needle, she looked up at the darkened neon sign that was just block letters, no glow. The plate glass windows of the front were also blacked out, velvet drapes pulled across them on the inside, no glow from the interior seeping through the folds and breaks in the heavy fabric.
Was she supposed to knock? she wondered as she eyed the many-times-painted front door. There wasn’t a doorbell to ring.
As a crushing, sinking feeling hollowed out her chest, she wrapped her arms around herself and glanced back at the roof of the restaurant across the street. The idea of retracing her steps to Luchas House, and making some excuse as to why she was going to work even though it was a Saturday and she was always off Saturdays, made her cringe. But she still wasn’t ready to go back home yet, and like Bathe was an option?
She’d already met her once-a-year club quota.
Besides, she might be banned for hopping up on that table and playing soccer with all those glasses—
“Nalla? You Nalla?” The resonant, deep voice rippled out to her, and as she jumped and looked around, it ordered, “Over here.”
Glancing to the right, she zeroed in on the thin seam between the tattoo parlor and the apartment building next to it.
“Hello?” she said.
“I’m holding the door open, you gotta come to me.”
With caution—and a heart that was suddenly tap-dancing a little with hope—she headed over to the six-foot-wide breezeway. About twenty feet down, a pool of light spilled out… along with a figure who was tall as a basketball player, thin as a model, and tattooed everywhere. With neon pink hair peaked like the top of a lemon meringue pie, a micro-mini, and thigh-high, pencil-heeled boots the same color as the hair, the person was—
“Well,” they snapped. “Are we just standing here, honey, or are we doing something? I have not got time for this.”
“Sorry, yes, sorry.”
Nalla scrambled forward, and she couldn’t help but stare as the person stepped out and motioned her into a long hall that was painted black from floor to ceiling.
Wow. Just… wow.
The tattoos that covered their pale skin were all black-and-white portraits of movie stars from waaaaay back set against a background of the Louis Vuitton logo. Meanwhile, their face, which was professional-level made up, was easily beautiful enough to be on a magazine cover, the hollows under the cheeks, the plump lips, and the luminescent eyes the kind of thing that might have been bought and paid for as part of another canvas to make art with, but really, the end result was so striking, it had clearly been an investment worth making.
“Are we going to have a problem.” That voice, which was both bass and soprano together, was sharp as a knife. “Because Amore don’t beg for anything, honey, and I am not starting with you tonight.”
“I’m sorry.” Nalla glanced down to those boots again. Then went back up, way up. “You’re just… too dazzling to look at. Like Marilyn Monroe and Vogue magazine had a love child.”
Amore arched their perfect brows. Then they fussed at their hair with their neon pink nails. “Girl, I knew we were going to get along. From the moment I saw you. Now, tell me more about how fabulous I am.”
The next thing Nalla knew, she was draped by a tattooed arm and escorted like she was royalty down into a scrupulously clean workroom that was all black and pink and gold. The focal point was the table in the center of the space and the chandelier of bright lights over it, but there were also an upright, padded chair, various rolling tables, and a couple of silk armchairs. The rest of the square footage was taken up by equipment, including autoclaves, an entire twenty-foot bank of ink colors in squeeze bottles, and all kinds of glass-fronted cabinets filled with needles, tattooing guns, and supplies.