Page 70 of Broken
“What made you become a tattooist?”
“Kind of fell into it,” he says with a non-committal shrug. “I was getting out of another career that wasn’t working for me. While I was getting a tattoo, I got interested.”
“What career?” I ask, not sure he is going to actually answer.
He pauses, and I think he is going to silence his way out of telling me anything. Then he surprises me. “I was in the army.”
“You were?” My eyes widen. Garrett looks over at me. “You know what, I can see that,” I add with a slight laugh. He gives me a wry grin. “How did you get out?”
“It wasn’t straightforward, but I went into an admin role early on.”
“Oh, so you weren’t a soldier.”
“Not when I discharged out,” he says. Another moment of hesitation means there is something he isn’t saying.
It’s not my place to pry. Especially with the secrets I’m keeping.
“The owner needed help at his shop, and I wanted to learn. It worked for both of us.”
“And now you own this place?”
“Part own.”
Oh yeah, Lucky said Phoenix is his partner. There is a tattoo on his forearm of the shop logo, with writing around the tattoo. Blackhawk Disciples. What is that?
Before I can ask, Garrett speaks. “Sounds like your ex is a special kind of prick.”
I choke on the water and cover my mouth to stop spitting it everywhere. Garrett seems amused. I set the glass on the coffee table and look over my shoulder at him.
“The worst,” I say eventually.
“You hear about assholes doing shit like that all the time. I can’t imagine doing it to family.”
“That isn’t even the worst of it,” I mutter. Then freeze. Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“What?” Garrett leans forward.
“Nothing,” I blurt.
Time to go. Getting to my feet, and careful not to knock over the glass of water, I head for the bedroom. I’m almost fully dressed when I realize Garrett is standing in the doorway watching me. His arms are folded, his shoulder leaning against the doorframe.
That inscrutable gaze of his bores into me. Half naked, he is even more intimidating. All that skin and ink on show.
“I touched a nerve,” he says.
“It’s nothing.” I wave a hand. “But I should go. It’s late.”
He stares at me some more while I pull on my sandals, then he grabs his jeans.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you think I’m letting you leave alone?”
“I can get a cab,” I argue back.
“I can give you a ride.”
“You don’t need to.”
