Coletrane (17 page)

’Z’if that was necessary.

I stared, fascinated by her ass.

“You can stop eye-fucking my rear now!” she yelled back.

“Not likely,” I returned. “I’m still gonna have at it.”

“I love you, Coletrane Sawyer.” She stood on her doorstep and blew me a kiss.

In the middle of MoneyBags Boulevard, I returned that sentiment. “I am so fucking in love with you, Sinclair Chatham.”

MONDAY WAS THE START of a whole new life for me. I felt a little bit lighter about my mom’s situation. Sin was my woman. Hell, she was in love with me. It was a brand new day and nothing was gonna fuck it up for me.

Trixxie took one look at me when I entered Inksanity grinning and whistling, and held up her fist for a knuckle bump. “Yeah, boy. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Got your girl back for good, didn’t you?”

“Yup.”

“I’m proud of you, you dumb shit.” She smacked me on the ass. “Now get to work.”

The day passed by in a pleasant blur of banter with Trixx and the buzz of my ink gun.

I only called Sin once, so I didn’t look like a totally lovesick fool. Even though I was one.

Trixxie headed out at the normal closing time, shooting back, “Don’t forget Frankie’ll be here in an hour.”

“How could I forget that? I’m half scared of the dude.” I flipped the
OPEN
sign over after she walked out.

I fiddled with his stencil and prepped my inks while I waited. Of course we opened late just for the guy. He was Frankie fuckin’ Burrelli . . .

In he walked as if conjured by my thoughts.

Strut strut.

“Cole, my man.” He gripped my hand in a fist even bigger than mine.

The large man was solid muscle and sometimes evil intentions, and no one I wanted to mess with. So far I’d managed to stay on his good side, and this afterhours appointment was part of the deal I’d cut to get the boss tux for Sin’s event.

“We ready to do this?” He rubbed his hands together.

“Just about.” I flicked the lock on the door and turned off all but the bare essential lights in the front room.

Frankie swept his hands through his dense black hair. “You setting the mood for me?
Madon
. Must be my night to get lucky.”

“Ha ha. You know I don’t swing that way.” I rolled my eyes.

“That’s not what a certain Preston Legare said.”

I stared at him, shocked.

“Yeah. News travels fast on the Rainbow Network.”

“Well, I only flirted with him so I could get to Sinclair. His boss, you know? And I’m not turning
le gay
for Preston Legare.”

“So now you think it’s okay to exploit another man’s sexuality for your own gain?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

My mouth dropped open.

Fuck, is he serious?

I could’ve just signed my own death warrant.

Then his face broke out in a huge grin, and he slapped me on the shoulder with all the force of a fifty-pound kettlebell. “Just kiddin’, ya fuck. Whatever it takes to get your lady back. Besides, Preston’s the fuggin’ definition of a drama
queen
.”

I chuckled, leading Frankie to one of the inner rooms.

He swaggered inside after me, and I shut the door after flipping on the overheads.

“What? I don’t rate the mood lighting in here?” He squinted.

“Need to be able to see what I’m doing, Frankie.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

I pulled on my latex gloves with a tight snap. “Shirt off.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Efficiently unbuttoning what was probably a two hundred dollar shirt, he rolled it off his shoulders.

He carefully draped the bright blue shirt on the back of a chair as I pulled my tools over and sat on a wheeled stool.

Frankie’s body was the perfect canvas, most of it un-inked. Deep muscles filled his big barrel of a chest that rippled down to a body builder’s abdomen. But the smattering of chest hair would have to go.

“Like what you see?” He flexed with an arch of his eyebrows.

“I see the same thing in the mirror every morning.”

“Care to show me?”

“Get in the seat, Frankie.”

“Damn. You’re bossy.”

“You have no idea.”

For real.

He sat his ass down, grinning at me with his arms folded behind his head.

After swiping down his chest, I grabbed a disposable razor and set to work, clearing a wide swathe of skin.

“
Ooh
. I’m getting excited.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Cut the shit, Frankie. Save it for Josh Stone.”

He suddenly gave a labored sigh. “Now there is a man I’d like to bone, know what I mean?”

I knew Josh—the lowcountry’s favorite mechanic, former heartthrob to women and
apparently
men alike until he’d remarried, and of course, Frankie’s current unrequited crush—but I couldn’t say I’d ever thought about him like that.

Patting Frankie—who actually looked crestfallen for a change—on the shoulder, I said, “You haven’t hooked up with anyone recently?”

He snorted. “Didn’t say that. Prime queer real estate right here. M’I right?”

I said nothing, continuing to draw the blade across his skin.

“Fuggin’ A. But I’m ready to settle down. Find a man. Get married now that I finally fuckin’ can, have some kids, ya know?”

“Everyone deserves a chance at happiness.”

“I think some of the fuckin’ twinks been spreading rumors about me. Or, I guess, the truth. You know, that whole hit man thing I had goin’ on up North.”

I took a moment to shudder, reminding myself once again Frankie could be a stone cold killer, not that I was Mother Theresa.

He stared at me with big black olive eyes. “What can I say? M’really just a big fuggin’ softie at heart.”

“I’m sure the right man will come along.” Wiping his chest clean, I finished the prep work.

“Maybe I could just bribe someone.”

“I think you should probably just let true love run its course.” I turned to fire up the tattoo gun and check the ink flow.

“Gotta find it first.” He frowned.

This had to be the weirdest fucking conversation I’d ever had. Big, ex-Mafia killer lamenting about his lack of love life.

At least he hadn’t brought his sword-cane so I could safely assume
my
life wasn’t in danger tonight.

With everything in place, the stencil transferred, I held the needle just above Frankie’s pec. “You ready for this.”

“Do your worst.” He relaxed back with a wink.

As soon as the needle touched his skin, he yelped in pain.

I froze in place, absolutely horror stricken.

His laughter boomed. “
Madon.
Just kiddin’, ya fuck. Get on with it.”

While I drew the outline on his chest with ink sinking into his skin, he kept on a’chuckling away. “You shoulda seen your face though. Looked like you were about to drop a deuce in your pants. Fuggin’ priceless.”

No shit.

I believed Frankie wouldn’t hesitate to slice and dice me if he deemed I purposefully hurt him.

The big Mafioso dude had made me draw his tat design from scratch and critiqued it on every level. After hours of fiddling, he’d finally been satisfied with the drawing. I was in the process of color-filling the Singer sewing machine—
no, really
—with the shiny, sharp, serrated saw blade instead of a needle when I heard noises and voices coming from the front room.

I shut down the ink gun. “What the fuck? I thought I locked up.”

“Yeah. You did.” Frankie began to rise.

Pressing him back down, I slid off my stool. “You wait here. Just keep an ear out.”

I pulled off the gloves and sailed them into the hazardous waste bin.

Stepping through the door, I halted in my tracks.

It was cunts one, two, and three. Curtis, Kyle, and Brett had B&E’d the place and walked around riffling through anything they could get their greasy hands on. Thank fuck Trixx had emptied the cash register and deposited the money earlier.

“Well, lookie who’s here.” Kyle leaned against the counter, flipped open a jackknife, and started paring away at his fingernails.

God, he looked even more skeevy than ever.

“Where’s your lady tonight?” Brett all but slobbered.

“Told you I’m not with her. And you need to leave her the fuck alone.” I pounded across the room and opened the door to
kindly
show them the way out.

They weren’t catching my drift.

“Yeah?” Kyle flicked the jackknife closed. “Well, you should know we’re not real good at following directions. We still got a cash flow problem and since you’re all ass-kissing with the money-money people, we need to sort something out.”

“Too bad I’m as broke as you, folks.” I sneered.

I so wanted to take another shot at them. Bring them to their knees. Punch the fuck out of their faces. But Zeb’s shop wasn’t exactly the place to go all
Fight Club
. Shit would get broken if I unleashed my rage.

“Not to mention you let them call the cops on us? What gives? First
Brookie
kicks the bucket, your mom goes mental, and you decide it’s okay to go ahead and get a new life without us?” Brett thrust his .38 in my face. “Not fucking cool.”

“What’s not fucking cool is y’all having no life at all.” I ignored the piece dangerously waving at me and pulled the door wider with warm air rushing in.

Stalking to Brett the thug, I brought my fist down on his wrist. The gun clattered to the floor. I picked it up quick as could be, then hauled him to me by one hand squeezed around his throat. I angled the barrel between the other two, ranging back and forth in a steady motion.

“You think I got soft? Think again.” Slamming the butt down on Brett’s cheek, I reveled in the meat of flesh splitting, the crash of bone grinding.

His nasty breath washed over me when he howled in pain.

Squeezing his wheezing windpipe tighter, I sighted the gun on the other two.

“There a problem out here?” Frankie strode into the room, his shirt off, his tat half finished, his eyes hard.

Kyle’s face turned pale as he elbowed Curtis.

I released Brett before he passed out cold, shoving his gun into the back of my pants. “No problem, right, boys?”

One more look at Frankie’s menacing form and my mean face, and they scurried for the exit like rats on the run. Which was exactly what they were.

“This ain’t over, Cole,” Curtis said before shuttling out the door.

“If you keep comin’ after me, you’re gonna wish it was,” I snarled.

They slinked out like the snakes they were.

I shut and locked the door, taking a moment for the harnessed rage to work its way though my body.

“Those fuckheads hasslin’ you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I spun around, cracking my knuckles. “You know them?”

“I know they’re bad news, but I could take ’em out for you.” Frankie’s grin was utterly evil.

I had half a mind to take him up on the offer.

“You smoke?” I asked him.

“
Don Tomás Clásico
s
.”

“Great. Let’s go out back and light up before I punch something else.”

I sent a quick text to Sin just to make sure she was all right then led Frankie outside. I didn’t get a pingback from Sin as I leaned against the brick wall, shoulder to shoulder with the massive Italian. But the nicotine relaxed my jangling nerves, and while Frankie lipped a fat Cuban-style cigar, he kept the shit-chat to a minimum.

Once I was sure my hands were steady, my head on straight, I told him it was time to head back inside.

We resumed our former positions, and I filled in the inked outline while Frankie watched me with none of his earlier joking.

Another thirty minutes, and the tat was complete.

I wiped my brow after cleaning him up. I started running through the aftercare, Frankie gingerly pulling on his shirt.

“Yeah. Yeah. I know the drill. Save it. Now I gotta go find someone to drill a hole into.”

My eyes bugged out.

“I mean drill my cock into. Semantics, ya know?”

We shook hands at the door, and again, Frankie nailed me with his stare. “Meant what I said. ’Bout those hustlers. Just gimme a call. One good turn deserves another.”

“Thanks, man.” I appreciated it. “They’re just chump change. I can lay it to rest.”

“And now it’s
my
turn to get laid.” His deep dark chuckle rumbled back to me as he walked away.

The door shut and locked again, I check my phone. Still no text from Sin.

I called her.

No answer.

I left a message and started the late night clean up. Periodically, I palmed my phone, waiting for the screen to light up.

A few messages flashed in. None from Sin.

I kept cleaning, trying to stave off my anxiety.