Page 5 of Love Me Tomorrow

Seven Months Later

“He had a heart attack mid-coitus.”

Disregarding the fact that I’ve asked her to keep still five times now—or face the wrath of my tattoo machine going rogue—Shirley Hamilton glances over her shoulder and gives me thelook.

One I know way too well.

The lowered brows.

The pursed mouth.

The last time Shirley looked at me like that, I was inking a unicorn on her ankle for her seventy-second birthday. She’d been so invested in her story about her friend from bingo doing “the drugs” that she’d clipped me in the face with her jittery elbow and I camethisclose to screwing up her tattoo.

That was three years ago.

Like she’s got a homing beacon tucked away somewhere in that massive purse of hers, Shirley returns every year on her birthday, promptly at noon. And she always comes with a bonkers story that could put evenJerry Springerto shame.

At this point, it’s almost tradition.

“Don’t move,” I warn again, returning to the tiny constellation of stars she asked for on her right shoulder blade. One for each one of her grandkids.Four more to go.

Either she left her hearing aids at home or Shirley doesn’t give a rat’s ass that I’m working. She rolls her eyes, shakes out her curly hair, and mutters, “You ever hear of such a thing? Nearly entering the pearly gates of heaven at a critical time like that?”

When I opened Inked on Bourbon almost ten years ago, I never thought that I’d be offering ink with a sprinkle of unsanctioned therapy on the side. I expected the tourists who wander into the parlor, still drunk from the Hand Grenades they slurped down out on Bourbon Street. Hell, I even expected the constant requests for delicate butterfly tattoos and Celtic knot armbands, and yeah, once in a while, I knew I’d get some spectacular pieces done for true ink enthusiasts.

But playing Dr. Phil twenty-four-seven?

Never even occurred to me—which seems somewhat problematic considering that I’m a bit of a broody bastard. I leave the do-good, charismatic vibes to my twin, Gage, and his wife, Lizzie, both of whom work part-time shifts here at Inked whenever they can. Though with Lizzie about to pop out a kid, I’ll probably need to start moving my apprentices into more permanent positions sooner rather than later.

Aware that Shirley is waiting for a response, I keep my gaze locked on the second star when I answer, “Can’t say that I have.”

“Of course not. You’re a strapping young man, Owen. Big and tall and brawny—anyway.” She blows out a heavy breath. “The way Peggy told the story, there he was, carrying out God’s work, whenbam!Couldn’t breathe.”

I cock a brow. “You sure he was havin’ a heart attack? Might’ve just came.”

Shirley giggles like I’m some kind of womanizer, which couldn’t be further from the truth. “His lips turned blue.”

“Ah. Definitely a heart attack, then.” I pause for effect, just because I know Shirley gets her rocks off on a spot of crazy gossip. At the end of the day, Inked on Bourbon is a business—if the woman wants to talk smack about her friends, I can definitely scrape together my bedside manners for another thirty minutes and make it happen. Customer satisfaction guaranteed. I offer her a teasing grin. “You think he got her off first? One last hurrah before he bit the bullet?”

“Oh, Owen. You aresobad.”

Shirley’s thin shoulders shake with silent laughter, and I raise the needle off her skin before she ends up looking like she’s undergone a Magic Marker experiment at the local pre-school.

Leaning back on my stool, I snag a fresh paper towel off my workstation and run it over her shoulder blade. Halfway done. Six little stars shouldn’t even take more than twenty or thirty minutes, but I do what I can to make Shirley’s birthday somewhat memorable, like always booking her appointment for an hour and a half, so she has plenty of time to talk my ear off.

Last year I picked up red velvet cake—her favorite.

Today, I grabbed a few cannoli from my favorite bakery over on Royal Street, just a block away. Shirley’s a widow, her kids have fled the roost and live in different states, and maybe it makes me a total sap, but I hate the idea of the woman sitting alone in her house while the world around her continues on without a second glance.

In that, Shirley and I might as well be soul mates.

Difference is, of course, Shirley’s alone because her offspring are doing their own thing and I’m alone by choice.

Only because you let her push you away.

My fingers flex around the towel, which I sharply fling into the nearby trashcan.

Nah, there was nolettinginvolved when it came to Savannah Rose sending me packing from California. She made her decision. I walked away. She opted to pursue other interests, and I sure as fuck don’t beg anyone for anything. Not even when being sent home from that ridiculous TV show meant staggering into the airport so wasted that I’d been forced to wait another twenty-four hours before any of the flight attendants even let melookat a plane ticket.

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