Page 37 of Again with Feeling

We found the Skin Art Collective (excuse me while I throw up a little) in a strip mall on the outskirts of town. I saywe, but it was really Millie—remember, she was on research duty. And honestly, there was something simultaneously endearing and satisfying about watching Fox try to keep their cool while the Maps app on Millie’s phone announced, “At the next light, turn left,” and then, a nanosecond later, Millie repeated, “AT THE NEXT LIGHT, TURN LEFT.” It was hard to tell in the rearview mirror, but I thought Fox’s eye was twitching.

The strip mall itself was a two-story brick building with big display windows on the ground floor and smaller windows above that suggested space originally meant to be residential. The Skin Art Collective occupied one of the end units, with a disturbing sign that showed a needle, thread, and skull. There was, less disturbingly, a dispensary (Rad Roots), a pipe store (Smoke & Barrel), a real estate office (Aspire Property Group), and a Chinese restaurant (Imperial Taste). The asphalt was worn and potholed, and weeds grew behind the parking stops. I wasn’t sure what Aspire Property was aspiring to, but it probably included a sidewalk with fewer used needles and disposable contacts packages. Also, I know what you’re thinking, and both Keme and I looked at Imperial Taste at the same time—but as soon as I opened the van door, the smell of rancid oil rolled over us, and we silently agreed to pass (this time).

I was halfway to the tattoo parlor when the sound of footsteps alerted me.

“Oh no,” I said. “You’re all staying in the van.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Indira said. “We can’t make sure you’re safe if we’re in the van.”

“I’mbeing ridiculous? Indira, I’m going to confront this woman about, among other things, lying to me, and I’m going to try to get her to tell me where she was the night her brother disappeared, so I’m basically accusing her of murder. Also, I don’t even have Bobby to distract her with his muscles and oh-so-vanilla sexiness.”

I hadn’t meant for that last part to slip out.

Millie beamed at me like I’d just earned a gold star.

Keme looked like he was trying not to throw up.

Fox choked on their spit.

Indira, patting Fox on the back, said, “All right. We’ll wait outside.”

“No, you can’t just lurk on the sidewalk like a bunch of—” I managed to stop myself from sayingweirdos, but maybe the message came through because Indira shot her eyebrows. “Uh,” I said, “okay. Perfect.”

“And Keme can go inside with you.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but I realized this was a losing battle. And, all things considered, Keme was probably the best choice—he wouldn’t talk much, unlike certain other people I could name, and if push came to shove, well, I mean, hewasfreakishly strong. (I still think Bobby lets him win at arm wrestling, but Bobby just gets that goofy smile when I ask.)

When we stepped inside, a bell jingled on the door, and music met us. I didn’t recognize the song or the band, but it was metal, and it was, um, angry? The store seemed to be lit only by natural light, which meant no headache from annoying fluorescents but which, I thought, might turn out to be aninconvenience when it came to, oh, putting indelible lines of ink on the human body. Beyond a small waiting area with a counter and register was the tattoo parlor’s studio space, with three different stations set up with tattoo chairs, rolling carts covered in supplies, and machines that looked like they’d been designed by someone whose true passion was torture. I mean, it’s a needle going into your skin. Like, millions of times. Tell me I’m wrong.

Maybe Keme saw it on my face because he snorted.

At the back of the shop, Candy sat sidesaddle in one of the tattoo chairs. She’d lost the kimono today, and she was wearing a pair of poisonously green snakeskin boots, Daisy Dukes, and (rather optimistically, in my opinion) an ombre tube top that had probably been described as “tequila sunrise.” She was talking to a man with stringy, graying hair. He wore a leather vest (no shirt underneath, of course), boot-cut jeans, and big, stompy-looking boots. The first smell I’d caught when I’d stepped into the tattoo parlor made me think of disinfectant, but now I caught a whiff of something else—a scent I occasionally noticed lingering around Fox.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, getting up from his seat. He was taller than I’d realized. Bigger too. I decided that, if necessary, today would be the day that I’d let Keme vent all that teenage aggression he’d been bottling up. Plus—bonus—Millie would get to watch.

“Uh, hi,” I said. “I was looking for Candy.”

“And who are you?”

“It’s okay,” I said, “I can see her right there. Hi, Candy.”

Keme gave a little, subvocal groan.

“I asked you your name,” the man said.

“It’s okay, Ricky,” Candy said and patted his arm. Then, her voice flat—almost hostile—she asked, “What?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I had a few more questions. I promise I’ll be quick.”

“Questions about what?” the man—Ricky—asked.

“Uh, tattoos?” I said.

Keme gave another of those little groans.

But it got worse a moment later when Candy’s gaze slid past me, toward the big display windows, and she said, “Did you bring your mom?”

“Okay, wow—”

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