Page 117 of Under the Ink

“Huh. I didn’t know that.”

“I was wanting to buy a shirt. Do you still have any of those babydoll t-shirts in medium?”

“Nope. Sold out earlier this evening. I have two in extra large, but you’d be swimmin’ in ‘em.”

“Can I buy the one up there?”

“You don’t want that one. Those things up there aren’t made for wearing because of the way we cut and stretch them onto those busts. They’re for display only. If you’re just wanting it for the artwork, I could—”

“What about the women’s tank top?”

Holy shit. The words were out of her mouth before she could pull them back.

But actually…yeah. That was what she wanted. Why the hell should she be ashamed of her tattoos? Sage was right when he’d said she was strong, that she was a survivor. Maybe one day she could even be proud of those scars.

Probably not. But she was no longer ashamed.

“In medium?”

With a nod, she said, “Yeah. Do you take debit cards?”

“Does Pinocchio have wooden balls?”

“What?”

“The answer isyes, we take cash, credit, and debit. As long as it’s Visa or Mastercard.”

“Um, yeah.”

Vince produced a small black credit card reader and said, “Slide your card in there.”

In less than a minute, he was handing her the shirt she’d purchased. “Thanks.” But there were customers in line behind her and, if the band was following the set list they’d been playing all summer, they were almost done.

She wanted to see at least one song as an audience member.

But the audience area was packed tighter than a can of sardines—and Naomi wondered if the bar was violating some law having so damn many people stuffed in here. As she made her way past the drinking area into the viewing space, she realized it was way bigger than it looked from the other room. The band hadn’t played other venues this small when they’d been touring throughout the U.S., but Naomi guessed there were between three and five hundred people here, based on what she’d seen over the past several months.

Still, for an uptight place like Winchester, a crowd this size was impressive.

Much as she tried, she couldn’t get anywhere near the stage. There were too many people packed in. The place was hot and stuffy and, the farther in she got, the more it reeked of beer, sweat, and stale marijuana smoke.

So she planted her feet and held onto her new shirt for dear life, standing on her tiptoes to see as much as she could.

Of course, her eyes went to Sage first. He sat behind all those drums on the platform at the back of the stage. The band was a little more cramped here than they’d been at the larger venues they’d played throughout the summer—and she noticed they didn’t have any pyrotechnics set up, either.

Probably a good idea. This place would likely burn like old kindling and newspaper from a couple of sparks.

As she watched Sage bang brutally on his drums, it washed over her again. Her heart was full of love for that man, and she wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around his body and thank him for all he’d done for her.

Was he perfect? No. But he didn’t need to be—and she wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.

When the song finished, the crowd went crazy, jostling her about a bit. Then Johnny got on the mic. “Hey, Winchester, how many of you feel like a fuckin’ animal?”

The audience responded by screaming and yelling, all to the affirmative.

Even without the introduction or hearing the opening riff, Naomi knew the song “Animal” was next. Although she didn’t know all the words, she knew the general gist of the song focused on being under scrutiny constantly, always being judged even when the people doing the judging didn’t really know a thing.

She’d grown to love it. And, when Johnny got to the chorus, she sang along.

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