Page 52 of Body and Soul

Heart pounding, I stepped toward the door. The empty hallway stretched out before me, but my eyes landed on an envelope taped to the door, my name written in elegant, unfamiliar script.

I opened it and found myself staring at an ace of spades printed in gold leaf on sleek black cardstock. “What the hell is this?” I demanded into the phone.

The man on the phone chuckled, the sound grating on my frayed nerves. “An invitation to lunch at Echelon in one hour. My treat. And I suggest you accept. That is, if you’re still interested in saving your sister from that cult holding her captive.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. Daniella. How did this man know about her?

I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. “Who the hell are you?”

The man tsked, the sound grating on my frayed nerves. “Now, now, Dr. Laskin. There's no need for hostility. I'm merely offering my assistance in your... delicate family matter. But this isn't a conversation to have over the phone. Meet me at Echelon in one hour, and I promise, all will be revealed.”

The line went dead, leaving me with silence and a thudding heartbeat. My hands tightened around the phone, my mind racing. This stranger—how did he know about Daniella? About everything I’d buried beneath layers of carefully constructed control?

I glanced down at the ace of spades, its golden edges catching the light in a way that felt almost mocking. The card felt heavier than it should, like a stone pressing against my palm.I took a deep breath, letting the cool air settle my nerves, but the weight in my chest only grew. I grabbed my keys, my resolve hardening. Whatever this stranger wanted, he was about to find out that I didn’t break so easily.

The tattoo gun vibratedin my hand as I traced the sacred heart design, its shape materializing on my client's skin. The low buzz blended with the punk rock and the laughter of Cherry and Ketchup at the front counter. For once, the noise in my head had quieted, letting me lose myself in the familiar flow of my craft.

I sat back and surveyed my linework, making sure the edges were crisp and clean. Not too shabby. Setting the gun down, I wiped away the excess ink and blood, the angry red of the fresh tattoo stark against pale flesh. “Okay, take a look,” I said, angling my client towards the full-length mirror. “What do you think?”

The girl twisted to get a better view, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Holy shit, Eli. This is fucking gorgeous!” She turned back, eyes alight. “You're brilliant.”

My mouth crooked up at the praise even as I ducked my head, an old instinct. “Thanks. I'm glad you're happy with it.” I covered the tattoo with ointment and saran wrap, taping down the edges. “Now, you know the drill, but I'm gonna tell you anyway. Keepthat wrap on for the next two hours, then you can take it off and gently wash the tattoo with unscented antibacterial soap. Pat it dry and apply a thin layer of the ointment I'm gonna give you. Do that three to four times a day for the first few days.”

I grabbed a small container of Aquaphor and a sheet of aftercare instructions, handing them over to her. “After that, switch to an unscented lotion. Something light. And don't you dare pick at it if it scabs or peels,” I warned, giving her a stern look. “Just let it do its thing. It's gonna itch like a bitch, but you gotta resist.”

“Sir, yes sir,” the girl said with a cheeky salute before breaking into a grin. “Seriously though, thanks Eli. You're a fucking artist.”

I snorted, waving off the compliment even as a pleased flush crept up my neck. “Just doing my job. Besides, you sat like a champ. Ribs are a bitch.”

“What can I say? I'm a badass,” she quipped, shrugging back into her tank top with care.

“Yeah, you’re a regular Xena Warrior Princess, Mandy,” Cherry quipped as I walked her to the counter.

Mandy rolled her eyes but laughed, poking Cherry in the side. “Jealous of my badassery, Cher-Bear?”

“Oh totally. I'm quaking in my boots,” Cherry deadpanned.

Ketchup snickered. “What boots? You mean those ratty-ass Chucks you've had since high school?”

“Excuse you, these are vintage!” Cherry protested, propping her foot up on the counter to show off the faded red canvas, threadbare laces, and peeling soles of her beloved Converse.

“Vintage, my ass,” Mandy giggled. “More like straight outta the Goodwill bargain bin.”

“Hey, one man's trash is another man's treasure,” Cherry said sagely. “Don't be mad 'cause you ain't got style like me.”

“Style? Is that what we're calling it now?” Ketchup asked, arching a pierced brow.

“Damn straight,” Cherry said, preening. “It’s not my fault y'all are too blind to recognize my unique fashion sense.”

I smirked, shaking my head as I rang Mandy up. “More like lack of fashion sense.”

Cherry clutched at her chest. “Et tu, Eli? Betrayed by my own brother in ink!”

“Hey, I call it like I see it,” I said with a shrug, handing Mandy her change.

Mandy's laughter faded into the background as the bell over the door jangled.

I glanced up and froze, my blood running cold as ice water through my veins. A man stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space, the late afternoon light filtering in behind him, casting his chiseled features in stark relief. He wore a black suit, impeccably tailored to his muscular build, a crisp white shirt, and a crimson tie that looked like a splash of blood against his throat. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, military-style, and his steel-gray eyes held a piercing intensity. Everything about him screamed he was some variety of cop.

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