Page 35 of Strelitzias in Spring

Wolf: I saw you made the appointment. Good.

Serena: Like you gave me any choice?

A small laugh escapes my mouth at her words. She’s right; I didn’t give her a choice. But then again, she didn’t fight too hard. I guess neither one of us wants her to walk around with dicks on her back for the rest of her life.

Wolf: I’m a professional. I know when something is wrong or poorly executed, and it’s my job to fix it.

Her reply comes minutes later, and I can feel her quiet, understated sass seeping through the phone. Unlike the overt pain-in-the-ass qualities my cousin and Ava possess, Serena is nearly soundless in her sarcasm and humor, a foil to my cousin and her best friend that probably serves to ground them when they initially seek murder and mayhem. I’ll never tell it to Celeste, but the first thing I noticed about Serena when she walked into the shop with the two of them was how little space she took up and the force of her small presence. She’s an anchor, a calming agent, a fucking balm.

I look at the message Serena just sent, and another laugh breaks free. Add funny to the list of her attributes, too.

Serena: You’re not an officer, doctor, or lawyer. So, no. You’re a nosy artist who can’t take no for an answer.

Wolf: You’re right. And you’re a woman with a fucked-up tattoo who needs my team’s help. Don’t be late on Friday.

16

Serena

The days leading up to today have been a lesson in patience and anxiety. It’s not that I’m nervous to go to the tattoo shop and see a certain red-headed giant; I’m excited. And that excitement is making me anxious because I know I shouldn’t be excited about it since he has told me, in no uncertain terms, that he is not interested in me and to keep my distance.

I’m sick of looking desperate, and before I even exit my car, I resolve that I will not pay attention to Wolf outside of the normal client-artist relationship. Squaring my shoulders, I slam my car door with a loud squeak and make a note to myself to bring it into the shop to be looked at. Unlike my second visit, I don’t have post-pottery attire on, choosing instead to skip my class and look presentable instead of like a fugitive on the run.

Stepping into the brightly lit shop, I’m immediately greeted by Aubrey and her contagious smile.

“Serena, hey. It’s great to see you. How is everything?” Aubrey rounds the receptionist’s desk and pulls me into a hug like we’re longtime friends and not acquaintances who have met twice.

“Hi, Aubrey. I’m well, how are you?” I reply, returning her embrace.

“I’m great. I know you’re here for a cover-up piece, and though I have no idea what ink you need camouflaged, just know that our team is the best at what they do. I promise you, whatever needs fixing will be fixed.”

“Thanks, Aubrey.”

“Call me ‘Aubs,’ all my friends do.” She pauses, winking at me, before continuing, “Okay, first, give me your coat; I’ll hang it in the employee closet. Wolf is waiting for you with Sloan in his room. You know the one, right? You can just head on back there and give me a yell if you need anything.”

I slip off my jacket and smile at Aubrey’s encouragement and easygoing nature. From what little CeCe has told me, Aubrey is friendly unless you get on her bad side, and I can believe it. I think the power behind her hug squished some of my organs together.

I approach Wolf’s space slowly as though there’s something to fear on the other side of the threshold. Wolf must sense my approach because, suddenly, he’s standing before me with his arms crossed and a raised eyebrow.

“Why are you dragging ass across the shop floor?”

Clearing my throat, I shake my head, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, you don’t.”

I swallow against the surge of attraction that bubbles in my stomach at his appearance. In a black Henley with his sleeves rolled up to expose his tattooed arms, black jeans, and heavy black Doc Martens, he looks lethal. I’ve never been into theDog the Bounty Hunterlook before, but there’s a first time for everything, I guess.

Don’t act like a moron, Serena,I remind myself. Mentally slapping my face, I skirt around him and perch myself on one of the wingback chairs next to the bookshelf. “I don’t.”

In the opposite corner of the room, standing next to his drafting table is one of the most badass-looking women I have ever seen. Draped in a black leather jacket, cut-out black jeans, and a backward ball cap, the woman is, I assume, Sloan, and I am immediately intimidated. If Wolf’s presence sends shock waves of lust through my system, this woman looks like she could kick my ass and make me apologize for the inconvenience.

I take in the swirls of black and gray ink on her neck and am mesmerized by the dichotomy of masculinity and femininity that she presents; her makeup is simple, just a swipe of mascara and fire-engine red lipstick, and her hair is silvery blonde. Her chunky boots and black leather cuffs around her wrists look like she took all normative gender ideologies and repurposed them to fit her aesthetic. She looks so cool—an adjective that barely grazes her vibe. Coupled with an obvious confidence that I can only hope to one day obtain, I think I have a girl crush on her.

“Hey, you must be Serena,” she supplies, her voice a deep rasp that further cements her appeal.

“Yes, uhm, hi. You must be Sloan.”

She offers a wide smile and nods, instantly setting me at ease. “I am. Wolf said you have a tattoo that needs some covering up. Do you mind if we take a look?”

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