Page 95 of Rafe: Sins of the Father

“What was that about?” he asks.

“TikTok bikers. Gonna spead the word.” I swing my leg over and we pull out, roaring off down the road.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Tori—

The bell above the door jangles when I step inside Deep End tattoo shop. The floor tiles are black and white, and a couple of glass cases are in front of me. They hold everything from tattoo care items to body jewelry. The smell of ink and antiseptic hits my nose and soft music plays low in the background, but it doesn’t cover the buzz of a tattoo machine as an artist works on a man at his station. A couple of customers mill about the lobby, looking at designs on the wall, and a man is ringing up another customer at the counter. I wait patiently until it's my turn.

When the woman ahead of me turns toward the door with her bag of care products, I step forward.

The man is burly and covered in ink, but he’s got soft brown eyes and a smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m looking for an artist named Gigi. Do you know of her or, more specifically, what shop she works out of?”

“Can’t say I do, but we’ve got talented artists right here. I could help you out with whatever design you want. I do good work.” He points at some photos behind the register.

“Yes, you do. Very nice.” I take in the art, trying to be polite. “It wasn’t to get a tattoo. I’m looking for a friend. I heard she worked here in San Jose somewhere.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Gigi Austin.”

“Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Okay, thanks anyway.” I step outside. It’s almost nightfall. That time of day when the sky turns a deep blue and thestreetlights start coming on. I’ve been to seven different shops with no luck. Climbing in my car, I pick up my notepad and scratch off another shop from the list I made, then sigh. “Only twenty-two more to go.”

I shift into reverse and back out of the diagonal spot, then notice my gas light come on. “Damn it.” I hate getting gas at night. Maybe I have enough to make it home.

I roll to a red light and idle. It’s a nice night, and I crack my window open an inch. The roar of a pack of Harleys carries on the breeze. I check the street and my rearview mirror but can’t spot them anywhere. The roar is thunderous and getting closer, but it echoes off the buildings, and I can’t tell which direction it's coming from. Then movement at the next intersection catches my eyes, and I watch a pack of bikes fly across from left to right, hauling ass up the street. There had to be at least four rows of them, and they were riding two abreast.

“Come on, light!” It finally changes, and I hit the gas, roaring to the next light, which changes to green as I get there. I make the right turn to follow, but the little red glow of their taillights is already far down the road, and I know I’ll never catch up to them. Still, I follow down the street, hoping maybe they’ll hit a red light.

It never happens. I was so close, damn it.

I don’t see any gas stations around and keep driving toward the interstate.

At the next light, a sport bike pulls alongside me with a lone rider. He’s dressed in riding gear and a full-face mask. He catches me looking and waves.

I smile and roll my window down.

He leans closer. “Hey, beautiful.”

He’s being all cute and flirty.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, doll.”

“Have you ever heard of the Evil Dead?”

He nods.

“Do you know where their clubhouse is?”

It’s hard to hear him through his helmet, but he nods again, and I think he says to follow him. He motions with his finger, pointing down the road. When the light turns green, he makes a ‘come on’ motion with one hand, so I get behind him and follow.

He rides several more blocks, then makes a turn and rides several more blocks. It’s dark in this area, except for the streetlights flashing past. I notice a set of headlights take the next turn with us.

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