Page 115 of Full Tilt
“Jesus, Kace, get pancakes if you want them,” Jonah said. “Order whatever you want.” His smile came a little too late. “They have killer pancakes.”
I stared as he turned to the waitress. “I’ll have a short stack, decaf, and a side of house fries.”
“House fries are too greasy,” I said.
He handed his menu to the waitress, not looking at me. “Oneorder can’t hurt.”
I ordered the egg-white omelet with a side of fruit and coffee. The waitress took our menus and left. Jonah’s eyes were on the table, brows furrowed as he rolled his spoon between his palms, like a mini blowpipe.
“Hey,” I said softly.
It took me three tries of saying his name before he looked up.
“Sorry, Kace, what’s up?”
“You tell me. You’ve been running hot and cold lately.”
“Have I?”
“Yeah, you have. I feel dizzy trying to keep up.”
He wilted a little and reached across the table to take my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted lately. I’m not used to so much time off. I don’t know what to do with myself. I guess it’s making me a little irritable.”
Yes, okay. That makes sense.
I squeezed his hand. “Why not go to the hot shop anyway? Make something just for you?”
He shrugged and muttered something that sounded like, “Maybe,” and took his hand back.
Silence.
“Tania told me three different galleries want your installation,” I finally said. “London, Paris and New York. That’s the trifecta of the art world, isn’t it?”
“Why, because Vegas isn’t good enough?” He waved a hand. “It’s glass. How they think they can move it across the ocean is beyond me, but they can try.”
I sat back in my chair, feeling as if I were having breakfast with a stranger. Or worse, my father.
Ten more minutes of silence squeezed by before our food arrived. I picked at my omelet; my appetite had disappeared. Jonah stared at his plate of food and finally forked one wedge of potato. I watched from under my eyelashes as he chewed it slowly, as if it were a lump of gray clay. He swallowed hard and washed it down with sip of water. Then he pushed his entire plateaway.
“Guess I’m not that hungry.”
After what I would forever call the Worst Breakfast Ever, we headed toVegas Ink.I wanted a new tattoo and had set up time to visit Theo’s studio and see his work.
Jonah said almost nothing on the drive over. But just when the silence was beginning to be oppressive, he suddenly found his smile, took my hand and pressed it to his lips.
Vegas Inkwas located at a mini mall just off the Strip. Its walls were fire engine red and covered in framed examples of the tattoo artists’ work there. The chairs were overstuffed faux leather, also in red, and three artists were bent over their clients, Theo among them. The buzzof the needles was almost drowned out by heavy metal blasting over the sound system. A receptionist with a shaved head told us she’d let Theo know we were here. We took a seat in the waiting area, which was really nothing more than an upholstered bench near the front door, facing a wall of photographs. Past clients revealed fresh tattoos, their skin still raised red.
Jonah sank heavily onto the bench and picked up an issue ofInkedmagazine.
“Any idea what you’re going to get?” he asked. It was the first time he’d voluntarily spoken all morning.
“None,” I said. “But I’m eager to see your brother’s work.”
“He’s talented as hell,” Jonah said. “My father gives him too much shit for it. You’ll see when you check out his portfolio.”
I nodded and waited until Theo rounded the short corner, calling, “Hey, guys.”
The mere fact he sounded upbeat and animated filled me with relief and I all but jumped to my feet. “Hey. Thanks for makingthe time for me.”
