Page 96 of Butcher & Blackbird
“Custom saddlebags for a biker’s Harley. If I couldn’t kick your ass myself, he would gladly do it for me,” Lachlan fires back. “And I’m only two years older than you, dipshit.”
“Then why are you wearing old man glasses? You look like you’re about to do a crossword puzzle and fall asleep in your La-Z-boy recliner,” Rowan says with a wink at me.
“Fuck off. What do you want, you feckin’ asshat?”
“Actually it’s me, I have a little request,” I say as I take a step closer to Rowan’s brash older brother.
“Ah the spider lady, coming to ask me for a favor,” Lachlan says with a devious grin as he leans back in his chair.
“Actually, I’m calling in a favor.”
“Oh really? What favor is that.”
“Saving your little brother.”
“If I remember correctly,” Lachlan says, tapping one of his ringed fingers on his chin, “I helped clean up your rather messy murder scene before erasing any record of the existence of a certain David Miller from the annals of serial killer history. So, I’d say we’re even. You’re welcome.”
I roll my eyes and Rowan smirks next to me. “Fine. A favor for Lark Montague in that case.”
There’s a beat of hesitation before Lachlan emphatically says, “Fuck, no.”
“Come on,” I reply, my voice bordering on a whiny plea as I take another step closer. “Lark is moving to Boston the same week that we’re going to be away. Just help her get her stuff into her new apartment, please. She doesn’t have much.”
“Why doesn’t she have much?” Lachlan asks, his brow furrowed, his voice stern. Rowan and I exchange a fleeting, confused glance before I refocus on Lachlan.
“Um, she travels light, I guess…?”
Lachlan’s gaze darkens as though this is insufficient information before he smooths his reaction beneath an apathetic mask. “Fine. But don’t expect me to stick around when it’s done.”
“Of course not.”
“And I’m not going to show her around the city or some shit.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We’re not like, friends. She can’t call me for…milk.”
“Okay… I’ll let her know not to call you for milk. Done.”
Lachlan grunts. I grin.
“Thank you,” I say as I walk over and give him a hug I already know he won’t return. “You won’t regret it.”
“Yes I will.”
“Okay then.”
I give him a kiss on his stubbled cheek to the sound of Rowan’s delighted snort and then back away.
“Thanks for that, bellend. We’ve gotta run,” Rowan says with a teasing grin that Lachlan returns with a flat glare, but he still rises from his chair. He walks us out of the studio and onto the street, and we make plans to get together for dinner next week before he presses his forehead to Rowan’s like he always does. And then we’re off, heading to our appointment hand in hand, taking our time to enjoy our simple company and the mounting excitement for what’s to come as we weave our way to our destination.
The little brass bell rings at the top of the door as we enter Prism Tattoo Parlor.
Laura, the owner of the shop, greets us warmly and gives Rowan a consent form to complete as she and I finalize details about the design I gave her, our voices hushed so that Rowan can’t hear the specifics. When everything is signed and the design is printed on the transfer paper, Rowan takes a seat in Laura’s chair.
“Sorry, Butcher, but I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you,” I say as I step behind him to lower a blindfold over his eyes. Laura smirks as she preps Rowan’s arm and transfers the stencil across his scar.
“You wound me,” he says.
