Page 16 of Unrequited (Woodlands 4)

"Grading inspector tomorrow." Henry always greeted me with the most important task of the day—or tomorrow, as it were in this case. No hello, how're you doing? Just this shit needs to be done, and I don't think you're quite up for the task.

"Yep. Everything looks good. What's the worst thing that could happen?" I give him an easy smile even though my stomach churned "We have to pull them out and start again."

"That's right." Henry nodded slowly. "It's what your old man would've done." He awkwardly patted me on the shoulder and then went off to inform the crew.

Pouring the footings before the grading inspector came was a risk. If we ended up needing to move more dirt to satisfy the inspector, some of the footings might have to be redone. In order to get in under the tiny margin Dad built in when he bid the project, we couldn't have any delays. Not one.

I wanted to see Winter again, tell her to give me—us—a chance. I couldn't promise her a picket fence, but there was something between us I'd be a fool to let go of. But I figured I'd give her a day or two to stew about what we'd said.

6

WINTER

Even though I hadn't worked Ivy's shift at the club last night, I still felt eighty years old the following day. I couldn't stop thinking about Finn or Ivy. I had a nightmare where I was having sex with Finn, and Ivy walked in on us. After I got up, ate a half a pint of ice cream and then went to sleep again, I had a nightmare I walked into my bedroom, and Finn and Ivy were having sex.

Rachel was the only one at Atra when I arrived early to check my duty sheet. I had three consultations, two I knew about and one new one—Adam Rees. I liked Adam, but he had been best friends with Finn since they were kids, so today of all days, I wished he wasn’t coming in. The last thing I wanted was to think about my love life, or lack thereof, while at work. I tried to focus on finishing the tracing outlines for two other tattoos Tucker would be starting—an intricate back tattoo featuring wings and thorns, and a skull head for a local biker.

"You look rough," Rachel noted.

"Bad night."

"Still covering your sister's shifts?" The question was asked in an offhand way, but Rachel wasn't the type to ask a lot of personal questions—that was Tucker—so it meant she was worried. And I was touched because Rachel wasn't the lovey-dovey type. Again, that was Tucker. He was always giving us hugs or even pressing a kiss into our hair, telling us how much he appreciated us. I chalked that up to him losing his brother so young.

And since Rachel asked, I gave her a more honest answer than I may have to someone else. "No, she was better yesterday, or at least she hadn't puked in the last twenty-four hours, so we counted that as a positive. Jimmy wasn't thrilled I showed up a second night."

She nodded thoughtfully and continued to rub her tattoo gun with a towel. "Well, if you need anything, holler."

"I will. Thanks, Rach." I pulled out my sketchbook and the notes Gig had taken for the first consult. It was a cop who wanted a full sleeve of chainmail. I hadn't done that look, but I'd seen others. It could be very cool, and with Tucker's skill with the gun, I imagined we'd get more than a few repeat requests later.

I had just taken out my pencil when Rachel cleared her throat. I looked up. She gave me a twisted, pained smile. "My mom was an alcoholic. She never kicked the habit, but she made a lot of promises that she would."

"Was?" I had a sick feeling what that meant.

"Died about five years ago at the age of fifty

-two. Liver cancer, but I think we were all ready, including her. She was tired of fighting, and we were tired of living through the battle. You're pretty young yet, but it can wring you dry." She didn't say anything more after that, but she didn't have to.

I knew the feeling well, and was grateful Ivy and I were on the upswing of the fight. Tucker showed about twenty minutes later with bagels and coffee. Good thing he was making money because he spent a lot feeding us, not to mention the freebie tattoos he did. If you were former military, you got a deep discount, and sometimes it was even free. His brother had died in Afghanistan at the tender age of twenty.

Tucker Anderson was a law school dropout. Actually, that wasn’t technically correct. He’d finished law school and then opened a tattoo and body piercing business instead of joining his dad's firm.

When he found me, I was just out of community college working at a marketing firm proofreading ad copy. On a whim I’d entered a graphite sketch I'd done right after my parents died, into a local artist showcase. Tucker found it and contacted me. He'd just opened a tattoo shop and asked if I would be interested in doing commission work. I started out drawing designs on spec, but as knowledge of Tucker's skill with the gun grew, so did demand for my work. He constantly bugged me about apprenticing, but as much as I enjoyed the work, the idea of scarring someone permanently freaked me the hell out.

Still, I was tempted because I wanted to make Tucker happy. I loved my Atra family and would be devastated to lose them.

"No hot pants?" he joked, referring to my Riskie’s attire, after he finished laying out the goodies in the backroom. "If I could get you and Rachel to wear that uniform, I bet we could double our prices.”

"Why wear clothes at all, then?" Rachel mocked. "Let's go full on nude and charge three times as much."

"I'm all for that." Gig Benson waggled his eyebrows and leered. Full of tattoos and piercings, Gig was more metal and ink than flesh and blood. Tucker told him if he loved ink so much he should learn how to tattoo, and Gig took him up on the offer. Gig was our current shop bitch, or the person lowest on the totem pole who did all the tasks no one else wanted. He was apprenticing with Omar and had about three months left before he could do his own work. Those three months couldn't pass fast enough for Tucker because his waiting list kept getting longer.

"Unfortunately, our zoning prevents complete nudity," Tucker said. You could take the lawyer out of law school, but you couldn't fully remove his incessant need to always be rigidly and technically right. "But hot pants and a tank should be okay."

“I'm game so long as you three wear the same getup." I waved my pen toward the two other men that came in behind him. "I bet Gig looks real good in shorty shorts. He has the ass and legs for it."

Omar blinked a few times and shook his head. "Thanks for that image, Winter. I'm going to need some eye bleach."

"Anyway, the shorts were Ivy's, and she was still wearing them when I left this morning." She'd come home late and must have passed out from exhaustion because she'd been sprawled on the sofa wearing her shorts and T-shirt when I woke up. She'd only managed to toe off her shoes by the doorway.

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