Page 52 of The Rush

“You need a fucking drink.” I place the axe inside, lock the shit up and toss him the keys.

“Damn, that sounds like a great idea.”

What bad could possibly come from drowning your issues in alcohol?

Stepping out into the blinding and blistering sunlight, Fin and I mount the bikes we rode in on and I follow his lead back to the camp set up just outside of the venue. I stomp down the kickstand that likes to stick, tug off the helmet, and shake out my hair.

“Of course, you’d pick the Setlist.” With an eye roll and a chuckle when Fin flips me off, I dismount the bike and hang the protective gear on the handlebars.

“Don’t have to drive anywhere else if I get plastered here.” Fin shrugs tightly and clips his helmet to his bars like I did.

His lifted brow meets mine and I don’t miss that flash of hope sparkling in his eyes that fades fast when he turns to start walking.

Hope that he can run into Cedar.

“This is a terrible idea,” I mutter to myself because my client is damn near gone, washed away in the crowd of rockers and staff. “Fucking terrible idea. Fin—”

“Hurry up, Scarecrow.” My feet are already carrying me at a jog in the direction of my client’s fading back.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Drinks first.” My laugh bursts out when people’s gazes swing to watch me chase his ass down, our traded comments lacking any kind of quietness.

“No thanks.”

Jesus, this is a terrible idea.

So terrible.

I love it.

Chapter Sixteen

Cedar

Withmybrand-newgargoyleplanted at the entrance to my tent, the clients have been flowing since we opened up this morning and haven’t stopped.

The whole page of samples that included the devil head has been completely ripped out of the book when it was the first thing requested this morning and it’s been smooth sailing since.

“How the hell did you get him in here?” Ava asks me for the sixteenth time over the top of the woman that leans back in my chair.

I’ve been answering with grunts because she tends to ask when my brain is too full of the line work I’m doing, but this time, I swipe away the excess ink and lean back. “Said he was staff.”

“And no one questioned it?” Her voice comes out on a higher octave, as if that is such an unbelievable feat that I got another body in the venue when the rest of us basically went through clearance checks so thorough I’m surprised they forgot the body cavity search.

I shrug, knowing the answer is because my dad’s not one you question, but keeping that part to myself. He’s gained enough attention today that my line is wrapped around the main row and back again and my back aches just thinking about how many more people are out there.

“Next,” I call when the lady in my chair accepts her completion and heads over to Ava for cover-up and payment.

“Coming up, Princess.”

The canvas that comes in next is a shadow I barely register as I do a quick wipe down and prep around the millions of water bottles that keep showing up, mostly unopened because I just don’t drink that much, but were refused removal when I knocked ten of them over in my reach to tattoo at a weird angle.

Much like the food that was thrust at me over an hour ago that sits in the corner of my toolbox and stinks up my tent.

It sounded like a good idea—even smelled good then—when the offer was extended and the line seemed shorter. Until it wasn’t and I couldn’t stop long enough to eat.

The catering and errand running between my actual and my not actual employees are enough to make me wish Fin was here.

---