Page 71 of Chasing Shelter (Sparrow Falls #5)

“Cookies are the only thing keeping you employed,” I called as I headed for my station. I also had a closed room in the back, but I liked knowing what was happening in the shop. Getting a feel for what was going on and who was coming through its doors.

Bear leaned back on his stool and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “This shop would fall apart without me.”

He was right, and we knew it—even if he had an organizational system no one else could understand.

I grabbed my sketching pencils and notepad and kicked up in the empty chair at my station.

I needed to work on an addition to a client’s sleeve.

He’d given me a couple of touchstones, but beyond that, I had free rein.

It was my favorite way to work: knowing some things that had meaning and bringing my artistry to it all. The client’s trust meant something.

“Priest, you want to hit Haven later and spar?” Jericho asked from next to me.

I needed a sparring session desperately. It didn’t matter that I’d left behind the more nefarious aspects of mixed martial arts; it was still one of the few places I felt free. Art, MMA, and Fallon. That was my trifecta, and it always would be.

My fingers moved, the pencil skimming across the page in delicate strokes. “Can’t. Family dinner.”

I felt eyes on me but didn’t look up. I knew it wasn’t Jericho. He was too focused on his work. And it wasn’t coming from Bear’s direction. It had to be the redhead. I was proven right when she spoke. “You’re Kyler Blackwood, aren’t you?”

My gaze flicked over to her briefly, but it was long enough to see hers fixed on me. “That’s me.”

Her eyes lit then, the green sparking. “I tried to get in with you, but they said you were booked out for six months.”

“You’re welcome,” Bear called.

Jesus.

Jericho lifted the tip of the tattoo machine from her skin. “What am I? Chopped liver?”

The redhead giggled and sent heart eyes in his direction. “Never.”

A little of the tension weaving around me eased. All sorts of people came in for ink. Those who truly loved the art, those looking for a thrill, those wanting to memorialize a loss or something they’d lived through… And then there were those who used it for the high.

The redhead seemed to be the latter. But it wasn’t just women. Men could be ink addicts, too. People who wanted to be as close as possible to the culture of it—the artists, the buzz—but either didn’t want to put in the work to become artists themselves or didn’t have the skill.

I refocused on my drawing, but footsteps soon sounded down the hall. “Here’s your aftercare kit. Make sure you follow the directions and all the steps. If anything gets red or hot to the touch, it’s time to see a doctor.”

Penelope appeared, leading a woman who looked to be in her mid-forties with a new septum piercing out into reception. “Thanks, Pen.”

Penelope hugged her, her unicorn hair of light pinks, purples, and blues swishing around her. “Take care.”

As the woman checked out, Penelope turned to me, assessing. “You look tired.”

What was new? My demons had been riding me extra hard the last few months. And everything Trace went through with his douchebag of a father recently had stirred them up even more. Sometimes, it felt like I was waging war with them every night.

Memories of my father coming at me with that knife. My mother’s voice swirling around and around in my head. “Worthless. Everything you touch, you ruin.”

“I’m fine,” I bit out.

Penelope let out a scoff. “Want me to get you lunch?”

“Already ate with Fal.”

Penelope’s mouth tightened—the barest amount—but I didn’t miss it. Just like I didn’t miss her subtle invitations. They never crossed a line, and I did my best to let her know the door wasn’t open, but she never quite seemed to get the message.

Jericho looked up from his lotus flower, his blond beard glinting in the studio lights. “How come you never offer to get me lunch?”

“Because I have a modicum of taste,” Penelope shot back.

“You crush me.”

She just shook her head, but did it with a grin. “Going to grab something at The Mix Up. Be back.”

She headed out the door with her client just as the sound of a motorcycle lit the air.

It didn’t matter how much time passed; that noise always had me on alert until I knew the owner was a friendly.

I swiveled my chair around and grimaced as I caught sight of the bike through one of the front windows. I knew it in a single glance.

The flames encircling the skull were so over-the-top and cliché I couldn’t help the way my lip curled. But it wasn’t just that. It was what it signified. The Reapers. And the small emblem on the fuel tank marked the rider as an enforcer for the MC—one I knew all too well.

The bell over the door jingled as Oren stepped inside. “Afternoon.”

I stared at the man I’d once thought was a friend but realized never was. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, his leather cut shifting with the action. “I missed you assholes. I can’t come say hello?”

“No.” The answer was simple and to the point. All I needed. He’d lost that privilege when he tried to keep Jericho from calling the cops the night I nearly lost my life in that damn fight circle.

Oren’s brown eyes narrowed as he turned to Jericho. “He speak for you now, too?”

Jericho glanced up from his work and then looked back down. “In this case, yes.”

“Look. I wanted to give you an opportunity. Prez is putting together a fight. One-hundred-K purse. Thought you might want in.”

My gut tightened. Apparently, the fights weren’t as dead as I’d thought. Or they were making a comeback. That was risky as fuck for the Reapers. “Pass,” I clipped.

“Ditto,” Jericho said.

Lines of strain bracketed Oren’s mouth like an endless chain of parentheses. “You should be honored he extended the invite.”

It was my turn to scoff. “It’s an honor that he wants to get us mixed up in the same shit that got us arrested? Got me beat to hell? Almost dead? Thanks, but no thanks.”

Oren took one step toward me. “Remember you made this choice.”

“Boy,” Bear called from behind the reception desk. “Get gone before I set Trace on your ass. Or worse, I handle you myself.”

Oren sent a scathing look in his direction. “You think I’m scared of some weekend warrior? Please.”

Bear wasn’t fazed, even for a second. “The measure of a man doesn’t come down to the amount of stupid shit he gets into. Might do you well to remember that.”

Oren’s gaze swept the room. “Could’ve been friends of the club. Remember that, too.” And then he stalked out and started his bike.

“Fuck,” Jericho muttered as he set down his tattoo machine.

“He’s all talk,” I assured my friend.

But I wasn’t sure I completely believed that. Oren came around now and then, trying to needle us. I got the sense it was mainly because he was bored or lonely. But he’d never asked us to come back or to fight. Which meant something was going on.

Memories of that time in my life swirled, trying to dig in their icy claws: my bare knuckles striking someone’s jaw, a fist smashing into my ribs, falling to the cement floor, feeling all the pain until I felt nothing at all.

And waking up in the hospital with a pale-faced Fallon at my side, seeing the tears welling in her eyes. “You can’t leave, Kyler. Promise me you won’t leave me.”

I’d promised. And it was one I intended to keep. Even if I’d only ever have pieces of her. Those tiny shards were better than anything else.