Page 33 of Inked & Bloodbound

“Kate, you can’t be too judgmental. You met a cowboy called Randy on a dating app for farmers and moved halfway across the planet for him,” I remind her.

“That was different,” she insists.

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?”

“He’s older than the Turin Shroud, he’s got a dodgy ticker, and he’s bloody loaded,” she says, then erupts into another raucous fit oflaughter. No one loves Kate’s jokes as much as Kate loves Kate’s jokes. She gathers herself and dabs the corners of her eyes. “Alright, point taken. Just be careful, okay? I love you very much and don’t want another loser to let you down again.”

After lunch, I take another Uber down to Sixth Street to collect my car. The afternoon sun is starting to sink toward the horizon, painting everything in golden light. The street is quieter during the day—a few tourists wandering around, some locals grabbing coffee, but none of the chaos that comes with the nighttime crowd.

I find my Toyota exactly where I left it, mercifully un-ticketed and un-broken-into. As I unlock it, I’m drawn toward the tattoo shop. The “CLOSED” sign is up, but I wonder if Cassini is somewhere back there, working on designs or just…being brooding and beautiful.

God, this crush is turning me into a pathetic cliché. If Kate could hear me, she’d tell me to “pull myself together.”

I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, still watching the parlor for signs of life and feeling disappointed when there’s nothing. I throw the car into reverse when it hits me.

I am going to do everything I can to help Cass find that missing girl. Then I’m going to find out what happened to my mom, and finally put all this shit behind me so I can move on and be normal for once.

The drive home takes me through downtown and then into the quieter neighborhoods where I live, and the closer I get to home, the surer I become of my decision. I’m stopped at a red light, warbling along to Beyoncé when I notice the black sedan in my rearview mirror. Nothing unusual about that, except I’m pretty sure it was behind me when I left Sixth Street, too.

I make a left turn, and so does the sedan.

Right turn at the next light. The sedan follows.

My heart rate ramps up, matching the rhythm of the song blaring through the speakers. This is probably nothing—lots of people live in my neighborhood, lots of reasons for someone to be going the same direction I am. Nothing unusual about that—Austin’s full of black sedans.

I make another turn at the next light, still humming along to the music but watching my mirror more carefully now. The sedan turns too. Could be a coincidence.

Right turn. The sedan follows, maintaining that same careful distance.

My singing stops. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as Paloma’s warning echoes:There are those who will try to harm you if they find out what you are.

I reach into my purse searching for the bolsita. and then I tuck it into my bra for safekeeping. I don’t know if it’s doing anything, but I feel better with it than without it.

When the sedan follows me into my neighborhood, I take a deliberately long route home, changing lanes and making turns so I loop around several times. Each time, the sedan stays with me like a shadow.

My heart pounds like a drum. This isn’t paranoia—someone is definitely following me.

By the time I pull into my driveway, my hands are shaking violently against the steering wheel. The sedan slows as it passes my house, creeping past like a black panther, stalking an animal in the shadows. I hold my breath and crane to get a look at the driver but can’t see anything through the tinted windows.

It doesn’t stop, and when it drives past like any other car on any other day, I almost melt with relief.

I sit in my driveway for a few minutes, watching the street, but he doesn’t come back. No other cars pass that seem suspicious. Just my neighbor walking her dog, and a couple of crows on the telephone line above and a UPS truck rumbling by.

“Paranoia will destroy ya,” I mutter to myself as I get out of the car. “Just because Paloma said there are dangerous people it doesn’t mean they’re following you around.”

But as I unlock my front door with trembling fingers, I can’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

And more unsettling than that—the feeling that they might still be.

11

CASSINI

“Good work,” I say, watching Lily blink herself back to reality, her eyes searching the room for something to anchor and ground herself. “You held the connection for almost fifteen minutes. How are you feeling?”

She stretches her arms above her head, and I get in a good leer before I force myself to look away. Her silk camisole rides up and exposes a strip of perfect pale skin above her pajama shorts. She’s wearing next to nothing, and I can see the outline of her teardrop tits through the fabric. I think she’s dressed to distract me, and if she is, it’s working. My venom is obviously still flowing through her, making her want me.

She yawns. “It was good; it’s getting easier to filter out the noise and only listen to the person I’m speaking with. I just talked to a woman called Jen, who died of breast cancer last year. She was so worried about her daughter’s grief. She didn’t want to let go. It was sad. I really wish I could do something to help.”