Karen Olson - Pretty In Ink

Something about her seemed familiar. I knew I’d seen her before. I shut my eyes and tried to picture her. This was bothering me.

Until it hit me.

This was the woman I’d seen across the street from Chez Tango when I discovered that the tires were slashed on Jeff’s car.

Had Colin Bixby slashed the tires? He was scheduled to arrive here any minute. How was I going to react to him now?

Kyle could probably tell me for sure who she was. I wished I could print the picture, but the laptop wasn’t hooked up to a printer. I’d just have to ask him to go to Facebook and check it out.

Granted, when Colin Bixby showed up, I could confront him about it, but I’d have to play that by ear. I wasn’t sure I was ready to go public with this just yet.

I closed Facebook and opened the folder with the photos in it again. A quick click confirmed the pictures on Facebook had come from here.

Except there was one more folder. I opened it. There was only one picture in it. This one hadn’t been on Facebook.

“Brett, he’s here.” Bitsy’s voice made my heart jump into my throat.

I looked up to see Colin Bixby hovering behind her in the doorway, a grin on his face. For a second, my heart jumped out of reflex.

Before I shut down the computer, I took another look at the last picture, just to make sure my eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on me. And then the screen went black.

I didn’t want to have to deal with Colin Bixby now. I wasn’t ready for that. What I really wanted to do now was go back over to see if Lester Fine was still at Madame Tussauds.

Because I was pretty sure why Lester was paying Trevor McKay. For his silence. Trevor was guarding Lester’s body all right.

Bitsy stepped aside and let Colin pass her and come into the staff room. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of dark jeans that did, indeed, show off that nice butt Bitsy had mentioned. I stood, one hand shutting the laptop, the other in the air to stop him.

“Let’s go out there,” I said, indicating the hall. I moved past him, trying not to notice his musky scent. He must have poured a whole bottle of cologne on himself. But instead of it being a turnoff, I liked it.

I was getting too desperate if I was caving in to a guy who dressed like a girl. I needed a date.

Bixby followed me into my room, where I indicated he should sit in the client chair. I grabbed a sketchbook off the shelf and picked up a pencil before settling onto my chair. I settled a little too fast, though, and it started to roll. I stuck a foot down to stop it, but my knee connected with Bixby’s, and he flashed his sexy smile at me.

I cleared my throat and pushed away, my pencil poised.

“So what is it you want?” I asked, realizing too late that it was a loaded question and could mean just about anything. “I mean, well, what sort of ink do you want? Something small? Since it’s your first one.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my tone.

He frowned. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

I sighed. Might as well get this over with. I pointed to his long sleeve on his right arm. “Can you just pull that up? I want to see it.”

More frowning. “See what?”

I shook my head. “Just do it, okay?”

He actually looked puzzled, then unbuttoned the cuff and shoved the sleeve up.

I did a double take. Really.

There was nothing there.

I peered more closely, wondering whether he’d had it removed. But I didn’t see any signs of laser surgery.

“What’s this all about, Brett?” he asked, his tone frosty.

I bit my lip and shrugged. “I thought you already had a tattoo,” I said.

“I told you I didn’t. And I must really like you, because this isn’t something I’d do on the spur of the moment.”

He didn’t sound like he really liked me at the moment, but I was too busy trying to register what he was saying.

“But Jeff Coleman-” I thought about the folder at Murder Ink, how I’d seen the name Colin Bixby. I wasn’t going crazy; it was there in black and white.

“Who’s that?” he asked. “Is he your boyfriend?”

I snorted. “Absolutely not,” I said with more force than I intended. “He owns Murder Ink. He said you got a tattoo.”

Bixby’s eyebrows moved so close together, they looked like they’d become one. “I never had a tattoo. I told you that.” He looked at my tattoo machine on the counter and sighed. “I’m not thrilled about needles.”

“Yeah, yeah, you said that,” I said, mulling this new information. If Colin Bixby hadn’t been the one at Murder Ink with Wesley Lambert and Rusty Abbott, then who was it? Who was using his name? “You said, too, that you know Kyle Albrecht. Do you know Wesley Lambert, too? Shanda Leer,” I added, trying to hide my smirk.

“I do,” he said.

“Lambert and a guy named Rusty Abbott-”

“Lester’s assistant?”

He knew all the players. How was he involved in all this? Because even though he didn’t have a tattoo, it was all a little too close for comfort.

“That’s right. Rusty Abbott, Lester Fine’s assistant. How do you know him?”

“What about him?” He was evading my question. I’d have to get back to it.

“Well, Abbott and Lambert and another guy went to Murder Ink after that Queen of Hearts Ball last year and got queen-of-hearts playing cards inked on their inner right forearms. Jeff Coleman told me that the third guy’s name was Colin Bixby.” I leaned back a little, studying his face to see his reaction.

“Well, it wasn’t me,” he said loudly. “I have no idea who it was. And I’ve never gone to a tattoo parlor with anyone, anytime.” He paused. “Except right now.”

I had to ask. It was eating me up inside.

“How do you know Kyle and Wesley? Are you a drag queen, too?”

His eyes grew wide, shock crossing his face. “You think…” His voice trailed off into a sort of cough.

“I don’t know what to think,” I said.

Bixby took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Brett, I’m not a drag queen. I’m not gay. I know Kyle because he’s my cousin.”

His cousin?

“But why would someone use your name when getting a tattoo?”

He shrugged. “Who knows?” But his jaw had tensed, be-lying his nonchalant tone.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to say your name is John Smith or something?” I was talking off the top of my head now and didn’t exactly expect an answer.

“Rusty Abbott and I don’t get along very well. Maybe it was his idea of a joke.”

The mention of Abbott veered my thoughts onto another track. “So how do you know him? Is it through Lester Fine?”

“That’s right.”

I had another thought. “You called him Lester. That’s pretty familiar for someone it seemed like you met just yesterday at the hospital.”

Bixby bobbed his head a little in a sort of nod. “I know Lester. I don’t advertise it because he’s a celebrity and all, and I don’t want to come across as name-dropping or anything. But I met him several months back when he came into the hospital for a… well… a procedure.”

I grinned. “A face-lift?”

He shook his head.

“Eye work?”

He shook his head again. “I can’t tell you. HIPAA, you know.”

Yeah, I knew. “But you’re an ER doctor. Emergencies only. Do you do procedures?”

Bixby chuckled. “You can’t cut a guy a break, can you?”

“I just like to find out as much as I can about someone before I ink him.” I almost said “when I like him,” but managed not to slip up.

“Did you Google me yet?”

Hmmm. That was an idea. I was so wrapped up with Trevor and Lester Fine and Wesley Lambert that I didn’t think to Google Colin Bixby.