Karen Olson - Pretty In Ink

He’d stopped just about a foot away from me. Too close for comfort.

On impulse, I jerked my leg up and out and watched him crumble as my foot connected with his groin. He grunted with pain, and as I got into the Bullitt, I could see it etched across his face.

I started the car, shifted it into reverse, and stepped on the gas. I left him on the pavement, breathing in my exhaust.

About a block away, I wondered if I shouldn’t have tried to talk to him. Ask him just what was going on.

Nah. Probably wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer anyway. And I might have found myself in the middle of an “accident.”

It was nice to know that in the moment, I could defend myself.

My hands were still shaking, though. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and carefully made my way up Las Vegas Boulevard.

Kyle’s CRV was the only vehicle in the parking lot. I wondered where Bixby was. Must be a pretty bad accident. I gathered up my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and locked my car. Not that it would do much good, since the trunk was held closed only by a red balloon ribbon.

I walked across the lot and pushed on the back door, where Kyle and I had gone in yesterday.

Locked. I banged on it a couple of times, but no one came.

I went around the front of the building to the more formal entrance. The awning stretched over the walkway; the Christmas lights weren’t on, but they sparkled anyway in the sunlight.

The front door was locked, too.

I took a deep breath, irritated. I took out my phone and dialed the number Kyle had called me from. The phone rang twice before I got a recording saying that it was Chez Tango and I should press one for hours, two for directions, or three for that night’s show lineup. I didn’t press anything; I just put the phone back into my bag.

Being a little OCD, I double-checked the parking lot, walking all around the building, careful not to step on the broken glass in the back by the Dumpster. My Mustang still sat next to the CRV.

But something was wrong. The trunk was open again.

There was no sign of the ribbon. It was gone.

Panic started to rise in my chest as I stopped looking down and started looking up, across the lot, out to the street. Had Rusty Abbott recovered enough to follow me?

I didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out. I’d have to call Bixby and tell him I was standing him up. Considering Charlotte’s behavior the last few days, I was starting to think she might be perfectly fine and this was some sort of trick.

I opened my car door and took another look around. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that made my heart leap into my throat. But when I turned to look, it was merely a skinny stray cat scurrying past, the red ribbon trailing from its mouth. I let out a long breath. I’d had enough of this place.

I scooted into the car as quickly as I could and slammed the door shut. I started the engine and shifted into first, ready to make my getaway.

Then a gold Pontiac pulled into the lot, heading straight for me.

What was Jeff Coleman doing here?

Because it was Jeff; he was getting out of his car and coming toward me with a little bit of a jog, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

I lowered the window but didn’t turn off the engine.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he stopped next to the car.

“Rusty Abbott said you might be here.”

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Abbott called me, said something about you and a nail salon and you attacking him.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the cigarette bobbed up and down.

“So, did you decide to just jump in your car and find me to make a citizen’s arrest?”

“I was already in my car. About a block away. What did you do to Abbott?”

“I kicked him in the balls,” I said matter-of-factly. “He was coming after me.”

“Kavanaugh, you might want to ask a man what he wants before doing that,” Jeff said. “Because he just wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Jeff glanced at his watch and then up at Chez Tango. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He tossed the cigarette to the ground. “We don’t have much time.”

We didn’t have any time.

Just at that moment, an explosion rocked the air.

On impulse, I dropped down across the passenger seat, tucking one arm underneath me and covering my head with the other. Debris slammed against the windshield, and it shattered, cracking into a million pieces. It looked like an intricate spiral mosaic. Smoke so thick you could slice it settled on top of me. And while the windshield hadn’t collapsed, it had spit tiny shards like mist across the interior of the car. I wanted to cough, but I was afraid to move.

Then I remembered Jeff.

I tried not to lean on any glass, but it was impossible. Shards that were practically invisible slit my skin like thin paper cuts as I rose and looked out the window.

The force of the explosion had thrown Jeff several feet. He lay still, faceup on the pavement between his car and mine.

I forgot about the glass and pushed the door open, finding purchase on the soot that covered the ground. Jeff’s eyes were closed, and I stooped down and touched his cheek.

“Jeff?” I asked softly. “Jeff?”

His eyelids flipped open, and it took a second for him to focus. Then, “Kavanaugh? That wasn’t supposed to happen for another ten minutes.”

A siren pierced the air.

Jeff tried to raise himself on his elbows, but I touched his shoulder. “You might just want to lie there for a few minutes.” The siren was getting closer. “You need to get checked out before you get up. Make sure everything’s okay.”

He snorted and sat up, cocking his head at the building behind me. The whole back had been blown away. I shuddered as I thought about how I’d wandered around the building, trying to get in. If I’d been a few minutes later… I didn’t want to think about it.

“How did Rusty Abbott know about this?” I asked.

“Beats me. But he sounded frantic enough, so I believed him.”

“Where is he now?”

Jeff rolled his eyes at me. “How am I supposed to know?”

“We have to tell the police.”

“No kidding, Nancy Drew.”

It seemed Jeff was perfectly fine, despite getting thrown. I thought about his time in the Gulf War. Maybe he had some experience with this sort of thing. Wasn’t that what they taught the Marines? How to survive explosions? In between how to kill someone. Right.

Jeff got to his feet just as three police cruisers, two fire trucks, and an ambulance careened into the parking lot. He studied me for a second, his expression worried.

“You’re covered in blood, Kavanaugh. What happened?”

I hadn’t felt it at all until he mentioned it, and it wasn’t the same as when Mickey inked my sleeve. Then, it was concentrated in one place at a time. This was all over, and there were no endorphins kicking in. I just felt the pain.

Jeff pulled his T-shirt over his head to reveal elaborate tattoos covering his arms and chest. He caught me staring and grinned.

“Want a tour, Kavanaugh?”

I felt my face flush, and I stammered, “No,” although I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the skeleton with the oversized skull stuck in a sombrero. It was curled around his abdomen, a Mexican blanket draped over one bony shoulder, a guitar clutched in bony fingers, flames licking skin. Even though it had faded somewhat with time, the colors were spectacular. “That’s not flash,” I said, more to myself than to Jeff.

“I designed it. Day of the Dead.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”

“When I got home from the Gulf. Surprised, aren’t you, Kavanaugh?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, since he already knew the answer, and held out his shirt to me. I wasn’t quite sure what he wanted me to do with it, so he moved closer and began to wipe my arm carefully, and when he stopped, it was covered with blood.