Karen Olson - Pretty In Ink

It was the arm that didn’t have any ink.

“You might have some scars,” he said so softly I almost didn’t hear him because of the truck engines and the firefighters yelling back and forth to one another and the cops. Flames were leaping out of the hole in the building.

An unmarked police car parked behind one of the fire trucks, and when the door opened, I saw a flash of red.

Tim.

He saw me as soon as he got out of the car and ran toward me. But before he could pull me into a hug, Jeff held out his arm to stop him.

“She’s hurt,” he said, showing him the bloodstained shirt.

Tim’s eyes were wide with worry.

“I’m not that hurt,” I said, shooting Jeff a dirty look. “I’m just a little cut up.” I told Tim how I’d been in the car when Chez Tango exploded and the windshield spit all over me.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

I explained how Kyle had called me about Charlotte. “He said she was sick, that she was here and wanted to see me.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” He was trying to be angry, but he was too concerned about me to be successful.

Tears filled my eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have. But I wanted to see if she was really sick, and then I was going to call.” I didn’t know why I was still trying to protect the girl, considering, but I wanted to think that my initial instincts about her weren’t totally wrong.

“Was she in there?” Tim stared at the building.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I tried to get in, but all the doors were locked. I called, but just got a recording.” I indicated the CRV. “That’s Kyle’s car.”

I didn’t want to think that Kyle and Charlotte were in the building.

Tim was calling over the paramedics.

Oh, no, not again.

And an even stronger “oh, no” when I saw Frank DeBurra coming toward us. A firefighter stopped him just a couple feet away, and I heard DeBurra shout over the din, “Look for two bodies. A man and a woman.”

The firefighter’s face fell slightly; then he regained his composure and headed back to his crew.

Frank DeBurra wore no such compassion in his expression. It made me like him even less, if that were possible.

“I need you to tell me everything,” he demanded of me, not even looking at Tim or Jeff. As if I were responsible for the explosion.

“She needs help,” Tim said, indicating my arm, which was still bleeding.

DeBurra shot him a nasty look. “Last time she was in the emergency room, she disappeared and didn’t tell anyone where she was going. I’m not falling for that again.”

His words reminded me that Colin Bixby was still nowhere to be seen. What had happened to him?

Fingers were snapping in front of my face. I swatted at them and frowned at DeBurra, who didn’t seem to realize that he was socially inept.

“I need to get your statement,” he ordered.

“What about him?” I asked, indicating Jeff Coleman, who had wadded up his shirt and was standing with his feet slightly apart, his arms stiffly at his sides, like a cat about to pounce.

DeBurra gave a wave of his hand. “You’re the one I need to talk to.”

“But-”

He grabbed my arm, the one that had all the cuts on it, and I winced.

He didn’t seem to notice and didn’t let go.

Tim, however, shot out his hand, and it landed on DeBurra’s shoulder. “She needs to go to the hospital, Frank,” he said in a low voice, a voice that meant business.

“She can go after I’m finished with her,” DeBurra said gruffly, shaking off Tim’s hand.

Something in Tim snapped. Like when I was a kid and Robby Murphy grabbed me way too hard while we were playing Red Rover. Robby had wrestled me to the ground and kicked me in the side. Just once. Tim was hanging with his friends on the back porch and saw it. Robby didn’t see what hit him.

Neither did DeBurra.

Tim’s fist shot out like a bullet and slammed into DeBurra’s jaw, throwing DeBurra’s whole head back, his body following. He landed on the ground with a thud that sounded almost as loud as that explosion, even with the cacophony of noise around us.

But unlike Robby Murphy, DeBurra had a lot more pent-up anger against Tim-and he was bigger. He squatted on the balls of his feet and pushed off, crashing against Tim’s knees, which buckled, and Tim was now on the ground.

They rolled over each other, pummeling with both arms. Tim’s jacket ripped right up the middle of his back. They were both covered in debris and soot from the explosion. I couldn’t tell that Tim’s hair was red anymore. It was like watching a movie, but there were no cameras.

Uh-oh. Spoke too soon. The TV crews had arrived, and one of the reporters-yes, Leigh Holmes, my brother’s one-night stand-came jogging over with her camera guy.

Tim was straddling DeBurra now, but DeBurra had one other trick up his sleeve. He raised both arms and grabbed Tim’s neck.

I looked to Jeff for help. “Do something,” I hissed. “They’re going to kill each other.”

Their guns were still secure in their holsters, but I wasn’t sure for how long-or whether one of them would just go off because it hit the ground at the wrong angle.

Jeff held up his hands and shook his head. “Not getting in between that.”

I didn’t really blame him, but someone had to stop them from beating the crap out of each other. They were rolling around again, arms and fists flying. I flagged down a couple of uniforms, who jogged over, their expressions grim, but I could tell they didn’t want to get involved, either.

Domestic disputes are the worst.

Because this wasn’t about me or Chez Tango. This was about Shawna. This was unfinished business.

One of the uniforms decided it was enough, and he tried to get between them.

He fell back after getting slugged. I have no idea whether Tim or DeBurra hit him.

I looked again at Jeff, pleading with him.

He sighed. “The things I do for you, Kavanaugh.”

Jeff went over to the two men and managed somehow to wedge himself between them.

I turned around, didn’t want to watch. I had a feeling Jeff would suffer the same fate as the uniform. But somehow he managed to get them to stand, a few feet apart, and while they glared at each other with fists clenched, both wearing red bruises that would turn to black and blue, they kept their anger at bay while Jeff shouted that this wasn’t the time.

No kidding.

They were a mess; both their noses were bleeding, but they didn’t seem to notice. I didn’t want to see the damage. I started to turn away but then sensed someone watching me.

It was DeBurra. Not good. I knew he was going to try to rope me into another hours-long interrogation. Been there, done that. I wasn’t in the mood.

One of the firefighters tapped him on the shoulder.

With just a quick glance at Tim, Jeff, me, and Leigh Holmes and her camera guy, who was still shooting, the firefighter told DeBurra, “There’s no one in that building. No one at all.”

I looked over at Chez Tango and saw that while my brother and DeBurra were beating the crap out of each other, the firefighters had done their job and it seemed the fire was out.

DeBurra’s face scrunched up with anger. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“We didn’t find anyone. No bodies, and no survivors, either.”

Despite the rising irritation with Charlotte and the games she was playing, I breathed a sigh of relief. However, it certainly seemed as if DeBurra wasn’t happy that no one was in the building. He was such a jerk. He glared at me and Tim and stormed off toward the fire captain in charge at the scene.

I took Jeff’s shirt out of his hands and handed it to Tim. “Your nose,” I said, and Tim touched the cloth to his face, grimacing with pain.