Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 90919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Nah, don’t need those, bud,” I said quickly, clearing my throat. “Drop ’em back in.”
“Okay,” he said happily, tossing them back in the bag.
Sean ran back to bug Saoirse while she cleaned up the kitchen, and I headed for the shower. Aoife and Richie lived in the same house that we’d grown up in. They’d updated different things over the years, like the shitty shower tile and the cracked sink—but the mirror above the sink was still the wavy-edged one we’d had when I was a kid.
It was always a trip to look at myself in it, remembering when I was so short I could only see the top of my head. After my shower, I stared at my face, using a towel to dry my beard.
Glancing down, I checked my phone. No notifications. Nothing new from the hospital or Aisling.
I clenched my jaw and dropped the towel. My eyes caught on the tattoo on my breastbone. The Kelly family crest. Aisling had done it freehand. I wondered if anyone had thought to call her work.
Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling into the tattoo shop. They were still open for a few hours, and the receptionist and another tattoo artist that I was sure I’d met before were in front laughing about something.
“How can I help you?” the receptionist called out as I opened the glass front door.
“Hey, I’m looking for Aisling.”
“Her brother, right?” the tattoo artist asked, pointing at me. “We’ve met, I think.”
“Yeah, man, you look familiar.”
“Tate,” he said, pointing to himself. “Ash isn’t here. She’s off today.”
I nodded, letting the door swing closed behind me.
Something in my expression must’ve made them realize that it wasn’t a social call, because both of them grew serious and the receptionist stood up.
“We can’t find her,” I said, cutting right to the chase. “Night before last she called Richie, freaked, and asked him to come get her. No one’s heard from her since, and Richie’s in the hospital.”
“He okay?” Tate asked.
“Someone shot him.”
The receptionist made a noise and braced her hand on the table.
“Night before last?”
“Yeah.”
I looked at her. She was about Aisling’s age, with short bleached hair.
“She was going on a date that night, remember?” the blond asked, looking at Tate. “With that guy from last week. The anchor and daisies guy.”
“What guy?” I asked, watching her closely.
“A customer,” Tate answered. “Usually don’t do that kind of thing, but I did the work, Aisling didn’t.”
“What do you know about this guy?”
“Uh, not much,” he said slowly. “Short dark hair. Money. Said he had to keep tattoos covered at work, so nothing below the wrists or above the collar. Some kind of corporate job, I think.”
“One that paid a fuck of a lot,” the blond added. “He tipped like a hundred percent.”
“Pay with a credit card?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Man, we can’t—” Tate hedged, shaking his head.
“Aisling is missing and Richie’s probably not gonna make it,” I said flatly, cutting him off. “You say she went out with this guy. I’m sayin’ she ended up scared and callin’ our brother to come get her in the middle of the night. Our brother, who’s now dyin’ ’cause someone shot him. You really gonna pull that shit?”
“What’s goin’ on out here?” an older man asked as he walked out of a door behind the counter. He was a big guy, at least six-three, with a huge chest and arms and tattoos all the way up to his chin.
Tate quickly gave him a run-down of the situation.
“Give it to him,” the man said before Tate was even finished speaking. He looked at the blond. “You know where to look?”
“Yeah,” she replied quickly, sitting back down and immediately messing with her computer.
“I’m Dan,” the older guy said, coming over to shake my hand. “Own this place.”
“Thanks for cuttin’ through the bullshit,” I replied with a nod.
“Aisling’s one of ours,” he said easily. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Yeah, me too.” I looked over at the blond. She was still on the computer. Across the room a printer started making noise, and she hopped up and hurried toward it.
“You’ll let us know?” Dan asked as the blond carried over a sheet of paper.
“I will,” I confirmed, taking the paper. “Didn’t get this from you.”
Dan scoffed. “Someone asks, say whatever you want. I’ll deal with it.”
“Thanks, man.”
I didn’t look down at the paper until I’d reached my bike. The blond had printed out the man’s name—Julian Kitz—and a photo of the tattoo they’d put on his forearm. I smiled and pulled out my phone.
Brody answered on the second ring.
“Hey man, can you find someone for me?” I asked, watching the busy street.
“Depends on who you’re lookin’ for,” he replied. “You got a name?”
“Julian Kitz.”
“Age?”
“Twenties. I’ll send you the photo I have, too. It’s a recent tattoo, not sure if it’ll help.”