by Stacy Gail
“That’s what you get for bringing in awesome-looking food just for yourself,” came the unsympathetic reply. “Next time you’re at whatever bakery that little bit of heaven came from, pick up some for the rest of the gang, yeah? You’ll live longer.”
“This came from Mads, not some bakery. If they’d wanted some of this, they should’ve helped her out last night, but they didn’t. I did. That means I get the best homemade cookies ever made, and they don’t.”
Scout’s purple-tinged mouth made a shocked O. “Mads Daniels? She made you macaroons?”
“And snickerdoodles. And chocolate chip cookies. I can’t remember what else, but that doesn’t matter because they’re all mine.”
“Well, well, well. We have a Betty Crocker in our midst. Lucky you.” Still eyeing his cookie like she had half a mind to snatch it away, Scout tilted her head. “Payne told me she had car trouble last night. It was nice of you to give her a ride home. I wasn’t aware you two were friends.”
He wouldn’t call them friends exactly, but he didn’t see any reason to correct her. “Something that the all-seeing Scout didn’t know? I’m shocked.”
“My real name’s Theresa, pal. I’m called Scout because I scout out any and all kinds of trouble. That means I try my damnedest to stay on top of every little thing that goes on under this roof. If Mads Daniels is finally making friends around here, I’ll do frigging cartwheels. She’s a brilliant colorist, at least on par with Angel, and she’s only getting started in her career. We’d hate to lose her.”
“Lose her?” Sage’s eyes narrowed. “Why the hell would you lose her? She just got here.”
Scout lifted a shoulder. “She hasn’t made any noises about moving on, but let’s face it—Mads hasn’t even tried to settle in around here. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless she has to, never volunteers anything at meetings. And then there’s her booth.”
What the fuck. “What’s wrong with her booth?”
“It’s totally devoid of anything personal. Honest to God, it looks like she moved into it yesterday instead of this past summer.”
“So?”
“So, you’ve only been here a couple years, Sage, but I walk into your booth and I feel like I’m walking into your home away from home. You’ve put up all those cool retro Route 66 signs, and you’ve got that picture of you and your Jeep club peeps outside of Lou Mitchell’s Diner here in Chicago. The first day you were here, you chucked out the chair the House provided for you and brought in that custom work of art you made that looks like it’s a fucking Transformer, with all those chrome pipes holding up a Corvette driver’s seat. The day after that, you had Twist helping you lug in that steel sculpture of hands pushing through metal. Sure, you bitch about Chicago being cold because you’re a desert rat, but you’ve settled in and sunk deep roots. But Mads?” She shook her head, her pert ponytail swinging. “She hasn’t done a damn thing with her space to claim it as her own.”
His frown deepened. “So she’s not the homey type. That’s not a crime.”
“Sage, take it from a foster kid who got bounced around a dozen different homes before she was eighteen—it’s obvious to my eyes that Mads is refusing to put down roots. There’s something in her that’s flat-out rejecting the possibility that the House could be her home, so she’s playing it like she’s already got one foot out the door. Or at least she was,” she added, nodding to the last bite of cookie in his hand. “Gotta say, I’m pretty hyped to see this one little baby step toward making friends with you. I mean, it’s not much, but it’s more than anything she’s shown so far.”
Sage scowled as he finished off the macaroon, no longer savoring the light-as-air sweetness. Thanks to Scout, his appetite was shot. “Is she doing the Give and Grab charity art auction?”
“She hasn’t signed up for it yet, which isn’t a surprise, sad to say. That would mean getting involved. Oh, and that reminds me,” she added with a snap of her manicured fingers before delving into her folders to pull out a red flyer. “This is the final entry sheet you all need to fill out before we start selling tickets, lining up pressers and getting those all-important Certificates of Authenticity filled out. So far I’ve got you down for two pieces of original paintings going up for auction. Do you think you’re going to have any other pieces to offer, or should I close you out at those two?”
“I’ve actually got one of my metal sculptures that’s just about perfect, so go ahead and put me down for the two paintings and a sculpture.”
“Put it down yourself and get that paper back to me by the end of business tomorrow. And thank you, Sage,” she added, digging out more flyers with the clear intent of delivering them in the breakroom. “Seriously, I mean it. The proceeds for this auction go toward several charities supporting the homeless in our community, and we’re able to do it because most of our artists are giving, beautiful people. So thank you for your generosity.”
Most of our artists.
But not Mads.
Shit.
“Mads was going to leave some cookies in the breakroom for everyone, but I decided I wanted them all as payment,” he said before Scout could step away. “This isn’t a confession, or any bullshit like that. I’m just saying she’s not as closed off as you think.”
Scout froze. “Wait. Are you saying you took those cookies? Even the macaroons?”
“Fight me.” He spread his arms wide. “What’s more, Mads Daniels is going to participate in the auction. You said the final entries are due tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah, cookie thief. That’s what I said.”
Cookie thief. Cute. “Expect Mads to have at least one entry down.”
Scout’s scowl diminished a fraction. “You think you can make that happen?”
Damn straight he was going to make it happen. “What time’s her dinner break?”
Scout looked down at the tablet cradled on top of the files she held and tapped it a few times. “Her four-hour session ended about five minutes ago. She should be out any time now.”
He turned on his heel and headed for the frosted glass booths embossed with the House Of Payne logo. “Put another auction entry in my booth, yeah? I’ll give this one to Mads and make her fill it out.”
“Make her? Sage, you can’t—”
“Don’t know the meaning of the word,” he said without looking back. In a handful of moments he was at the one and only door that still had a light on overhead—a signal that the booth was occupied. Usually that meant no one dared to enter, but time was up.
For both her client, and for Mads.
Without hesitation, he knocked on the thick frosted glass door and opened it without waiting for permission. “Meeting,” he announced, uncaring that some preppy dude with way too much hair product was on her table with his pants off, a towel draped across his lap while Mads bent over the half-finished tiger tattoo taking up the entirety of the man’s right thigh. “Not to mention your four-hour sesh ended a while ago. Now you’re just working for free.”
“Time’s up?” Blankly Mads raised pale silver-grey eyes his way. Eyes like that could knock a man right on his ass, but they were still nothing compared to the rest of her. From the first moment he’d glimpsed her, he’d thought she was more like a graceful willow than an actual human—all slender, long limbs and a fluid way of moving. There was something downright mesmerizing by her swanlike neck and sharply angled jaw, cleanly exposed by boyishly short, mink-glossy hair. Her sideswept bangs had been frosted blonde when she’d first arrived at the House, but now she’d gone back to that deep, velvety brown that begged his hands to see if her hair really was as silken as it looked. “How about that. I guess I lost track of time.”
“That’s why I’m here.” He crossed his arms and scowled. Any time the dude wanted to reach for his pants, for fuck’s sake. “Get the lead out, Skittish. We don’t have all night.”
He thought he heard her growl at the name before she set aside her tattooing machine and grabbed up a bottle of antiseptic gel, al
ong with a box of large gauze pads. “We’re done for now, Raffa, so be sure to book a session for some time next month after you’ve healed, and I’ll complete the coloring then,” she told the man on her table, then shot Sage an aggravated glance. “Let me just dress this tat up, give the client an aftercare kit, and then I’ll be right with you.”
“You’ve got five minutes.” With that, he stayed planted in the doorway, arms still crossed. Maybe it was weird, and in all honesty he would’ve cussed out anyone who’d busted in on his tat sesh the way he had with Mads. But this was different. Not even an act of God could move him now.
At least not until Raffa had his damn pants on.
“I know I went over time,” Mads griped at him ten minutes later, after her client was gone and her booth had been properly cleaned. “But in my defense, I didn’t know there was going to be a meeting. I didn’t hear anything about it.”
“Yeah, well, something came up, so now we’ve got to have a meeting to discuss it.” Especially now that he’d gotten a good look at her booth. Scout was right. There wasn’t a single personal item in her workspace, not even a stupid Chia Pet or a family photo. If she walked out of there today, she’d literally leave nothing behind to prove she’d ever been there. “Let’s grab our coats.”
“Wait, what? Coats?” Baffled, she followed him down the stairs to the main level and shrugged into her black insulated ski jacket. “Why do we need coats? Where’s the meeting being held?”
“Across the street. Do you want to drive or walk?”
Those light eyes, framed by smoky black lashes and an artistic makeup touch, skewered him with a look fueled by suspicion. “Where across the street?”
“We’re getting ramen, and we’re talking business.”
“But is there actually a business meeting?”
“Most definitely there’s a meeting. A meeting between us.” When she didn’t immediately hop to it, he grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the door. “We’re getting business done, and we’re going to eat while doing it. If you’ve got a problem with that, you can go ahead and tell someone who cares.”
With that, he tugged her out into the freezing, dark night.
*
Mads wasn’t sure if she was more pissed off or confused when she found herself seated in a booth across from Sage at Noodleheads. A red neon sign glowed in the snow-dusted window next to her, and a bowl of steaming tonkotsu ramen sat in front of her. She could smell the savory pork in the chashu and broth, and the sight of the black mushrooms, green onions, ramen noodles and soft-boiled egg made her mouth water. But there was no way she was going to get any of it from the bowl and into her mouth.
Not without making a huge mess, anyway.
“My hand’s numb from tattooing for four hours straight,” she announced, seizing on the excuse. “They let people use spoons and forks around here, right?”
For an answer, he reached over for her chopsticks, broke them apart and handed them to her. “Just put the bowl to your mouth and start shoveling it in. Didn’t you ever watch Naruto as a kid?”
“Sailor Moon was more my thing. When I was sixteen I got the upturned Sailor Moon crescent tattooed around the lower curve of my belly button. At the time I was told the grown-up me would regret having a cartoon crescent moon forever tattooed on my skin. Here I am, reporting back now from Adultlandia—I regret nothing. About that, anyway.” She gave the sticks a dubious look. “I definitely regret not learning how to use chopsticks before this moment in time. At the very least I should be given a rain poncho to protect my clothing for what’s about to happen.”
“Here. Hold the lower stick like this.” Dropping his own sticks, Sage reached over and helped her cradle one of the chopsticks in the curve of her thumb, then steadied it by her last two fingers.
“Um.” The brush of his hand against hers made her skin tingle in such a distracting way she half-believed he was somehow leaving his mark on her. “What do I do with one stick? Stab things?”
“That stick pretty much stays there, so don’t mess with it. Now, take the other stick and hold it kind of like a pencil, like this.”
She tried not to bite her lip when he toyed with her fingers, setting them exactly the way he wanted them. He had such beautiful hands. Big and strong, and they looked so very good against her skin… “Okay.”
“Now, make sure the ends of the sticks meet up so that they can grip the food. Got it?”
“I think so.” Forcing herself to not think about how she could still feel his hand on hers, she clicked the chopsticks together and was amazed when they didn’t fly across the room. Emboldened, she went to pluck a mushroom out to swirl it in the yellow heart of the egg that topped her ramen. Instead, she flipped the mushroom completely out of her bowl, only to watch in horror as it landed on the table between them.
Great.
“At this rate, it’s going to take the entire dinner break just to get a couple bites,” she muttered while heat crawled up her neck. “Why don’t you just get this meeting started so we can get out of here.”
“An empty stomach means shaky hands, and that’s the one thing a tattooist can never have.” Picking a mushroom out of his own bowl, he held it up to her mouth. “Eat. Then we’ll talk.”
Surprise locked her brain into dumbfounded silence before she found herself taking the morsel into her mouth. Only when her lips closed over his chopsticks and the blatant intimacy of putting her mouth where his belonged snapped her out of it.
What in the world was she doing, allowing a virtual stranger to feed her? And how weird that she hadn’t even given it a thought. She was just letting him feed her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It wasn’t, of course. But…
Somehow it felt right.
Like this closeness was meant to be.
Though she knew all too well there was no such thing as meant to be.
That was just a fairy tale.
But still.
She couldn’t stop herself from savoring the moment just as much as she savored the food.
“Thanks, but, um… I’ve got this.” Not sure what was wrong with her brain, she repositioned her chopsticks and dived back in. “I’m not going to give up until I’ve either mastered this, or I’m wearing all my food.”
“Gotta love that go-getter attitude.” With a half-smile, he turned his attention back to his own meal. “Which is why I don’t get why you haven’t signed up for the charity art auction House Of Payne’s holding. Got a thing against helping the homeless?”
“What?” Startled, she looked up from her determined quest to nab a bit of pork. “No, of course I don’t have a problem with helping the homeless. What kind of question is that?”
“A valid one, since you haven’t submitted anything to be put up for bid. What’s the holdup?”
“I’m not big on creating fine art, like paintings, or whatever. Digital stuff is more my jam.”
“I’m sure something can be worked out.”
“And I’m not well-known and I don’t have a following like you and the other artists at the House,” she muttered, grimacing. That wasn’t the only reason she hadn’t joined in the charity event, but it was definitely a factor. “If I’m still around House Of Payne next Christmas, I might offer something to auction off then, but no promises. Like I said, most of my designs are done digitally. It’s rare for me to put anything on canvas.”
“Wait, why the hell wouldn’t you be around? You think there’s some other studio out there that’s even better than the House?”
Damn it. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Bullshit.” He scowled, clearly unimpressed with her answer. “I don’t know where this fucked-up insecurity comes from, but you’ve got to get your damn eyes open and realize you belong at the House just as much as anyone.”
“What the hell, Sage. I’m not insecure.”
“Skittish, you’re fucking crippled by it. But you’re in luck, because I’m not going to stand f
or that sorry state of affairs. I’m going to push you to see you’re exactly where you belong, and I’m going to start with this art auction. It’s in a little over three weeks, which means you’ve got plenty of time to throw together at least a charcoal sketch or two.”
“Sage—”
“You’re going to put your shit out there in public, Daniels. Once you do, you’re going to see just how good you are. But first you’ve got to take the step to make that shit happen.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he fished out a folded piece of red paper and tossed it onto the table. “Fill that out and get it to Scout by this time tomorrow.”
She frowned at the paper, not touching it. “What is that?”
“It’s your entry for the auction, where you state who you are and what you’re willing to donate. Basically, it’s a legal release form for your creative and intellectual property being signed over to the House, so that they can use it for the auction.”
“A release form?” That sharpened her attention, and she plucked up the paper. When she’d first signed with House Of Payne, she’d spent days going over the contract, looking for that smoking-gun clause that would somehow trick her out of her own intellectual property. She’d even hired a lawyer to look at it, but it had simply been a standard contract that all tattoo studios used—any art created by her during business hours and on-property belonged to House Of Payne, with compensation given to the artist, along with the promise of recognition given to the artist as being the one who created the art.
But this release form was new.
Maybe this was what her father had run into in the past.
“I’ll do it,” she said, stuffing the paper into her pocket. More than anything she hoped she wouldn’t find anything amiss, but she wouldn’t know for sure unless she entered into these uncharted waters. “What kind of works are usually donated for this auction thing? I’m assuming it’s something more than stick figures, or work you’ve already done.”
