Dakota sat curled up into Bo for longer than necessary. Something about him felt so safe and sure, like he was the go-to spot for anything remotely concerning or difficult. Maybe she could curl up against him all the time. But the way he’d come onto her so hard after the appointment told her all that she needed to know: this guy was a player, and he was used to getting his way.
He would not be getting his way with her.
She pushed off of him, crawling toward the hallway. “Red, can you hear me?”
“I’m good, baby.” Red’s voice came out a harsh whisper from the front office. “You guys okay in there?”
Before Dakota could respond, the men out front shouted another warning. The front door burst open, and gruff shouts floated from the waiting room down the hallway. The lights came back on and across the hallway in the front office, Red army crawled on the floor back toward the hallway. Dakota winced, motioning her to hurry.
Bo sat up, his belly crinkling as he reached behind him, fishing something out of his pants. He produced a sleek black handgun and cocked it, his dark eyes sweeping over her.
“Stay in here,” he said, his voice low. He pushed to standing and headed toward the hallway, keeping low. “Get Red back here and just wait until I come back.”
She nodded in response, mouth too dry to speak, and watched as he snuck down the hallway, crouched over like someone in stealth mode in a video game. Red got up on her feet to rush across the hallway into Dakota’s booth, then pressed herself against the wall, chest heaving.
“There’s a bunch of guys out front,“ she said in a hurried whisper. “Some of them are part of Bo’s club, the ones who came with him. But there’s about four more thatt just burst in, and they’ve all got guns.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dakota said, pressing a hand to her forehead. “What the fuck are they doing here? Why is this even happening?”
Indecipherable shouts rang out; punches landed, mixes with intermittent gun shots. Please, Bo. Be safe. Make us all safe again. “I can’t say, baby. But I’ve gotta warn those girls in my booth. I’m gonna hurry over there and make sure they’re hiding.” Red squeezed her hand, her green eyes darting over her face. “I’ll be right back.”
“Red, no. Just stay here. You might get hurt!”
Red shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips and then slipped out of the room, headed toward her own. Dakota pressed herself against the wall, chest heaving as she listened to the sounds in the waiting room. More shouts, knuckles on flesh, muffled grunts. Another gunshot made her wince and pinch her eyes shut. Bo’s words echoed through her head—welcome to L.A. If this was L.A. then maybe she should have never come. She’d always heard the worst of the worst horror stories whenever she told her family back home she wanted to move here. Frightening tales bordering on fantasy about gang violence and more. Stuff she brushed off—how could that happen to me?
Dakota peered around the corner of her booth, struggling to get a grip on what was happening. She should be prepared, in case something happened. She definitely didn’t have a gun on her like Bo did—obviously he found himself in skirmishes like these with frequency. Did Bo bring the violence? Her mind spun as she searched the booth for something heavy or useful. Her gaze landed on an emergency fire extinguisher in the corner and she crawled toward it, yanking it out of place.
This will have to do. She scooted back to the corner, hiding out of sight if anyone were to walk down the hall and look in her booth. Fuck, this was scary. What did those guys even want? All she had to go on was lizard brain and a perfunctory knowledge of first-person shooter games. She had the weapon in her figurative tool belt—the extinguisher—and at least 90% energy. Maybe she could scoop up a fallen weapon along the way for extra points. But really, in this first-person shooter game, she’d escape the first chance she got instead of racking up points by entering the fray.
Heavy breathing arrived when Red darted into the room. She pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide. “The girls are fine, they’re hiding in the cabinet.”
“Thank God.”
Red opened her mouth to speak but she screamed instead when a bullet zinged past her head. She dove into the room and a man appeared in the doorway, face shrouded with a black plastic mask, wild eyes visible through the holes.
“Don’t try to escape.” His vice came out a muffled growl and he raised a gun, aiming at Red. Dakota blanked out and swung the fire extinguisher with all her might, knocking the guy in the knee caps. He groaned and fell to the ground, and while he was distracted she swung the extinguisher into his body, as hard as she could, wherever she could. She got him in the ribs, the stomach, the groin, and the face. Red reached for his fallen gun while Dakota walloped him; after a moment she sat back, heaving wildly, surveying the damage.
He lay motionless and bleeding on the ground, fingers twitching. She watched with horror, covering a mouth with her hand. “Holy fuck, Red.”
Red heaved, pressed up against the wall, eyes darting between the attacker’s body and her. “You saved my life, baby.”
The click of a gun forced her to look up. She stared at the barrel of a gun, another masked man holding it. Something about the way the mask sat on his face told her he was sneering beneath the neutral plastic. Her mouth went dry.
“You’re gonna pay for doing that to one of my brothers.” His voice came out raspy and dark. Panic slid through Dakota’s body and she was rooted to her spot, unable to even look away from the barrel of the gun.
Here it is. The ending to your move to L.A.
A gun fired and she squeezed her eyes shut, wincing as she waited for something: pain, a slithering trail of blood from her forehead, a gasp of shock, anything. When she opened her eyes a moment later, Bo stood in front of her, his lips contorted into a sneer as he eyed the dead man in front of her.
“Jesus, Bo.” Red’s chest heaved as she surveyed the scene. Dakota’s gaze bounced from the limp man in front of her to Bo, back and forth, unable to wrap her mind around it. He almost killed me…and now he’s dead. She scampered back as a trickle of blood meandered from the side of his head over the floor, almost reaching her knee. She swallowed a sick, dry taste.
“They’re gone,” Bo said, stashing his gun in the waistband of his pants. His eyes met Dakota’s, cloudy and heavy. “It’s taken care of.”
His words sunk into her. “What the fuck just happened?”
Red pushed herself to standing, reaching out for Bo’s arm when she almost fell. “We gotta get this cleaned up.”
Dakota scoffed, eyes wide. “You mean we gotta call the police!”
Red’s eyes narrowed and Bo stiffened. Both looked at her like she’d suggested they eat the limbs of the man in front of her.
“We can’t do that,” Red said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She stepped over the guy’s body on her way into the hallway, heading back toward her own booth. The low undertones of her voice carried through the hallway, no doubt as she alerted her clients the danger had passed.
“How could you not call the police after something like that?” She blinked up at Bo, but he remained unswayed.
“We don’t call the police when stuff like this happens.” His gaze flicked down to the corpse between them. “We take care of it ourselves. That’s just how it works.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
Bo’s heavy silence only frustrated her. She sighed, pulling herself up with the tattoo chair. “Whatever. This is fucking bizarre.” She stepped over the body and headed for the front office, so she could get some space, and stop looking at the back of that dead guy’s head. Fuck—he might have almost killed her, but what if he had family? Some kid might be wondering where his dad was, and he’d never know because Bo said they couldn’t call the police. That was some fucked up stuff.
She reached for the phone at the front desk, gnawing on her lip as she considered calling 9-1-1. But what would she say?
“Dakota.” Red’s voice pierced through her indecision. She leaned in the doorway, Bo standing behind he with his arms crossed.
“What?” She retracted her arm.
“We can’t call the police.” Red came closer, gesturing to the phone. “This will be taken care of. We just can’t get the MC in trouble.”
Dakota furrowed a brow. “What MC?”
“Burning Angels.” She jerked her head back to Bo, who stood expressionless in the doorway. “They’ll take care of it. But for now, we just gotta lay low. Play it cool.”
“That’s why all this happened then.” She said it like a fact, but meant it more like a question. Like maybe someone would step in to tell her that the incredibly sexy client she’d just touched up wasn’t really a fucking criminal evading the law. Looking at Bo, she said, “Your club caused all this.”
He scoffed, sneering. “I don’t need to hear this shit. I just saved your life. You should be thanking me.”
“My life wouldn’t have been in danger if I hadn’t been working on you,” she countered, her voice cracking. The adrenaline rush of what she’d dodged flooded her, made her vision grow spotty. You almost died. And maybe Bo had saved her, but he sure hadn’t helped things by being a fucking criminal.
“Dakota, just be cool, baby,” Red said, her voice soft. “I know this was scary, but listen, things are gonna calm down.”
Dakota swallowed hard, heading back toward her booth. If this was how Ink Works operated—on the fringe of safety just because some of their clients were gang bangers—then she needed to be somewhere else. Someplace where her life wasn’t in danger just from doing a touch up. She pushed through the doorway, bumping shoulders against both Bo and Red. They let her pass and she rummaged in her booth, gathering her tattoo gun and some other important items.
“Don’t do this,” Red said, leaning in the doorway. Dakota ripped a couple pieces of art off the wall, arranging them into a pile. All the things she’d brought with her would leave with her—come hell or high water. Because this wasn’t the type of place she wanted to be involved with, amazing mentorship or not.
“Red, I can’t work here if this is what it’s like.” She shook her head, shoving her things into her backpack. “You won’t call the cops, because you want to protect his club. That’s weird, right?” She hefted with a laugh, grabbing her cell phone charger, stuffing it into her bag. “I mean, that’s fucked up. I almost killed a guy today, and why?”
Her question hung heavy in the air. Bo’s steely gaze never wavered from her, no matter how many times she attempted to shake it off or ignore it.
“It’s not like this, though,” Red insisted, coming to her side as she packed the last of her things in her backpack. “I swear it’s not. These flare-ups are rare, maybe only once a year. And it’s—”
“Once a year? It only takes one bullet to die, Red.” Dakota slung the backpack over her shoulder, looking her friend up and down. They’d had a good run together for three weeks. And maybe she’d miss Red—a lot. But her safety, her integrity, was more important. “I can’t work here anymore. I have to go.”
“Oh, come on, Dakota! Don’t do this! We need you here.”
Bo stepped out of the doorway when she approached, his jaw set. She met his gaze for a moment then yanked it to the ground, stepping around the fallen man’s body, fighting a wave of nausea.
No job was worth with type of risk. Not even the job of her dreams.