CHAPTER 23
Zoe
I arrived at the Black Dog Tattoo Parlor early. If I’m being honest, I was hoping that Dylan would also be there preemptively, and maybe we’d have time to fool around a bit. Not that scoping out possible leads for criminal prosecution was my idea of a sexy time, but I was horny and ready to make do.
In retrospect, I wished I hadn’t been so eager. Because as I pulled up to the Black Dog, it occurred to me that I was alone on entirely the wrong side of the tracks. Mind you, Fallow Springs barely had a wrong side of the tracks, the town was pretty much like something out of Leave It to Beaver.
All this to say, when you came across the wrong side of the tracks, you damn well knew you were there. The public spaces were overgrown with weeds, various fast food containers littered the sidewalk, and no one was out past sundown.
The Black Dog itself was equally imposing. There were blackout blinds covering the front windows, preventing the casual viewer from getting so much as a peek inside. A pair of enormous, painted guns served as decoration on the crumbling storefront. They were matte black and outlined in shiny silver paint. If the message hadn’t been so terrifying, I might have almost been amused by the arts-and-crafts of it all.
So, I locked my doors, and turned on the radio, hoping to find some pop song to fill the silence. Instead, each channel was either static or playing some unnerving Christian hymns sung by children’s choirs. Logically, I think, the talented voices of God-fearing kids were supposed to comfort me, but to jangled ears, they sounded more like Children of the Corn.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. My black mini-skirt rode up past my pelvic bone and the air around my lacy black underwear chilled me. I shifted around, trying to find a position where my boobs weren’t spilling out of my black corset top, but failed. As instructed, I’d dressed to kill — or at least, dressed to fuck. I wasn’t sure why I needed to wear sexy shit, but if Dylan asked me to strap on a pair of badass heels, well… who was I to argue?
I remained there for the next ten minutes, at which point I saw what I now recognized as Dylan’s truck pull to a stop across the street. His lanky form clambered out of the vehicle, and I noted that in addition to using his personal vehicle, he’d also foregone his usual squad jacket. He wore that jacket everywhere, if it weren’t lined with wool, I imagine he’d consider wearing it during sex. I wondered if I might suggest that later.
The fact that he’d abandoned the jacket for the night made me question what, exactly, we were doing here, and just how aboveboard it was.
I was glad that I didn’t have more time to dwell on that unnerving question, because Dylan was walking up to me, his large, booted feet smacking the pavement with authority. He came near enough that I could see him suck in a deep breath at my outfit.
“So,” I began, “you always take your dates to such upscale joints?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Nah, you’re just special, is all.”
I flushed. Did he mean it? I surveyed his face for any hint of embarrassment, but no — he seemed to have made the comment in earnest. A part of me felt triumphant.
“Should I be scared?” I asked.
“You don’t ever have to be scared when you’re with me.” He took my hand in his and pulled me closer. “I’ll protect you.”
Swoon. I believed him, too.
“You look… no, ‘nice’ doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he said.
“Thanks.” I noticed that he was also dressed in all black. Was this some kind of coven? I added, “Did you tell me to wear this for a reason? Or just because you felt like it?”
“Bit of both. Wanted you to blend in.”
Blend in? I swept my eyes incredulously over the get-up. Hardly seemed like ‘blending in’ material.
Which begged the question, the one I asked next, “And what, precisely, are we doing here?”
He proceeded to explain the Black Dog’s place in the black-market scene and how they might have come across my stolen equipment. I listened attentively at first, but my mind soon drifted to pressing queries, like who knew Fallow Springs had a black-market scene? Of course, New York girls like myself assume that all small towns are innocent and sweet.
I was naïve. No, condescending. That was it. I’d presumed that the smaller the city, the smaller the secret desires. I made a mental note to stop taking the superficial quaintness on its face.
“So that’s why we’re here,” Dylan finished.
“One question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you doing all this? I can see that this is beyond the scope of normal police inquiry. You’re using your own vehicle,” I said, gesturing to it, “and aren’t wearing the jacket.”
“You’re right,” he allowed. “This isn’t exactly the average case.”
“Why do it then?”
“Because you’re most definitely not an average woman.”
He grinned, and I melted into a little puddle of Zoe. This strong, sexy man was going to go into whatever den of horrors lay beneath us just to avenge my honor and get back some stolen cooking supplies? And here I was, thinking they didn’t make guys like this anymore.
“Does this mean you have leads on any of the guys down there? Are they, uh, suspects?” I questioned with uncertainty. Police jargon wasn’t my bag.
A shadow crossed his face, one I couldn’t quite decipher. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
I nodded. Unsure of what else to say, I replied, “All right. So, are we doing this or what?”
He smirked at my false show of bravery, and the expression was hot enough to inject me with some real courage. Under his protection, I could totally manage this. Right?
“Okay, officer,” he said jokingly. “Follow me.”
He turned and walked to the entrance of the Black Dog. I followed his lead, and just as I was wondering how we would get in after hours when the shop appeared closed, Dylan knocked three times, and muttered something inaudible.
“What was that?” I asked in a hushed tone, moving nearer to him.
“The password.”
“You know the password?” I questioned incredulously.
He didn’t have time to answer, but what happened next resolved my question anyways.
The door creaked open, and in low light, I could decipher a man towering over even Dylan’s hulking form. Only half of his face was visible, but it was enough for me to see that he was covered, from temple downwards, in a litany of facial tattoos. I spotted a few numbers, a couple of pentagrams, and most worryingly, some inked teardrops near the corner of his eye.
I gulped and had a Dorothy ‘I’m not in Kansas anymore’ moment.
“Who is it?” the tattooed figure snarled.
“Dylan.” Pause. “And company.”
“Who’s the company?”
“My girl,” Dylan replied, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close. “Name’s Alabama.” His hand slipped over my shoulder and came to rest on the upper curve of my breast, which was tantalizingly visible due to the low-cut corset top.
Was I using a fake name now? I would’ve been tickled by the detective noir of it all if I wasn’t so scared for my life.
I caught up with the charade and stuck my hand out. In a voice sweet as honey, I said to the stranger, “Hey there, Alabama at your service. Though friends call me Bama, so you might as well cozy up with that nickname.” I winked heavily.
“Not bad,” the man said, scouring me. I suddenly had the urge to cover my body with anything, even a piece of cardboard. His gaze was disgusting. “I’m Bull. Come on in.”
He opened the door wide and gestured for us to follow him into the mouth of hell.