weekly counseling sessions, but I wasn’t going to argue with my mother. “We had a good time,” I told her.
Nodding, my mother scooped mashed potatoes onto her plate, her gaze sliding down the hall momentarily, then returning to me.
Alan’s chair was noticeably empty, and I briefly wondered if there was trouble in paradise.
“How’s work?” I asked her when she forced a smile.
“Oh, you know.” My mother waved the question off.
I put my fork down, watching her closely. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” she said instantly, a forced smile tilting her overly glossed mouth.
The last time my mother had said that, I’d ended up paying her rent for three months.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Presley
The weather had taken a nice turn, warming up considerably, so I’d opted to take my bike to work. After parking my 1999 Harley-Davidson XLH Sportster 883 Custom motorcycle—the one my father and I had restored together before he died—in my spot behind Different by Design, I made my way inside the building.
It was after seven, which, for a Thursday, wasn’t very busy. There were only three people downstairs, including Gil and the two women currently flirting it up with him.
“Hey!” Gil called out, not looking up from the arm he was presently tattooing.
“Hey.”
I offered the two women sitting with him a half-ass attempt at a smile as I went for the appointment book on the front counter to see who would be coming in later.
“You got an appointment tonight?” Gil asked.
“Yeah.” That was the only reason I was there. One of my regulars had come up with a design that he wanted me to do, something that had required me to pretty much trace the image, rather than add my own touch to it, so I’d conceded to his pleading.
I’d spent a few hours that morning drawing, but that had fizzled out shortly after I finished reading Jake’s book, refusing to pick up another in order to force him from my mind. And since I only seemed to be inspired when I saw him, I was beginning to fear that my muse was directly related to him.
And that pissed me off.
Not at him, of course. I had no reason to be mad at him, but I knew I couldn’t depend on someone like that. It irked the shit out of me that despite my best effort, I’d gotten my hopes up, too.
Moving over to my station, I started getting things set up for my appointment. I already had the design on the transfer paper, and I knew the colors I would be using, so it didn’t take long. Once I was ready, I went upstairs to check on Shawn.
“Hey, Presley.” Shawn made his way over and threw his arms around me as he always did.
“What’s up?” I hugged him, then took a step back and studied his face, trying to decipher whether or not he had anything new pierced. The guy was already sporting three nose piercings, plus one in his septum, several in his lips—two above, two below—as well as his tongue, his eyebrows, and various other body parts I had no interest in seeing.
As far as I could tell, the only thing he’d done was increase the size of the plugs in his ears, but that wasn’t unusual.
“Not much. You?”
Dropping down into one of the rolling chairs, I leaned back and looked around. “Still stuck,” I told him.
I’d shared my frustrations with Shawn about not being able to draw in an attempt to get his opinion. Although he was more into piercing than anything, I knew Shawn had drawn most of the tattoos on his body himself. He was good, and there was no doubt he could feel my pain.
Not that it had helped, but I liked Shawn. We were close, having worked together for two years. I’d even tattooed him once.
“What’ve you drawn lately?” he asked, hopping up onto the counter and staring down at me.
“Nothin’ much.” It wasn’t a total lie. Other than the fictional woman from Jake’s book, I hadn’t done much. I’d started to sketch a man, but when I’d realized it was Jake I was drawing, and not the character in the book, I’d abruptly given that one up.
“Don’t sweat it, kiddo.”
I loved that he called me that, considering I was two years older than he was.
“I’m trying not to,” I assured him, sighing heavily. “How’s Angela?”
Shawn smiled, all the piercings in his face pulling with the movement. “She’s good.”
“And Frankie?”
“Perfect.” Shawn nodded toward a picture frame sitting on the counter behind me.