Joker (Hell's Ankhor #8) - Aiden Bates Page 0,23

help you?”

“I’m not a fuckin’ customer,” I said automatically, and then cringed when Heath grimaced and looked away.

“Come on, Joker,” Nix said with an eyeroll as he toweled the grease off his hands. “It’s a little early to act like such an asshole.” He checked to ensure his hands were clean before he adjusted his round glasses, and then pinned me with a look.

I sneered but caught myself before I said something else snippy. Nix was right about one thing—I wasn’t here to be an asshole. If anything, I needed them to be on my side.

“Sorry,” I muttered, which made Heath look visibly shocked. “I came by to see Jonah.”

“He’s busy,” Nix said. “We’ve got a lot of new custom orders coming in, so he’s working on some designs.”

Jonah leaned back in his chair, visible with the door open to his office. “It’s all right,” he said, then stood up and joined us in the front room. “I can take a break. Come on back, Joker.”

Nix still didn’t look too sure about the arrangement, but he stepped aside so I could follow Jonah back into his office. Jonah closed the door behind us. He had a small, but welcoming, office with a big desk with a computer and space to sketch, and a comfy chair for him, and a cheaper one for clients. In the corner, Grace was in a bouncy chair, chewing seriously on a plastic ring of keys.

“Sorry about Nix,” Jonah said. “I told him I wasn’t taking clients today, but I’ll tell him to be a little nicer about it.” He shot me a smirk. “If you promise to be nicer, too. The two of you are setting a bad example for Gracie.”

Jonah dropped into his chair comfortably and then gestured at the chair across the desk. Suddenly this all felt very—formal. It wasn’t too late. I could make up an excuse and get out of here and forget I’d ever even considered this.

But, I thought with a twinge of guilt, I’d promised the kids. What would I tell them if I bailed now? I couldn’t lie to them.

So I had to just grit my teeth and go through with it. I dropped into the chair across from him and scrubbed my hand over my head. “Came to ask a favor, I guess.”

“Sure,” Jonah said easily. “What’s up?”

“The sign for the entrance to the clubhouse,” I said. “I’m working on carving it—”

“Awesome!” Jonah cut in. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“—but I need help with the design.”

Jonah’s friendly smile only grew. “You want me to help?”

“I mean, I can do it, but if you have time—”

“Yeah!” Jonah said brightly. “I’d love to. What are you thinking?”

“Right now?” I asked with a spike of nerves.

“Sure,” Jonah said. “I’ve got some time before my next client meeting.”

He flipped to a clean page on his sketchbook and drew a quick, perfect rectangle, then looked at me with his head tilted curiously.

“Well,” I said. “It’s gotta have the club’s name, obviously.”

With an agreeable nod, Jonah dropped his pencil to the paper. We worked through the details of the design quickly—and it was easy, comfortable, to peer at Jonah’s work and offer my thoughts and ideas. His professionalism shone through quickly: he was great at understanding what I meant, even when I wasn’t exactly sure what I was trying to describe.

Soon enough, we had a design we were both happy with: the club logo prominently carved in the center, with HELL’S ANKHOR CREW – EST 1984 carved in an arc around it.

“How’s that look?” Jonah asked.

“Great,” I said. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to pull it off.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jonah said. “Grace loves the toys you’ve made her. This should be a piece of cake compared to those.”

“If you say so,” I muttered, still not believing that was true.

“All right,” Jonah said. “So if we want the letters to be visible from the road when people drive by, it’s probably best if they’re at least eighteen inches high.” He looked up and to the left thoughtfully, then scratched a few notes on the paper. “So that means it should be at least wide enough for ten eighteen-by-six letters, which is sixty, so five feet, plus some wiggle room for the kerning, so let’s just say seventy-two. Ideally the design will be about three times the height of the lettering, for the balance, so—”

He might as well have been speaking a foreign language. Frustration and shame swirled in me again, building into a