“If I didn’t make myself clear before…”
I jump, pivoting on my heel, but his bulk is already there to block me in. His fingers encircle my wrist again, holding tight—but not the way I’m used to. Not hard enough to hurt. Just burn, branding the sensation of his fingertips into the flesh.
“That wasn’t an invitation.” He tugs, forcing me around the next corner and down the street. Only when we’re halfway to the next intersection, do I remember how to make my legs move. I dig my heels in, yanking at his grip.
He sighs, then releases me, only to slip his arm around my shoulders, muscling closer the more I cringe from his reach.
“Get off—”
“You need to learn how things are done around here, bunny,” he says, his tone level, posture confident even as people turn to stare. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about helping out Zhang?”
He slows his pace, waiting for his threat to register. When it does, I stiffen, though I don’t know why I’m so surprised. “So, you are a liar, after all.”
He shrugs. “Nah. I’m playing it straight, bunny. There are aspects of the business you need to learn. It’s just how things are done around here.”
He withdraws from me, but only because he expects me to follow of my own accord this time. There’s a twisted grace in the way he moves, commanding attention. Yet anyone approaching gives him a wide berth while avoiding eye contact.
Watching him approach the next crosswalk, I feel my jaw clench in annoyance. He’s halfway across the road when something makes me follow. Maybe guilt?
I dragged Mr. Zhang into this mess. I can’t leave him now.
But I reach into my pocket and palm my cell phone, keeping it close just in case. I don’t come any closer to Rafe either, keeping at least twenty feet of distance between us. He doesn’t look back, though, as if he’s that damn sure I’ll follow.
When he finally slows, I scan our surroundings and see a slightly busier street near the heart of downtown. A music shop dwells in the building across the street next to a sandwich place. As for the building he’s entering now?
A scarlet fire-breathing dragon spans the length of a black awning, guarding a modest storefront. INKED reads the shop’s name in a simple utilitarian script. When I come close enough to peek beyond the door as he opens it, I make out a shadowed, though clean interior.
“In,” he grunts, inclining his head. He enters without waiting for me, though, letting the glass door slam behind him.
I deliberately take my time, lingering just beyond the storefront. Rather than books displayed in the window, an array of photos line a black velvet backdrop. As much as it stings to admit, they’re impressive. Eye-catching images inked onto random body parts make up most of the display, spanning various topics. Symbols. Faces. Intricate designs.
I observe each creation and find myself musing on the artist’s intentions behind each one. As I stare, the storefront ignites. He’s turned a light on inside, allowing me to view more of the interior from here.
Many of his design choices are unsurprising. Black walls. Polished floors of hardwood. More drawings hanging behind glass frames. They draw me inside in the end—not him.
He leans against a wooden counter, his gaze tracking my every movement, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of claiming my attention. It’s my turn to play the role of a silent intruder. Clutching my bag to my chest, I eye the closest row of drawings, etched in ink. The subject matter spans almost everything imaginable under the sun from soaring dragons to dancing flames, roses, and Chinese characters.
Moving from frame to frame, I’m aware of my lips parting. It’s becoming harder to school my expression. Shock slips in before I can help it, widening my eyes. I catch sight of my reflection in a sheet of glass and sigh in defeat. There is no disguising that I’m impressed.
I could write the artwork off as cheap, lazy, typical designs, but they aren’t—and that’s the worst part. They’re intricate, each one reflecting some unique quality deserving of notice. Emotion? That elusive feeling he’s taunted me about. He expresses some form of the concept on every page from the watchful gaze of a vengeful dragon to the guarded stare of a wary tiger. Pretending he didn’t draw every one would be easy, but the style is distinct and loud like him, I grudgingly admit. Each stroke of ink and