Page 2 of Deadly North
I take a break from my tattoo gun and peer up at him. Am I really getting relationship advice from a biker? “Thanks,” I say noncommittally, and change the subject. “Okay, we’re almost done here. Do you want the aftercare spiel?” I indicate his other ink. “Looks to me like you’ve done this before.”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” Mick waits patiently as I finish up the last lines of the tattoo. I give him a hand mirror and tell him to take a look.
Mick gazes at his new ink for a few seconds and then lets out a low whistle. “That’s some good work.” He nods soberly. “Just how I wanted it to turn out.”
I clean up the tattoo and take a picture of it for my portfolio, then apply protective ointment. Mick gives me a massive tip with his payment, then asks me for my card. “I’m gonna talk you up to my buddies. You should get some good business out of this.”
I give him my best smile. “I really appreciate it, Mick, thanks.”
He gives me a thumbs up, then turns and disappears into the crowd. I let out a happy sigh for a job well done, then crack my sore neck and stand. One of the bad occupational hazards of my job is the stiff neck and back muscles I’m always battling, from hunching over so much. Thankfully, I don’t have any other walk-ins waiting, so I go back inside the bus and take out my secret weapon against muscle aches: the Hitachi Magic Wand. I may be the only person alive who actually uses that thing for its intended purpose of massaging sore muscles instead of as a sex toy.
Ten minutes later, my muscle pain has eased up. I decide to take a little break. Flipping my sign to say I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, I lock up the bus and close up shop to wander around the rally for a bit. Biker rallies are always pretty good fun. I’ve been around them for years, even before I opened the Body Bus. My brother, Connor Mattson — road name Fury — is in the Minneapolis chapter of the Royal Bastards MC. He’s their Sergeant at Arms. I know from my sister-in-law, Kat, that a bunch of the Royal Bastards are here today at the rally, though in the crush of humanity I haven’t seen any of them yet.
The July day started out overcast and cooler than normal, but the sun has come out and with it, the heat and humidity. Most people think of Minnesota as the land of perpetual winter, but that’s not true. Yes, we definitely have a longer cold season than most other states (what I call “real” spring doesn’t start here until May), but the summers get just as hot as they do anywhere else, except for insane places like Arizona. As I wander around the rally, I start to sweat in my white cami, tight-fitting camo-patterned Bermuda shorts, and distressed cowboy boots. I wander toward the sound of live music, toward one of two stages where a well-known local hard rock band is playing. Weaving through the crowd, I stop as a group of bikers and biker chicks offers me a plastic cup of beer in passing. The beer is ice cold, and I drain half of it at once, sighing deeply. That hits the spot.
“Gigi!” a female voice calls over the sound of the crowd. I turn toward it.
Well, speak of the Devil. It’s Kat herself, in the flesh.
2
GIGI
“Hey!” I greet Kat as she pulls me in for a hug. “I didn’t know you were here, too!”
“I got Christy to babysit for Julia last-minute,” she says. Christy is Kat’s best friend. The two of them work together as nurses at one of the local hospitals. “This is perfect timing. I was just on my way to try to find your bus over by the vendors.”
Kat and Con’s little girl, Julia, is five months old. Even though I am famously not a kid person, I have to admit that she is clearly the cutest and most lovable baby ever. That little nugget is slowly but surely worming her way into my cold, black heart.
Physically, Kat and I are polar opposites: I’m short, tattooed, and edgy. She’s gorgeous, auburn-haired and statuesque. Some would say her face is marred by the scar that runs down her left cheek, the consequence of a bad situation she got into when she and Connor first got back together. But in my opinion, it only makes her more distinctive and beautiful.
Even though we’re so physically different, our personalities mesh surprisingly well. I’ve grown a lot closer to Kat since she and my brother got back together, after being broken up and out of touch for years. She puts up with my moody, spiky self, and I put up with the fact that she’s model gorgeous and basically perfect. I love that she’s my sister-in-law, because she’s truly becoming the sister I never had.
“I just got done with a tat and decided to take a little break,” I say, holding up the remains of my beer. “Want some?”
Kat shakes her head, so I down the rest of the contents of my cup, tossing it into a nearly-overflowing garbage bin.
“How’s business today?” she asks.
“Not too bad.” I give Kat an abbreviated account of the Mickey and Minnie tattoo. Kat’s a great audience, and she gets my humor, so I ham it up to the max, which sends her into peals of laughter.
“So, where’s C—?” I begin to ask. But before I can utter my brother’s name, Kat points across the distance.
“Oh, look,” she says. “There’s Connor and Mack.”
Shit. Shit shitshit. Of course my brother would show up with the absolutelastperson I want to see, here or anywhere. I should have known.
“Of all the shitty luck,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” Kat turns to me quizzically.
“Never mind.” I plaster a smile on my face that immediately turns into a grimace as my brother approaches withhim.
Lachlan “Mack” Maxwell.
A.k.a, King Asshole.
Mack has been my brother’s best friend since childhood. He’s the bane of my existence: six feet, two inches of Grade A-Certified Pain In The Ass. He’s got sandy brown hair worn in a cut that always looks like he should have gone to the barber two weeks ago. A scruff of facial hair that should look messy, but instead just looks like he’s climbed out of bed after a week of non-stop sex. He moves like a bobcat, with the ice-blue eyes like a predator. A smile like the Devil. I absolutelyhatehim.