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shit out of this.
“You know this place is going to be yours, sooner than later.
Things just aren't what they used to be,” he says holding up
his crooked hands. I sigh just looking at them. He was a great artist
once but arthritis has taken its toll on him, leaving his hands
malformed. He can barely even close his fingers around the gun these
days and it kills me to see it.
    “What are you scared or something? You scared to come out of my
shadow, son?”
    “I'm not scared of anything,” I mumble.
    “Well if you're scared of a teenage girl or some two-bit
comedian then how do I know you aren't too scared to take over this
place when I'm gone?”
    I keep my eyes downcast as I mindlessly continue to sweep. I hate it
when he mentions that. “You aren't going anywhere, Pops.”
    “That's just not the truth. We all live and we all die, some of
us sooner than later,” he says, and a heavy silence falls
between us. “So do we have a deal or not?”
    Do I have a choice?
    I throw my head back and answer, “We have a deal.”
    His withered lips form a wicked grin. “Good,” he says
before hoisting himself up out of the chair. “Clean up, lock
up, don't forget the alarm,” he adds. “The last thing
you'd want is for anyone to break into your future business.”
    “You know I will.”
    “Oh and son?” he calls back to me on his way out.
    I look up. “Yeah?”
    He twists his mouth, giving me a long hard look. “Your work
tonight was a-OK.”
    I suppress my own urge to grin. I might be hard on myself, but dad
has always been my toughest critic.

CHAPTER 3

    LEAH

    After circling the block at least seven times I finally spot it.
Tatter'd Ink is a tiny hole in the wall in one of the seediest areas
of North Vegas. The neon sign stands out because it's the only one on the block that seems to be fully functioning. The facade seems
decent, but the tinted windows make me nervous. Who knows what the
hell is going on inside of there—it could be a drug den for all
my luck. They could be slicing people up and hanging them from meat
hooks from the ceiling! Or, my imagination might be overactive and
looking for excuses not to go in. It's getting dark and I'm afraid to
leave my car alone for even a few minutes in this part of town. I
wonder if Dad knew exactly what type of place this was before sending
me here alone.
    I can't exactly call him and complain. I mean, I could, he did
say I can call him any time and I know he meant it, but I would still
feel terrible interrupting his honeymoon with my petty problems.
Newlywed—calling my dad that is still something I'm working to
wrap my brain around.
    I'm apprehensive but I have to try, at least. I promised him that
much. I force myself out of the car, across the street, and to the
front door of the shop. And now I'm just standing in front of it,
eying the sign above the door like a total idiot; I really hope they
can't see me on the other side. My palms are sweating and I don't
even know why. And I'm so not dressed for this. I've seen how tattoo
artists dress, and it's not in plain skinny jeans and a basic V-neck
tee. Why the hell didn't I put on something more hip?
    That's right, I don't own anything hip.
    I take a breath. This has to be done so I might as well get it over
with. Oh God, here we go. When I crack the door open and step
inside I expect a million judging eyes to be on me. But instead I
find the shop completely empty.
    “Hello?” I step further in, letting the door swing closed
behind me. The interior isn't half as seedy as the outside. Dare I
say it looks pretty cool? I can tell someone at least put some
thought into it, even if the design isn't usually my cuppa tea. The
black lacquered floors match the ornate picture frames that hang from
the rich jewel toned walls. Baroque style velvet couches make up a
small waiting area, each flanked by small tables covered in a mess of
magazines. Smack dab in the middle of the shop sits three tattoo
stations, each with high tech