Blood and Bullets by James R. Tuck Page B

Experience. I worked as a bouncer for years when I was younger and dealt with dumbasses like him on a constant basis.
    Taking her place at the booth, he dropped heavily on the stool she had used. Sullenly, he stared at me and ignored Larson. I stared back at him. Little did he realize how unscary he was.
    If the bouncer’s pissy attitude bothered the girl, she didn’t show it. Making a “follow me” motion with her hand, she led us to a hallway that was beside the front counter. It was a pretty narrow hallway, dimly lit and covered floor to ceiling in posters and fliers for bands. I followed the girl just a few steps back, again, just doing my job. Larson was close enough to me to be my shadow. As we walked down the hall, the brightly colored bits of paper desperately fluttered at us, hanging on to the wall usually by one sad staple or tack.
    The farther we went down the hallway, the more muffled the music got. The girl swayed down the dim hallway, her hips moving with the careless grace of a dancer. Those hips led us to a door with the word OFFICE painted across it. Drawing up short, she turned to me. Her blue-toned hair feathered along her cheekbones and she fidgeted with her belt. When she spoke, she looked me in the eye and I heard her clearly over the far-distant music.
    â€œYou don’t remember me, do you?”
    Of all the things she could have said, I was not expecting that question. Looking at her, I tried to see past the Goth costuming. I concentrated on her face and eyes, and searched through my memory for any trace of recognition since I apparently knew her. My mind ran through all the girls associated with all the cases I had been involved with in the last five years, mentally comparing her with everyone I could bring to mind.
    I came up with nothing.
    In my defense, I had no idea where I would know her from. Hoping she would not be offended, I shrugged. “Sorry, darling, no, I have no idea.”
    Her hands went to her belt and began to unbuckle it. The bondage rings on it jingled against the spikes sticking out beside them. Once it was unfastened she dropped it to the floor with a thud. Lifting her shirt with one hand, she pulled down the edge of her skirt an inch or two with the other to expose her hipbone. On it was a small tattoo of a pink unicorn.
    Ah, I didn’t remember the tattoo, but it looked like my handiwork.
    Before my life exploded, I was a tattoo artist. It’s one of the reasons I have so many. No, I never tattooed on myself; that’s just not something I was ever interested in. Looking at the girl again, I adjusted her age in my head. She looked to be about eighteen, but if I did her tattoo it was before I lost my family, and that was five years ago. She had to be in her mid-twenties at least now because you cannot get tattooed in this state unless you are eighteen.
    â€œThis was my first tattoo. You did it at World Famous Tattoo.” Yep, World Famous was the name of my shop. Told you I never lacked confidence. “I was really nervous and a bit scared, but you were really nice to me. I love this tattoo.”
    Her big eyes got soft and a little sad. That tiny chin pointed out as her full lips turned down at the corners. Stepping closer to me, she put her hand on my arm. With the pressure of her touch I felt my heart get heavy. My chest grew tight. I knew what was coming next. Her hand slid down, fingertips lightly stopping on the wedding ring I still wore.
    â€œI read about your family online. I am so very sorry for you.”
    Dammit, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. If she cried, I was sunk. Her sympathy would touch that raw spot left by the loss of my family and I would break down. Already I could feel the fist of pain in my chest pulsing. I couldn’t do that. Dammit, I could not break. I had a job to do. My chest tightened even more and heat filled my cheeks. Drawing in a deep breath to maintain my center, I took a tiny step