Tiny Glitches: A Magical Contemporary Romance by Rebecca Chastain Read Free Book Online Page A

help.
    “Men are much more likely to assist a woman than they are a man,” he explained.
    “Or maybe that’s just you.”
    “Trust me. You walk in there and ask them for help and they won’t even need a cash incentive.”
    “And the fact that there will be a whole bunch of witnesses to us carting off an elephant?”
    “That’s where the money will come in.”
    “Just like that. I walk in and ask for some help.”
    “Unless you’re afraid to.”
    I shot Hudson a look over the top of my sunglasses. He could have played the you-got-us-into-this-mess-you-deal-with-it angle, but he hadn’t. He’d pricked my pride instead. I smiled and tossed my bag into the Suburban. I pulled my hair free of its ponytail and finger combed it while checking myself in the side mirror. A quick reapplication of lip gloss, and I was ready.
    The front window of the tattoo parlor mirrored the sun’s glare, disguising the interior. Through the propped-open door, the bass of rap music pulsed beneath a mechanical whine I’d not heard outside a dentist’s office. I could see two Hispanic guys through the doorway, both dressed in baggy jeans and work boots. One had a tank top under an open plaid shirt, and his long hair was pulled back in a tight, low ponytail. Tattoos covered his chest, arms, and shins, and I didn’t guess about the areas in between. The other was younger, had a colorful sleeve that looked like a Día de los Muertos tribute, and wore a black ski mask apparition. Like the straitjacket I’d seen on Jenny, the ski mask didn’t need sophisticated interpretive skills.
    I took a deep breath and put some sway in my hips. My hair floated around my shoulders in scarlet waves, my own personal neon sign to attract attention when I worked it right, and I was working it. I sauntered through the open door and settled my glasses atop my head. Conversation stopped.
    Two other men lounged in the dilapidated waiting room. The one seated near the register was the leader. He had direct line of sight on the door—always a power position, as any good feng shui consultant will tell you. He was Asian, his hair short and spiky and dyed blue on the tips. Colorful tattoos swirled underneath his thin white T-shirt, peeking through the V-neck and flowing down both arms to his wrists. A bright blue apron appeared with the words Kiss the Chef embroidered in black. I hadn’t a clue what that meant, but it helped me relax enough to notice he was a few years younger than me and had a good jawline and sharp, tilted eyes. Definitely the most handsome man in the room. Or maybe it was his attire; I was a sucker for a man in jeans and a white T-shirt.
    The final man was Samoan, big, and wearing a basketball jersey. His tattoos were black and tribal. Handsome in a giant sort of way, his arm muscles made the leader’s look like spaghetti. Perfect. His pink-feathered princess tiara was a bonus.
    “Please tell me you came in to get sleeves,” the leader said. He strode over to me, hand extended. “I’m Mark Kim.” I reached to shake hands, but he lifted my hand out in front of me, turning it back and forth as he examined my arm. “Luminescent. Flawless. The art I could ink on you, girl. Are you Canadian? Icelandic?”
    “LA born and raised. This is the power of sunscreen.” Vats and vats of it.
    “A redhead without freckles. That’s rare.”
    “It’s a family blessing,” I said. “But I’m not here for a tattoo.”
    “Are you sure? What about a half sleeve? Maybe a little something on your shoulder blade?” His eyes scanned down my body to my bare legs. “A little ankle adornment?”
    I shook my head, smiling, and freed myself. He let me go easily and stepped back.
    “I’d know if you were here for a homeboy,” he said.
    “You can be here for me, baby,” Ski Mask said, shifting his belt buckle suggestively.
    “Hmm. How much can you bench?”
    “One fifty,” he answered with a swagger.
    “Kind of a lightweight, aren’t