Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Sitting behind the wheel, I look over at our three-bedroom house, the house we almost lost several times during my childhood as mom struggled to make it work.
But since mom received a number of promotions and the income I get from my call-center job, we’re doing okay.
I try not to let myself think of Julie sitting next to me, in another life, a less tragic one, cracking jokes as we drive, drumming her fingers on the dashboard as her excitement rises.
It’s sad to think of the old Julie and the new one as though they’re not the same person.
But sometimes, I wish today’s Julie could have a conversation with the Julie from a few months ago.
“You can’t just mope around,” she’d say, in her characteristically blunt way. “You need to try, at least.”
But it’s only been four months. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose mom or how long it would take to piece myself together.
I drive from the suburbs into the city, hoping my heart stops thudding so dramatically when I get to the tattoo studio. But despite all the uncertainty clashing within, I know this is a good opportunity.
I really want to quit my job and start working at a tattoo studio. My mind is filled with images and artwork, all of it spinning in a tempting kaleidoscopic maelstrom, so much more appealing than handling complaints over the phone.
The closer I get to the city, the crazier this seems, rocking up to a party on my own. I’ve never been much of a party girl, even in high school, but I always had Julie with me if I did need to go to one.
I seem to arrive in the city in record time, parking in the lot down the street from the bar where the party’s being held.
It’s somebody’s thirtieth birthday.
But as I approach – the music getting louder, joining the drumming in my chest – I realize I can’t remember whose.
I’ve brought a gift, a voucher for an online retailer inside a birthday card. Lexi texted me the details a few days ago when I bought it, and I knew the name then.
But it’s disappeared from my mind, along with so much else. My belly begins to swirl with nerves, and my feet try to make me turn around and walk away.
I need to relax. It’s just a party.
What’s the worst that can happen?
I get embarrassed. Fine. Okay.
If that happens, it happens. I think of Julie, and suddenly I feel like an idiot for even letting my nerves get this bad.
I stride through the door, looking around the bar area.
The music pumps from a room at the back, a dance floor with flashing lights cutting here and there.
But this main room is quiet, letting people converse with their voices raised only a little bit.
It’s a low-ceilinged room, a long mirror behind the bar making the room look larger with groups of people talking here and there.
“You made it,” Lexi calls, walking over.
I smile widely now, not having to fake it or think about nerves or obsess about them.
Lexi has two sleeves filled with colorful tattoos, with some creeping up her neck. Her hair is dyed pink, and I spot more pieces of art through the holes in her jeans.
She pauses, grinning up at me – she’s short at five-two – and then she makes the gesture, her finger going in circles.
I grin, flipping my hand so she can look at my wrist, at her handiwork.
She admires the butterfly. “Even if I do say so myself, that is a lovely piece.”
I nod. “I’d have to agree there.”
“You’ll make something even more beautiful one day…and one day soon too. You’ll see.”
I beam at the thought, glowing within, hoping it’s true.
CHAPTER
TWO
Felix
“A butterfly on the wrist,” I repeat down the phone. “That’s it?”
“This is your last job,” Mr. Red says.
I grit my teeth, close my eyes and shift my head from side to side, stretching my neck out. I’m sitting across the street from the bar, trying to keep my calm, but this is just ridiculous.
“I already know that,” I snap, thinking of Yasmin, of Felicia.
I think of Felicia, my little niece with her gap-toothed smile and her blonde hair darkening in the Californian sun.
“What I don’t know,” I go on, “is why you think this is acceptable. We haven’t had a briefing. You haven’t given me their name. Nothing except that they’ve got a tattoo of a butterfly on the wrist.”
“A blue butterfly,” Mr. Red says in his calm British accent. “That is correct.”
I let out a laugh of frustration, with no humor in the sound at all, just the need to stop and end this.
And I can, tonight. But something about this job feels off.
There’s a reason Mr. Red is being so vague.
“Having their names helps me,” I tell him. “Knowing who they are, what they’ve done, it’s the only way this isn’t completely fucked.”