“Is it the timing or the design that’s the problem?” Impressed by Slim’s willingness to stand up to the man whose name alone instills fear into the hearts of most fighters, I touch him on the arm to draw his attention.

Slim grabs a picture from Rose’s hands and thrusts it at me. “Look.”

Although I try not to grimace at the brightly colored scene of a NASCAR race, my mouth curls.

“It’s a…very nice piece,” I say to Torment. “But it’s not really right for a tattoo studio. You’ve been in other studios before. Usually the feel is edgier, more offbeat, something to draw people’s attention away from the pain of the needle, and take them out of their everyday life. Tattoos aren’t mainstream. And the people who get them want to feel that they are making a statement. The shop is part of that statement. A stock car race scene isn’t really the right vibe.”

“Don’t recall inviting you to be part of the conversation.” Torment’s voice rises to a shout. “This has nothing to do with you, so stay out of it.”

“Voice.”

Torment’s head jerks up, and I look back over my shoulder. Ray is standing in the doorway, arms folded, one ankle crossed in front of the other. Artlessly casual to anyone who doesn’t know him. A warning to those who do.

“Oooooh,” Rose whispers. “The cavalry has arrived.”

“Not your fight, Predator. Move on.” Torment dismisses him with a jerk of his head, but Ray doesn’t move.

“Sia wants this fight, she’s got this fight.” His gaze flicks to me and back to Torment. “But you shouting at my girl, that’s my fight.”

Torment’s lip curls. “Man’s agitated, he’ll speak however he wants. And Sia interfering in my discussion with her boss is agitating.”

Emboldened by all the support, Slim steps forward. “That’s ’cause you know she’s right. And I’ll tell you something else. You have Red over there paint a fucking car race in the shop, and we’re outta here.”

“I’m doing you a favor letting you work here.”

“We’re both benefiting from this arrangement,” Slim says. “And I’m only asking for a coupla weeks, then my shop will be fixed up and we’ll be outta your hair for good. But in the meantime, we’ve got an image to uphold. We’re Rabid Ink, not fucking Race Car Alley. A gal who comes in to get her clit pierced or her boobs inked doesn’t give a damn about race cars.”

Rose snorts behind her screen. She held my hand when Duncan pierced me. Jess, of course, held the other.

“Why don’t you let Sia do it?” Ray says quietly. “She paints. I’ve seen her work, and it’s damn good. Edgy stuff, although she might have to tone down the color.”

“No.” I glare at Ray. “I don’t paint anymore. I haven’t painted for years. I’m not interested.”

“You painted the other night.”

My stomach clenches at his betrayal. I opened myself up for him and only him, and he’s exposing me to the world. Why doesn’t he just tell them what else we did?

Torment studies me, considering, and then looks at Slim. “Sia or the car race. I’ll expect an answer in fifteen minutes. And if neither of those work for you, feel free to clear out.” He stalks toward the door, pausing only because Ray doesn’t move. “Predator, I’ll see in the ring Friday night. No one fucking tells me to lower my voice in my own gym.”

Ray gives him a curt nod and steps to the side to let him pass. Red grabs his art bag and scurries after him. The room heaves a collective sigh.

“I’m not doing it,” I say to Slim. “Duncan’s an amazing artist. I’m sure Torment will be happy with whatever he comes up with.”

“He said it had to be you.” Slim puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Sia. We’re making a killing here. The next coupla weeks could cover us for the clients we’ve lost since the shop was closed.”

“I don’t care if we have to leave or if we have to work in a shop with a car race on the wall. And it’s totally unfair of you to put this on me. I won’t do it. I won’t even consider it. I don’t paint anymore. So leave me alone.”

A shocked Slim puts up his hands in a warding gesture. “Hey. Chill. I didn’t realize it was such a big deal.”

“It is.” Nausea curls in my belly, and I head to the staff room, painfully aware of Ray following behind me. He closes the door and I can’t bring myself to turn around. Usually this room is an oasis, furnished with soft, caramel sofas, a plush beige area rug, and dark wooden tables. Torment spared no expense and fitted it out with a fridge, sink, hot plate, and a coffee maker so complicated we all go to the café for our caffeine fix.

“What’s going on?” Ray’s voice echoes in the quiet space.

“What’s going on? How can you even ask that question?” I turn to face him, my body shaking with anger. “When I painted the other night…it was supposed to be just between us. I thought you understood that. I wasn’t opening a door that I closed years ago. This is who I am now. Ink is what I do.” My hands tremble and I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Just because I let you see that side of me doesn’t mean that’s who I am anymore. You saw what happens to me when I open that door. I felt exposed out there. Vulnerable. I promised myself a long time ago I would never feel that way again.”