Dave’s been coming to me since before I actually worked here. When I look at him I see the last four years of my life inked up on his body. Most of my regulars have a theme—like Spencer’s blackbirds or Chuck’s horror movies. Stew has naked girls. He’s got naked strippers, naked acrobats, naked clowns, naked Playboy bunnies, and his chest piece is actually a stage full of saloon girls. There’s just tits everywhere on that guy.

But Dave is different. Dave’s theme is all war scenes. Today was just some shading and fill-in stuff. He’s still got a few months before his work is done.

Since most of my clients are men I don’t get a lot of butterflies and flowers. Each of these girls today wanted something a little different even though they all said butterfly with flowers. One wanted a bitchin’ death’s-head moth instead of a butterfly. I do those a lot, that’s a very popular tattoo. One girl wanted a fantasy butterfly. One wanted a regular butterfly but caught in a Venus fly-trap.

And now that it’s eight forty-five, I’m dead-ass tired but one hundred percent content.

But it’s got more to do with Carson calling me Bombshell than the ink I did today.

“Well,” he says as all the girls pile through the door and the place becomes silent, “you pulled in almost four thousand dollars today so far. That’s a decent take, right?”

“So far?”

“Yeah, you’re open until eleven, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, four thousand dollars is a decent take. My dad takes half, so two grand for me. That’s incredible.” And it is. It’s weird too—a few weeks ago I was stressing about coming up with a down payment on my crappy apartment. And now it seems like money is just dropping out of the sky for me. “Well, I’m beat and my date’s gonna be here any minute to follow me home, so—”

“Date? What date? You’re open until eleven.”

“Yeah, usually. But my new landlord asked me to have dinner with him tonight and I said I’d close early. So…” I walk back to the break room and Carson follows. I wiggle out of my scrubs and Carson almost has a panic attack until he realizes I’m fully clothed underneath. I stuff my scrubs in the washer and pull out some clean clothes I left here a while back from my locker. They’re just old jeans and a sweater, but it’s better than the clothes I’ve been wearing for two days. When I look back at Carson he’s got his chin in his hand, like he’s thinking very hard about what to do next.

I leave him standing there and go into the bathroom to change. When I come back out, still pulling on my boots, he’s still standing in the same position. “Something wrong, Carson?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “Nothing. It’s just… how well do you know this landlord? You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“Oh, I just met him yesterday.”

“Oh, the apartment thing, right.”

I smile at him. “Yeah, how’d you know about my apartment?”

“Uh…”

I was gonna let him run back to Spencer, but he’s screwed up twice now, and that’s just sloppy. “Spencer knows him. Bobby Mansi? So when you go report back tonight or tomorrow or whenever it is that you check in with the bossman, you tell him that’s who I’m having dinner with.”

Carson laughs. “I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Carson? Just for future reference, only Spencer calls me Bombshell. So you know what? If you’re suddenly on the Team, along with Ashleigh and Rook, then you better get your shit straight. Because if he gets hurt because you f**k up in front of the wrong person, I’ll make you pay.”

“Veronica, please. I have—”

“Don’t act like I’m stupid, OK? I know he sent you here. I might not know the details, but one of those girls talked about a hundred-dollar limit and mentioned that someone was paying for their art. So save it. That was obviously Spencer.”

“OK.” Carson puts his hands up. “OK, yeah, it was Spencer. And he sent me over here to help you out while your family is out of town. But please, don’t mention it to him. He was very clear that you should not know he was behind all this stuff.”

All this stuff, I repeat back to myself. All what stuff? But I don’t get a chance to ask, because just then the front door jingles and Bobby calls out, “Veronica? You here?”

“Be right there!” I point to the back door. “Out, Carson. I won’t say anything if you come back tomorrow and help me again.”

“Deal,” Carson says as he heads to the door. “Oh, and one more thing. While you were busy some girl came in, not from Spencer’s offer, and wanted you to paint her body for her boyfriend. Not tattoo it, but paint it. She said you’re like famous for that or something.”

“Body painting? Me?”

“Yeah, and she said she wants it done in edible paint. Like frosting or something. She and I looked it up online, they actually sell that stuff. So she placed an order for you and I made her an appointment in two weeks. She left a hundred-dollar deposit that I put in the drawer.” And then he gives me a little salute. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Edible body paint. Why have I never thought of that before?

“Veronica?”

I turn around and Bobby is standing in the doorway, his arms on either side of the door jamb, just like he was this morning. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I was just saying goodbye to my new receptionist.” I have a private laugh at that characterization of Carson. He probably pulls in a hundred grand a year with his bank job and he spent the day with me, checking in sorority girls for tattoo appointments.