People divulge all kinds of things that I never asked to hear, that I’d rather not hear, and that they never planned on telling me. It makes me feel like a bartender at some seedy desert bar in nowhere-Nevada. But I keep quiet and go along with anything they want to talk about, because that’s part of the job. Ned’s Rule Number Two: These people are letting you permanently mark their bodies, so shut up and smile and let them cry about their pet gerbil that they accidentally stepped on when they were two years old if that’s what they want to talk about. While I avoid small talk outside the shop, I’ve become something of a connoisseur when a client is in my chair. I’ve had to.

But Sebastian hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. I’m beginning to think he could go seven hours in complete silence.

I can’t do the same, or I’ll end up thinking about Ned and the night he died, and then this tattoo could go horrifically wrong.

“So, tell me a little bit about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” It’s like he was waiting for my question.

Everything, I realize. I just don’t want to have to ask. At some point I’m going to bring up the whole military thing again, because that’s interesting, but seeing as he quickly shut the door on that conversation before, it’s probably not the best place to start now. “Do you live in San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“Whereabouts?” I realize that I forgot to get the personal information clipboard back from him. I was too distracted by . . . well, him. And the idea of rats in here. I’m not even sure that he filled it out yet.

“Potrero Hill.”

“Huh.” I search for something to say as I wipe excess ink off his skin with a paper towel. All I can come up with is, “Very residential.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Did you grow up around here?”

“Yes.”

I give him a few moments to elaborate, until I realize that he’s not going to. Great. He’s clearly not into small talk. “Well, this is going to be a really long night,” I mutter under my breath.

That earns his smile. I’m pulling teeth to get him to talk and he’s amused.

“Which part of San Francisco did you grow up in?” he finally asks, flipping the question on me.

“Who says I grew up here?”

“Did you grow up somewhere else?” He throws this out with a hint of a challenge in his voice.

“Richmond. Until I was fourteen.”

“Huh . . . very Asian.” He’s mocking me for my earlier “residential” comment, I can tell.

“Well, I know this will come as a huge shock to you but I am part Chinese.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

And I’m back to trying to read that calm, even, unreadable tone.

“What do you do for a living, Sebastian?”

There’s a long pause, and I assume he won’t be answering that question. I heave an annoyed sigh.

Earning another smirk from him.

He’s going to drive me insane.

“I’m in security,” he finally says.

Security? “What . . . like a mall cop?” I say, and I regret my condescending tone the second it comes out of my mouth, because what if he is a mall cop? God, I hope not. While I don’t really care what a guy does, just picturing Sebastian in one of those ill-fitting uniforms and hovering around a teenybopper chain store, watching for twelve-year-old shoplifters, has somehow knocked him down a notch or three in attractiveness for me.

Please don’t be a mall cop.

“No. I’m not a mall cop.” He chuckles, forcing my needle away from his skin until he settles down. He has a nice laugh. And nice straight white teeth, I see, watching him from this angle. When his laughter dies down and my needle touches his skin again, he admits, “I’m a bodyguard.”

I have to pull away again, to process. “Really . . .” That is way more interesting—and appealing—than a mall cop. “I’ve never met a real bodyguard before. That sounds dangerous.”

“It can be.”

“Who do you protect?”

“People who need bodyguards.”

I wipe away the excess ink just a touch harder than I probably should. “Are you always so evasive?”

“Are you always so inquisitive?”

“Only when I’m doing someone a huge favor.” I bite my bottom lip to keep from tacking on an extra-acidic remark about his shitty communication skills.

He sighs. “For politicians, for celebrities, for civilians facing safety concerns. Pretty much anyone who needs a shield.”

“That’s . . . commendable.” And brave. “I guess it’s a natural career coming out of the army?”

“I guess,” he says quietly.

It’s all beginning to make sense to me now. No wonder Sebastian is so in shape, so strong. No wonder his movements seem so fluid and measured. No wonder, when he stepped into Black Rabbit for the first time, I felt his looming presence taking control of the entire room. Though I couldn’t have articulated it at the time, I sensed right away that he could protect me from anything.

“So, are you working now?” His schedule seems flexible, if he’s shown up here three days in a row, ready to spend seven hours under my needle on any one of them.

“I’m taking a break,” he says simply.

“A bodyguard on vacation?”

He smirks. “We need vacations, too.”

“I guess. But why’d you stay in town, then? I think I’d be on a beach the second I had a chance.”

He smiles. “Maybe next week. I really needed to get this tattoo before you ran off.”

“Sure you did,” I mock, but I also smile. “Where are you going to go?”

“Greece.”

“Why there? You have family there?”

“Nope.”

“So you’re just going to pick up and go to Greece?”

“Pretty much.”

I grin. Finally, something that Sebastian and I have in common.

FOURTEEN

SEBASTIAN

HOUR TWO

The ink on my shoulder was done by a small shop in San Diego nine years ago. It took four and a half hours to complete. I didn’t feel nearly as vulnerable with the artist—a scrawny middle-aged hipster named Marcus—as I do now, under Ivy’s skilled hands, with her leaning over me, her gloved fingers touching my skin, that intoxicating perfume wafting around my nostrils in seductive waves.

I have no choice but to lie to her about my work—for obvious reasons. She bought the cover instantly. I wasn’t sure that she would.

“How are you doing? Still good? Need a five-minute break?” she asks, a hint of concern in her voice.

She was trying to figure me out earlier. A guy who doesn’t even flinch when he feels the sting from that needle like a knife carving into his flesh. Odd to her, I’m sure. But she saw the shrapnel scars on my back. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they were serious, that they would have hurt far more than any tattoo.

“Keep going.” We passed the one-hour mark quickly enough, even with my ambiguous answers and her annoyed sighs. But we still have six more hours, and I need to steer this conversation away from the places we’ve traveled—between the two of us I think we’ve covered every continent except Antarctica—and start pumping her for any information that might be useful to me in finding this tape.