BOMB: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike (5 page)

Veronica blushes the entire fucking class. Her face is this sexy shade of flush for ninety minutes. And every one of those ninety minutes, she thinks about nothing but me. She traces every line and curve of my body onto the paper in front of her. She licks her lips seventeen times. She sighs twenty-two times. She groans and whimpers when she makes five mistakes, and she even has a pouty frown on her face for the splittest of seconds when Aberdeen announces that class is over.

I wait for her as she cleans up. I’m wearing clothes again and all the girls, and a few dudes as well, are coming over to introduce themselves and ask who I am and where I came from.

I have that effect on people. I’m blessed in the body department. Ronin has his charm, Ford has his brain and I’ve got this beautiful body.
Plus
charm and brains. I’m the total package. Almost six foot three—I’m taller than both Ronin and Ford, and that’s all muscle. I played a little football in high school and got two scholarship offers. But I stayed in town with Ronin and we both went to University of Denver.

The team comes before everything else—and DU is a great school anyway.

Ford was already in Boulder studying film, he’s two years older. So Ronin and I started college together. He continued to model with Antoine, his sister’s lover who runs Chaput Studios out of a remodeled six-story building near Lower Downtown. I continued to build bikes and learn how to run the business so I could take over Shrike Bikes from my old man. My mom was desperate to get him to retire after a heart attack a few years ago.

We roped Mardee into doing some cons with us. Some basic shit. Little bit of hands-on stealing from scumbags. Then she overdosed on heroin and died.

We didn’t take it well, it was a huge blame game. Ford blamed Ronin, Ronin blamed me, I blamed—fuck. I blamed all of us. We were all at fault. We took it out on the local drug dealers using every skill we had in our arsenal. Namely Ford’s savant hacking abilities. And all that ended abruptly after the Boulder job. The job that would change our lives, send me to Colorado State in Fort Collins and Ronin to University of Colorado in Boulder after we were kicked out of DU.

Of course, DU never said we were kicked out. But there’s no way an institution of that caliber would allow us to stay. We saw the writing on the wall and Ronin and I don’t come from the big shots around town. We have money, but not that kind of money. Not Ford money. We can’t just donate enough money to purchase entire academic buildings to erase our mistakes.

I shake my head. I’m pretty surprised that these kids up here in Fort Collins have no idea who I am just by my face. I was all over the Denver news last spring. So were Ronin and Ford.

We fucked up. Bad. And the only reason we’re not sitting in prison right now is because the cops in Boulder fucked up worse. They accessed one of Ford’s computers illegally and obtained evidence that would put us away for a long time.

Luckily the grand jury was honest. They refused to allow that evidence and all the charges were dropped.

I let out a long breath at that. I hate thinking about it. It makes me sick. I close my eyes for a second to make those thoughts go away, and then continue playing nice with the art students. I love the art people. I’m a business major because my father was not about to pay exorbitant private university prices for an art degree. So we compromised. I’d take business—which I’m actually fucking stellar at—and he’d pay for a summer internship in France with a famous
trompe l’oeil
artist. That was two years ago. She taught me how to paint three dimensions in 2D and I used that to start my body art hobby.

I paint naked girls.

And that bombshell I’m waiting for, she’s about to become my new canvas.

Chapter Six

Veronica ditches me the second she leaves the art building. I let her go. I have a date with her at four anyway. Plus, she’s done for the day. She only has one class, but I have three and mine are all across campus, so I have no time to stalk her ass or chase her down.

I walk out of finance class at three forty-five and smile all the way to my truck. Bomb’s tattoo shop is just down the street, and technically I could probably walk to her shop faster than it takes me to get back to the parking lot over near the art building where my truck is. But that girl’s coming home with me tonight. I’d hate for her little feet to become weary after hoofing it all the way across town to get to my truck.

I pull up in a space in front of Sick Boyz at three fifty-nine.

Her brother is waiting for me when I walk in, giving me a not-so-nice look. “Hey, man,” I say casually. “What’s up? I have an appointment with Veronica.”

He gives me the once-over. Maybe the twice-over. He’s a big guy. Bigger than me, and that’s saying something. He might not be much taller, but his muscles say he works out daily. Possibly several times a day. He’s wearing a white t-shirt with the shop logo on it—which is a rockabilly guy and a pin-up girl who could be a redhead version of his sister or a biker version of Jessica Rabbit. And both figures are tatted up and sitting on a badass bike. There’s a few custom bikes out front, so I’m getting the feeling these guys are into the rides.

I make my befriend-the-brother move and stick out my hand to shake. He accepts it. “Spencer Shrike. That your chopper out there?”

He squeezes my hand, I squeeze back, then he drops it and nods. “Yup.”

“Nice custom work, you do it yourself?”

“Yup.”

“Cool, cool.” I want to get more into it, talk about the custom shit my dad and me do, but something tells me he knows who I am and he’s waiting for it. So I turn away and look at the pictures on the wall.

“I’m ready,” Blondie says as she turns the corner of a hallway. “Follow me,” she huffs as she turns her back and walks away.

I shoot Big Brother a smile, then do as I’m told. There are several tattoo rooms and hers is at the end. I watch her ass as she walks. She’s wearing those scrubs that doctors wear in surgery. Hers are pink. That makes me smile. She looks like a pink girl. A real girly girl. I bet she wanted to be a princess when she grew up. She turns the corner into her room and beckons me inside with a sigh.

I stop short. “What the fuck?” Every surface of her room is covered in plastic. It’s like the dentist, times a bazillion. The TV is covered, the chair is covered, the counters have plastic over them, and when I turn around to ask her what’s up, she’s got on a pink face mask. I laugh.

She flips me the finger. “Fuck you! You should be happy I’m so hygienic. You will never catch a disease in my room. Sit your ass down in the chair and don’t say another word unless I ask you a question.”

I chuckle under my breath and take a seat. The plastic crinkles underneath me and I slip around a little. “So, Veronica. I never properly introduced myself this morning. I’m Spencer.”

“I don’t need to know your name. Besides,” she says as she slips a visor over her forehead that has a long clear plastic shield attached to it. “I already know all about you.” Her last few words come out muffled and with an echo from behind the mask and the shield.

I smile and wink. “Don’t believe everything you hear, then, OK?”

She ignores me. “Take your shirt off and tell me what you want that awful thing you’re calling a tattoo turned into.”

I slip my shirt over my head slowly, just like I did it this morning. She pretends to be busy with her machine and ink, but I catch her looking out of the corner of her eye. “I’m thinking I need a whole back piece to cover that little lady. I’m thinking ravens, and skulls, and smoke. I’m thinking Blackbirds, of the mechanical variety. I’m thinking all done up in black and red.”

“Ha,” she fake-laughs. “That’s a month’s worth of appointments. I want to know what you want me to do today.”

“A Blackbird, Blondie. I want a Blackbird today. The hula girl can wait until we get the design right. Today I want you to start the piece. Give me that paper over there, I’ll draw it out for you.”

She looks at me skeptically, removes her face shield and mask and walks over to the counter top where she’s got a spiral notebook. She grabs it, and a pen, even though there are pencils in the jar she’s keeping her writing utensils in, and hands them over.

I open the notebook and realize it’s her personal sketchbook. I look up at her and she’s got her hands on her hips, like she’s waiting on me to perform. I do the head-tilt smile and page through, trying to look at each of her drawings without being obvious. They are all very detailed with elaborate shading and perspective. She’s a talented artist and I’m dying to see the sketch she did of me this morning.

I find a blank page and uncap the pen with my teeth and start to draw. I can sketch this image with my eyes closed, that’s how often I’ve drawn it, both in real life and in my mind. I was drunk when I let Bobby Choo tat me up with a hula girl. Out-of-my-mind drunk, celebrating after the grand jury refused to indict me and my team for murder. That’s the only way I’d let his dumb ass tat me up. Especially my first time. Because I’ve been planning this bike since I was a little kid and I was still handing my old man tools in our garage as he was building the business.

I’m not sure how much time goes by when Bomb whispers over my shoulder. “Thunderbird.”

I laugh and turn my head. I don’t have to turn it far, her cheek is practically right up against mine. “Yeah, baby. Thunderbird, American-style. The 1956 Triumph Blackbird. I want ravens and rooks. And skulls and smoke. All done up in black and red. But first, I want the Shrike Bikes version of the Blackbird. And this is it.” I stop talking so I can stare at her lips for a moment. She licks them and I almost die. I reluctantly drag my eyes up to her heated stare. Her opinion of me has changed since I came in this room. I rip the page out of the notebook and set it on the counter. “Will you do it?”

She lets out a breath, like she was holding it in. “I’d need to plan it properly, Spencer.”

The sound of my name coming out of her mouth gives me the chills. “Of course.”

“You’d need to help me,” she continues in a whisper.

“I’d have it no other way.”

“I might need a model.” She licks her lips again.

“I have the perfect specimen at home in my garage.”

“You have a ’56 Blackbird?”

“I do. You should come see it, get a feel for it between your legs. Get a feel for me as well.”

She’s undressing before my eyes. I almost have a heart attack and start looking for Monster Bro before I realize she’s got shorts and a girly top on underneath her scrubs. Her hair comes down out of the pony tail and flows over her gorgeous breasts that are accentuated by the tightly stretched fabric of the Sick Boyz shirt. The next thing I know she’s applying some red lip gloss and snapping her compact closed. “I’m ready.”

“I have to admit,” I say with an air of admiration as I slip my shirt back on. “I’m fucking impressed with that little display.” I hold my hand out to her and she takes it, then snags the drawing up off the counter as I pull her out of the room and down the hall.

Monster Bro is about to bark at her when we appear holding hands, but Bomb just slaps the drawing down on the counter. “He’s got this in his garage, he wants me to tattoo it on his back, so I’m going to see it in person.”

Monster Bro is stunned silent so we make our escape and practically run to my truck. I open her door and she quickly slides in as I go around to my side. Her brother is just opening the door to object to what’s happening when I start up the truck, check for traffic, and pull out into the northbound lane of College Avenue.

“I live out in Bellvue, that OK?”

“Why would it be a problem?” She’s got her foot up on the seat, her elbow propped on it, just looking at me. Whatever I did back in that shop, it changed her mind about me. And I’m not sure if it’s the drawing or the fact that I have a ‘56 Bird in my garage, but at this point, I really do not care.

“You hardly know me. I’m taking you to a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. I’m a known criminal.”

She frowns. “So you are guilty?” It’s a question, like she wants to believe I’m innocent, but she also wants to hear the truth.

“They dropped the charges for a reason, Bombshell. Let it go. I’m not the guy they made me out to be on the news. I’m not that guy.”

She chews on her lip for a moment and then digs through her purse and pulls out her pink .38. “I’ve got my gun. So if you mess with me, I’ll just put some bullets in it and make you sorry.” She’s laughing before she finishes her sentence.

I shake my head. “You should never carry an unloaded gun, Ronnie.” She blushes at the nickname. I’m not sure why, I’ve got a shitload of nicknames for her a helluva lot more erotic than Ronnie. But I note this for future reference. “You might only get one chance to save your life with that gun. It needs to be loaded so when opportunity knocks, you’re ready.”

“I don’t know how to shoot,” she reluctantly admits after a few seconds’ pause. “My dad and brothers never taught me. I bought the gun to piss them off, but I never learned how to shoot it. I don’t even know what kind of bullets it takes. I’ve been wanting to learn for a long time though.”

“Oh, baby,” I say wistfully. This is a girl after my own heart. “You’re talking to the right guy. I’ve got a shooting range on my property. I’ll teach you the basics, then I’ll put you on my gun club membership and buy you some marksmanship classes.”