Threat (2 page)

After Tiffani leaves I lock up the shop behind her and grab a broom.
Sweeping up the shop keeps me humble and reminds me that I've got a
lot to learn before I take over for my old man. Or at least that's
what he says.

“I thought your little friend was coming by tonight?” he
says, stepping in to the room behind me.

Right, I forgot about that whole fiasco. “Nah, that's
tomorrow,” I reply without looking up at him. “And I'm
not looking forward to it.”

He crashes down in my chair, propping his feet up in front of him.

“Spill.”

“She ain't my type,” I tell him. “She's boring as
hell and I have to spend the whole evening with her.”

“Wait how do you know, I thought you'd never met the broad?”

“Oh I've met her, I know her from school.”

“Really, now ain't that interesting?”

“Yeah and she was always been a huge bitch to me.”

“Is she at least hot?” he asks.

The fuck? I shoot him a sideways glance.

“What? I'm just curious.”

“She's going to be my
stepsister,
” I reply with
disgust. Actually, she's already my stepsister. I think. Who knows—I
can barely keep up with Mom.

He blinks. “And?”

Now, I can't help but laugh. “You're too much sometimes, Pops,
you know that?”

“You're both over eighteen and she ain't even your blood. Ain't
nothin' wrong with a little looksy-look.”

Good God, I live for my dad’s colorful commentary on just about
everything. But this is awkward.

“To answer your question, no.”

“So you
have
done some spying on her?”

I shake my head. “Nope, there's not a trace of her on social
media anywhere. I only remember what she looked like in high school.
Woof
.”

“You shittin' me? No social media?”

“I shit you not.”

“Well damn she must not be a looker then. What kind of kid your
age doesn't have a Facebook page?”

Facebook. Hah. I just let my dad think he's hip; I won't burst his
bubble by informing him that Facebook is so three years ago.

“Now do you see what I mean? No social media page means she's
boring as fuck. No friends, no life, no personality.” And the
last thing I want to do is waste a perfectly good Friday night with
someone like that.

“Well you've gotta do something to shake things up.”

“You can't shake up a stick in the mud.”

“Never say never, Davey.” I cringe. I hate it when he
calls me that. He
knows
I hate it, which just makes him use it
more.

“Threat, Dad.
Threat
.”

He scoffs. “Threat,” he repeats mockingly. “You
know, why'd you have to pick something so negative? What's wrong with
you, are you depressed or some shit?”

I shake my head. For the past couple years he's been on some kind of
Buddhist Zen kick, and I haven't gotten used to it yet.

“Anyways,” I say.

“So, back to our earlier conversation. You say she's a bit of a
priss, eh?”

“Yeah, that's how I remember her.”

He nods, scratching his head as he thinks. This should be good. Pop
can come up with the most inane ideas sometimes.

He stops and his lip curls up into a devious half-smile and I know
it's going to be good. “What can be more fun than corrupting a
goody two-shoes?”

“I dunno, I think this one is incorruptible.”

“Now that's the wrong spirit, son. That's the defeatist’s
spirit! Truth be told, anyone can be corrupted.”

“If you say so.”

His brows wiggle, framing the devious gleam in his eyes. “Care
to stake a wage on it?”

Bad idea. My dad loves to gamble. He loves gambling so much that it
landed him in Gamblers Anonymous. Not because he wanted to treat his
addiction, but because he wanted to connect with some of the best
gamblers in the area.

“That's not good for your health, Pops.”

He chuckles. “Oh but it's good for my spirit,” he says.
“How 'bout this: I'll give you one hundred dollars for
everything wild and crazy thing you get her to do. It's win-win on
your part.”

I shake my head, thinking this is a bad foot to start this new family
thing on. But at the same time, it's the kind of shit I live for. And
if it pisses off Mom that's just a side bonus.

“You get her to drink, one hundred dollars. You get her to
smoke a little weed, another one hundred. See where I’m going
with this?”

“Seriously? Drinking and weed, what kid my age isn't already
doing that every single week?”

“The kinds with no Facebook pages, that's who!”

I let out a bark of laughter; yeah, sure Dad.

“You get her drunk and I’ll double it.”

“Yeah? What if I take her on my bike?”

He thinks for a minute. “Just one hundred for that.”

Fair enough.

“Get her naked and I'll give you five hundred.”

I turn to him with a look of disgust. “Naked?!”

He smirks. “You fuck her and this whole business is yours.”

I stare at him in disbelief. He's come up with his fair share of wild
ideas in his time but this has to take the cake. My own father is
betting me to
fuck
my new stepsister. Just how fucked up is
this family of mine?

“
Now
you're shitting me.”

“I ain't never shitted you, son!”

I stop, holding on to the broom and turn to face him. “You're
really going to give me your entire business if I fuck her?”

He starts laughing hysterically. He's loving the shit out of this.
“You know this place is going to be yours, sooner than later.
Things just aren't what they used to be,” he says holding up
his crooked hands. I sigh just looking at them. He was a great artist
once but arthritis has taken its toll on him, leaving his hands
malformed. He can barely even close his fingers around the gun these
days and it kills me to see it.

“What are you scared or something? You scared to come out of my
shadow, son?”

“I'm not scared of anything,” I mumble.

“Well if you're scared of a teenage girl or some two-bit
comedian then how do I know you aren't too scared to take over this
place when I'm gone?”

I keep my eyes downcast as I mindlessly continue to sweep. I hate it
when he mentions that. “You aren't going anywhere, Pops.”

“That's just not the truth. We all live and we all die, some of
us sooner than later,” he says, and a heavy silence falls
between us. “So do we have a deal or not?”

Do I have a choice?

I throw my head back and answer, “We have a deal.”

His withered lips form a wicked grin. “Good,” he says
before hoisting himself up out of the chair. “Clean up, lock
up, don't forget the alarm,” he adds. “The last thing
you'd want is for anyone to break into your future business.”

“You know I will.”

“Oh and son?” he calls back to me on his way out.

I look up. “Yeah?”

He twists his mouth, giving me a long hard look. “Your work
tonight was a-OK.”

I suppress my own urge to grin. I might be hard on myself, but dad
has always been my toughest critic.

LEAH

After circling the block at least seven times I finally spot it.
Tatter'd Ink is a tiny hole in the wall in one of the seediest areas
of North Vegas. The neon sign stands out because it's the
only
one on the block that seems to be fully functioning. The facade seems
decent, but the tinted windows make me nervous. Who knows what the
hell is going on inside of there—it could be a drug den for all
my luck. They could be slicing people up and hanging them from meat
hooks from the ceiling! Or, my imagination might be overactive and
looking for excuses not to go in. It's getting dark and I'm afraid to
leave my car alone for even a few minutes in this part of town. I
wonder if Dad knew exactly what type of place this was before sending
me here alone.

I can't exactly call him and complain. I mean, I
could,
he did
say I can call him any time and I know he meant it, but I would still
feel terrible interrupting his honeymoon with my petty problems.
Newlywed—calling my dad that is still something I'm working to
wrap my brain around.

I'm apprehensive but I have to try, at least. I promised him that
much. I force myself out of the car, across the street, and to the
front door of the shop. And now I'm just standing in front of it,
eying the sign above the door like a total idiot; I really hope they
can't see me on the other side. My palms are sweating and I don't
even know why. And I'm so not dressed for this. I've seen how tattoo
artists dress, and it's not in plain skinny jeans and a basic V-neck
tee. Why the hell didn't I put on something more hip?

That's right, I don't own anything hip.

I take a breath. This has to be done so I might as well get it over
with.
Oh God, here we go.
When I crack the door open and step
inside I expect a million judging eyes to be on me. But instead I
find the shop completely empty.

“Hello?” I step further in, letting the door swing closed
behind me. The interior isn't half as seedy as the outside. Dare I
say it looks pretty cool? I can tell someone at least put some
thought into it, even if the design isn't usually my cuppa tea. The
black lacquered floors match the ornate picture frames that hang from
the rich jewel toned walls. Baroque style velvet couches make up a
small waiting area, each flanked by small tables covered in a mess of
magazines. Smack dab in the middle of the shop sits three tattoo
stations, each with high tech leather chairs. And all around it the
walls are plastered with black and white photos, newspaper clippings,
a couple signed band posters and tons of sketches.

I look closer at some of the photos and recognize many of the
musicians and celebrities in them. Slash, Prince, the Doors,
Aerosmith, Jimi Hendrix; essentially, rock royalty. And then I
realize one other thing they have in common—the same man is
posed with each of them. He even has a signed Hendrix guitar mounted
on the wall.

“Wow,” I whisper to my self, having no idea that someone
is actually standing behind me.

“Big Hendrix fan?”

I flinch when I hear the voice come out of nowhere. “Jesus,”
I mutter as I spin on my heel, clutching my chest.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” the man says with a smirk as
he emerges from the back room of the shop.

He steps forward with this gleam in his eyes like he already knows
me. The second I see him my lips part to speak but nothing comes out.
For a moment I start to question my own sanity. He is not, under
any
circumstances, the type of guy who turns me on.
Ever.
He's
tall as fuck and muscular too, both of which are fine but not when
those muscles are covered in more tattoos than I can count. His hair
is buzzed on the sides and super long on top—almost like he
wanted a mohawk but chickened out at the last second—and he's
got more than a half day’s growth lining his chin. Totally not
professional, but then again, I guess he doesn't have to be to work
in a place like this.

He's every single thing that physically turns me off, so why am I
speechless just looking at him? Is my pulse picking up, or am I going
into cardiac arrest? Maybe it’s because he looks like a model
under all the trappings of a biker.

“Hi...” I finally manage to get out. He keeps his eyes
fixed on me, stepping a little bit too close. I have this thing about
space, and I instinctively step back. “Um, I'm looking for
someone named Threat?”

He smirks at me, like he knows a secret that I don't—who does
that? And then he hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his already
low cut tank top and pulls it down
even lower
. “That'd
be me,” he says in his gruff voice, revealing the word “threat”
tattooed across his chest in big, bold black ink.

And suddenly I completely understand his name.

This isn't my future stepbrother. He can't be. This is probably just
another mix up on my dad's part. The guy looks like he's in his
mid-twenties; there's no way he's “around my age.” And
there's no way in hell I would live under the same roof as someone
like him.

“I, um, I'm pretty sure I made a mistake,” I say with a
forced and completely awkward laugh. I stagger away from him,
accidentally hitting the wall with a loud thud—shit! I'm making
a total fool of myself here. Wait, why do I care? I'm never going to
see this guy again. I shake my head and touch my forehead. “Sorry,
I'm pretty sure I'm at the wrong place.” I turn clumsily and
head for the door, just as Threat reaches out and wraps a hand around
my bicep, surprisingly gently, holding me back.

“You've made no mistake, Leah,” he says, his voice deep
and rich like butter, sending shivers up and down my spine.

Wait, why does he know my name?

I turn back around toward him. “You don't remember me do you? I
look a bit different.”

Huh? I squint and study his face. Goddamn, his face is pretty much
perfect, even with all the scruff and piercings.

“I remember you real well.” His eyes pan down my body,
slowly, and back up again. The look in his dark eyes makes all of the
muscles in my stomach tie in knots. “You've changed a hell of a
lot since freshman year.”

Freshman year? Freshman year of high...
holy fuck
. My mouth
falls open and I quickly clasp my hands over them, standing in
stunned silence. It's not... it can't be...

“David?!” I shriek.

He grins. “It's been a long time,
turtle
.”

David fucking Banducci.

Red hot boiling rage builds up inside me the second I hear him call
me
that
name again. The one he devised to torture and
humiliate me. The name that followed me all through middle school and
high school. The last six years of my life were made a living hell by
the asshole standing in front of me. And now that same
good-for-nothing bully is back in my life? And worst of all he's my
new step-brother?!