Page 43 of Ace of Spades

"Either way," Big Mike continues. "The lighthouse is haunted. Don't nobody wanna be caught dead in the middle of the night when the keeper's ghost comes out." He does an exaggerated shiver.

"Nope," Roster agrees. “And he always does.”

"So I take it neither of you have gone out there?"

"You kidding me? It’s a rite of passage here. You’re not a true Breaker’s Islander until you’ve spent a night with the keeper,” Big Mike says. “My wife was just about your age when she did it. All alone too. Bravest soul I ever seen. You best believe I wifed her up quick after that," Big Mike whoops.

"He sure did, I was there for the wedding,” Rooster confirms.

His belly moving up and down as he chuckles, the cigar bouncing at the side of his mouth.

"Seems like you've been here a long time," I say.

“You callin’ us old, missy?” Rooster says, squinting his eyes at me.

I stammer.

“Ah, he’s just messin’ with you, kid,” Big Mike says, reaching over to pat me on the shoulder.

"Big Mike & Rooster lowkey run this town," Theo says, proudly.

“And word on the street is that you got quite the steady hand there, young Theo. May need to swing by JR for a new piece soon,” Big Mike says, showing off his tattoo sleeve.

“You’re welcome anytime,” Theo says, and then to me he adds. “You too, Sienna.”

“I’m sorry… what’s JR?”

Chapter11

Sienna

JR stands forJolly Roger’s Tattoo Studio.

Apparently what Breaker's Isle appreciates more than custom bikes is ink done by steady hands.

“See anything you like?”

Theo calls from his station, glancing up from where he's wiping down a chair with antiseptic.

“Still looking.”

I flip through a battered portfolio of his custom pieces, running my fingers over the glossy plastic sleeves. My eyes land on a classic vintageMOMtattoo inked across a bleeding red heart stabbed through with a dagger.

I whisper under my breath,“What would you choose, Amalie Riley?”

Theo’s ears are sharp.

“Did you say something?”

I glance over at him, heat creeping up my neck.

"Just thinking."

Trying to cover it, I ask, “What made you get into tattoos?”

He leans against the counter, tossing the cleaning rag into a bin.

“The guys at the shop, mostly. My dad’s shop.”

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