Page 11 of Spilled Ink

"We'd just finished for the night and were cleaning up. Four kids came in, wanting ink and I told them no -- I don't do gang shit, you know? We locked the front and three of the little fuckers broke in through the back." Rooster looked like he was going to explode. Boom. "One of them had a gun, two had knives and we went to town."

"Looks like it. Your head and Jimbo's arm the only injuries on your side?" A lot of that blood had to belong to the suspects, man. A huge fucking lot of it.

"I took a couple pops, nothing serious." Those pale eyes flashed. "Nothing like those little fucks took."

"Might not be a good idea to put that on the official statement, man." Hell, it was perfectly acceptable to defend yourself, but Rooster didn't need to borrow trouble.

"Yeah. Yeah. The one kid got a case of jewelry; Betsy'll have the inventory. I need a fucking cigarette."

"Okay. As soon as Donny gets back in, we'll go out front. Away from the building, okay?" He'd take one, too, and Donny would look the other way.

"I ain't scared. I'll smoke in the back. You can do your job." Rooster looked down at the bat, still in his hand. "I got this."

"No. They came in the back. You can't screw up the scene, okay?" Mark looked at the bat, too, gauging whether it would get him whomped to take it away. "Here. Let go, man. Look, there's Donny. Come on."

"I can't." Rooster looked a little stunned, really.

Donny glanced over, jerking his head toward the front door, and Mark nodded. "Okay. Well, let me help." All he had to do was grab a glove out of Rooster's box to hold the bat and then pry those tight fingers off. Shit, the man was cramped up like a high school football player's Charlie horse.

"Th...thanks. It has a reverb, hitting someone so hard."

"No problem. Okay, let's go. Smoke time." He needed to get Rooster out where he could talk to the man like a friend, or whatever he was. Not a cop.

The ambulance was around the corner as they headed out, Rooster going the opposite way of the lights.

Jimbo needed the help first anyway. He shook his head, following right behind. "Where are your smokes, man? I could fucking use one, too. Scared the shit out of me when I realized where I was going."

"No shit. I. The little fucker with the gun, fucking waving it around and shit." Rooster scrabbled at his pockets, pulling out a pack, that cock-shaped lighter.

"You held your own, man. Could have been a lot worse." Trite as hell, but true. "They didn't do any damage to your ink. Or your hair."

That was important somehow.

"No. No, I'll have a couple bruises and my head is fucking killing me, but I'm good." Rooster pulled hard on the smoke, the cherry flaring a bright red.

Grabbing the pack, Mark lit one up, feeling like he'd mainlined about a gallon of fancy espresso. "I bet. We'll get you looked at."

"You... how's your ink?" The end of the Camel shook like crazy.

"Good. You should see it now that it's healed." Mark didn't admit that he'd been looking for a reason to come back. Because these were not the circumstances he had in mind.

"I should. I bet it's hot as hell." Rooster sucked down another drag. "What happens next, man?"

"We take your report. We check the scene. Start looking for a trail. All that shit. The odds aren't in your favor. Are you insured?"

"Yeah. Sort of. I think?" Rooster pushed his hair back. Christ, head wounds bled.

"Here, let me..." It was an excuse to touch. And he needed one. He rubbed some of the blood away, pressing against the wound gently.

Those too-pale eyes closed, Rooster leaning into his touch, just a bit. "H...hey."

"Hey. This is gonna take awhile. But I need to see you after..." Deep down, all of a fucking sudden needed it. So bad he was shaking with it.

"I. Yeah. Yeah. You... my place?"

"Yeah. Where is that, man?" His palm cupped Rooster's cheek, his fingers stroking lightly.

"You see that big blue house? I got the top floor, yeah? Number three." Rooster's eyes closed, the quickest little kiss pressed to Mark’s palm.

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