Page 32 of Moth
“You need to learn how things are done around here, bunny,” he says, his tone level, posture confident even as people turn to stare. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about helping out Zhang?”
He slows his pace, waiting for his threat to register. When it does, I stiffen, though I don’t know why I’m so surprised. “So, you are a liar, after all.”
He shrugs. “Nah. I’m playing it straight, bunny. There are aspects of the business you need to learn. It’s just how things are done around here.”
He withdraws from me, but only because he expects me to follow of my own accord this time. There’s a twisted grace in the way he moves, commanding attention. Yet anyone approaching gives him a wide berth while avoiding eye contact.
Watching him approach the next crosswalk, I feel my jaw clench in annoyance. He’s halfway across the road when something makes me follow. Maybe guilt?
I dragged Mr. Zhang into this mess. I can’t leave him now.
But I reach into my pocket and palm my cell phone, keeping it close just in case. I don’t come any closer to Rafe either, keeping at least twenty feet of distance between us. He doesn’t look back, though, as if he’s that damn sure I’ll follow.
When he finally slows, I scan our surroundings and see a slightly busier street near the heart of downtown. A music shop dwells in the building across the street next to a sandwich place. As for the building he’s entering now?
A scarlet fire-breathing dragon spans the length of a black awning, guarding a modest storefront. INKED reads the shop’s name in a simple utilitarian script. When I come close enough to peek beyond the door as he opens it, I make out a shadowed, though clean interior.
“In,” he grunts, inclining his head. He enters without waiting for me, though, letting the glass door slam behind him.
I deliberately take my time, lingering just beyond the storefront. Rather than books displayed in the window, an array of photos line a black velvet backdrop. As much as it stings to admit, they’re impressive. Eye-catching images inked onto random body parts make up most of the display, spanning various topics. Symbols. Faces. Intricate designs.
I observe each creation and find myself musing on the artist’s intentions behind each one. As I stare, the storefront ignites. He’s turned a light on inside, allowing me to view more of the interior from here.
Many of his design choices are unsurprising. Black walls. Polished floors of hardwood. More drawings hanging behind glass frames.Theydraw me inside in the end—not him.
He leans against a wooden counter, his gaze tracking my every movement, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of claiming my attention. It’s my turn to play the role of a silent intruder. Clutching my bag to my chest, I eye the closest row of drawings, etched in ink. The subject matter spans almost everything imaginable under the sun from soaring dragons to dancing flames, roses, and Chinese characters.
Moving from frame to frame, I’m aware of my lips parting. It’s becoming harder to school my expression. Shock slips in before I can help it, widening my eyes. I catch sight of my reflection in a sheet of glass and sigh in defeat. There is no disguising that I’m impressed.
I could write the artwork off as cheap, lazy, typical designs, but they aren’t—and that’s the worst part. They’re intricate, each one reflecting some unique quality deserving of notice. Emotion? That elusive feeling he’s taunted me about. He expresses some form of the concept on every page from the watchful gaze of a vengeful dragon to the guarded stare of a wary tiger. Pretending he didn’t draw every one would be easy, but the style is distinct and loud like him, I grudgingly admit. Each stroke of ink and charcoal conveys bold confidence for everyone to see.
Despair unfurls in my chest, but it’s entirely unexpected. Jealousy? Maybe acknowledgment because I could never write so indiscriminately. It’s why my father doesn’t see this as anything more than a silly hobby and why Branden won’t take my attempts to stand on my own seriously.
I’ve become so good at being numb that I’ve let it stifle the only other passion I possess.
Buthe’sstifled as well, a realization made apparent in every piece of artwork. How? They’re all here, locked behind glass. Without bothering to ask, I suspect he’s never shared them beyond this space. Beyond his skin—or anyone he may tattoo.
This place is his journal, and he’s just as secretive with it as I am with mine.
“Your mouth is open, rabbit,” he taunts when I’m halfway around the shop. “I’m surprised you aren’t waggling that pretty little tongue—”
“And I’m surprised you spent all day stalking me.” I cock my head to shoot him a cold glance. To my chagrin, he winks. “Don’t you have a job?”
“Thisismy job.” He lifts his arms, gesturing around us.
“It’s pretty empty,” I point out.
“Because I don’t take just anyone,” he counters. “My services are invitation only. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”
I turn around to find him standing closer than expected. His eyes bore into mine, his body heat an oppressive wall that drives me back against a wooden surface—a desk, I realize. Beside it is a sturdy leather swivel chair, presumably where people sit while having a tattoo applied.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“For business,” he says. “I’ve decided how you can repay me, rabbit. From now on, if you work for Zhang, you work forme. That means you come when I call. When I say jump, your feet leave the ground.”
“How?” I croak, though I don’t think I want to know the answer.
“You bring me Zhang’s payments from now on,” he says. “On time, bunny.”
