Chapter 7

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Chapter 7

The majority of my day was spent in the staff bathroom on my knees throwing up.

Murderer.

The word was constantly there. Bouncing around and crossing my mind at the worst of times. I even had to excuse myself a few times when I was helping clients. The red paint on the canvases that I was showing them eerily resembled blood a little too much and was enough to send me into a whole other spiral.

I didn't understand. Harry Styles was a tattoo artist – a good one, at that. How could he be capable of killing people? And why did people want to kill him?

Needless to say, it hadn't been a great shift.

I had done as he said, introducing myself as Ava, but it hadn't put me any more at ease. Though I omitted the boyfriend part, mainly because I didn't think it was relevant to have to tell every client that I was fake committed and also because I was having a hard enough time getting a real boyfriend as it was. I didn't need them potentially spreading around that I was off the market.

By the time the end of the day rolled around, I kind of wished that Olivia had been here solely because I found myself jumping at every small noise and glancing over my shoulder every couple of seconds. It also didn't help that I hadn't eaten anything all day, nor did I think I would be able to keep anything down if I tried.

It was because of this that I got so fed up and ended up closing the store an hour and a half early, having to cancel my painting class later in the evening, feeling too weak, too terrified and too completely out of my wits to be able to do anything right now. There was no sense in trying to stay open if I barely had enough energy to stand on my own two feet and now had a raging headache preventing me from thinking clearly.

A hot bath and a Netflix marathon were what I needed tonight.

And it was what I was going to get.

After texting Olivia that I was locking up, I made my way out to the back parking lot where my knees nearly buckled at the sense of familiarity that washed through me as I rounded the corner and came into view of the love of my life.

"Hi, Moira," I cooed, walking over to my car and slumping down for a few seconds on her battered, red hood. "How's my little baby? I missed you. Sorry I left ya hanging here last night."

Moira was quite possibly one of the things that I valued higher than my own life. A used 2007 Pontiac g5 that probably cost less than the change I had in my pocket right now, but I didn't care. She was mine. And I had worked for her. I would forever be proud and show her off.

"How's my little bug doing, hm?" I asked, jerking the key around a bit in the door handle until it popped open. Sometimes she just needed a bit of a push. "Mama's had a rough couple of days, if I'm being honest, fuck."

I slid inside, throwing my purse into the passenger seat and tossing an old takeout coffee cup into the back while I rummaged through the center console to find my lip gloss. Moira hummed to life as I pulled the sun visor down, grimacing at my appearance, applying a thick coat to try and bring back at least some colour to my face.

"I met a murderer," I said plainly, capping the small tube and clicking the lock button on the doors. "He didn't try to kill me, but I have a feeling he wants to." Moira's engine gave a small sputter and I tutted, "I know, I know. I should be more careful but, Jesus, you think you know people."

It was almost dark by the time I finally pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. It wasn't a long drive, but I was at least grateful for the few minutes where I could blare my music to the point where I couldn't hear my thoughts – you know, the usual when you're trying to forget about scary, green-eyed, murderous tattoo artists and whatnot.

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