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He’s doing this on purpose.

I step over to the shared wall and rap my knuckles firmly against the drywall.

The music cuts out instantly. Dead silence settles over the duplex.

A tiny, satisfied smirk tugs at my mouth. I turn back toward my table and pick up the pencil.

Five seconds later, an obnoxiously bright, high-energy pop riff erupts on the other side of the wall.

My head whips around. “You absolute asshole.”

I hit the wall harder with the flat of my hand.

The riff cuts off immediately. Replaced by the distinct, muffled sound of his low laughter vibrating straight through the plaster.

I stare at the wall, my hand still resting against the paint.

He isn't just loud. He's bored, he's baiting me, and he knows damn well I'm listening.

Chapter three

ZANDER

Black Fern Tattoo looks nothing like the tattoo shops I remember from my early twenties.

No wall of snakes and skulls. No neon beer signs. No guy behind the counter who seems pissed-off that I walked through the door.

I’m five minutes early for my consultation, mostly because Mom raised me correctly despite substantial evidence to the contrary.

A woman with short dark hair looks up from behind the front counter. “Zander?”

“That’s me.”

“You’re here for the Europe piece?”

I nod. “Assuming somebody can make six months of questionable decisions look artistic.”

She smiles. “Ruby can probably help with that.”

I stop.

Ruby.

There are probably hundreds of Rubys in Northern California.

Dozens, at least.

Maybe six.

The woman glances toward the back. “She’ll be right out.”

I’m still trying to decide whether the universe is funny enough to do this to me when a curtain shifts near the back of the shop.

And there she is.

The pissed-off fairy from next door.

She stops dead when she sees me, and I laugh out loud before I can stop myself.