Under My Skin

Copyright © 2008 by M. L. Rhodes

ISBN

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When the rock music in the shop next door to his cranked up a notch and the wall behind him began pulsating, every muscle in Sebastian Keller's neck tensed.

“I swear I'm going
kill
him,” he muttered under his breath.

“Kilian.
Kilian?
You mean Saint Kilian? No, no, no. He was Irish. Violet and I are going to Scotland this year, not Ireland.”

Momentarily taken aback as he tried to follow his loyal, geriatric customer's train of thought, Sebastian peered at the old man. Then he sighed when he saw Mr. Palchesky wasn't wearing his hearing aide today.

“I know, Mr. Palchesky,” he said, pitching his voice louder— both so the old gentleman could hear him better, and so he could hear himself over the reverberating racket from the neighboring shop. “I didn't say Kilian, I said... Never mind. Let's get you rung up, shall we?”

He reached across the oak counter and pulled the stack of books about Scotland toward him.
Scotland: The Complete Travel Guide, The Most Beautiful Places to Visit in Scotland, A Pictorial History of Scotland, Scottish Castles.

“Do you think I should get a book on Scottish pubs, too?” Mr. Palchesky asked with a breathless huff as he pushed up his streaked bifocals. “Or do you suppose that would just set Violet off on one of her terrors about my heart and my diet?” A look of horror crossed the old man's face. “You don't suppose she's going to try to force me to eat fresh vegetables and bran flakes on this trip like she does at home, do you? Surely she'll give it a rest while we're on vacation.”

Sebastian smiled. He knew Mrs. Palchesky well. The couple had been regular customers at Sebastian's store— Great Escapes Travel Book Shop— for almost five years. He hated to be the bearer of bad tidings, but he was certain Violet Palchesky would, indeed, try to keep her husband on the straight and narrow. Ever since his heart attack last fall, she'd laid down the law with him and, much to Mr. Palchesky's consternation, monitored every particle of food and drink that went in his mouth.

“She loves you and just wants you to be healthy.”

“Wealthy? Well, it's a little late for that. If she wanted wealthy she should have married that stooge Walter Haversham her parents loved so much.”

The music ratcheted up another decibel.

“
Healthy
, Mr. Palchesky,” Sebastian repeated, practically shouting, even as he cursed the owner of the shop next door, who could obviously care less about Sebastian's customers and business.

“Forty years I spent working for the Metropolitan St. Louis Sewer District,” Mr. Palchesky continued, as if Sebastian hadn't spoken at all, “and it's been a good life. We haven't lived in any mansions, mind you, but we've been comfortable, and my pension allows us to do some traveling now. If she wanted wealthy, she ought to have spoken up sooner. ‘Course if she quit spending so dad-blamed much money buying trinkets in every shop she comes across, we'd have a far sight more money than we do.” The old gentleman shook his head.

And so did Sebastian, giving up on trying to have a real conversation. His head was beginning to throb from the beat of the drums and the screech of guitar riffs. He picked up the cane left by one of his customers a few days ago and banged it against the wall hard enough it made the papers tacked to the bulletin board nearby flutter.

The music, of course, didn't let up. “Damn it.”

Noticing Mr. Palchesky's rheumy gaze moving with concern between the cane in Sebastian's hands and the wall, Sebastian leaned the stick against a shelf and pasted a smile on his face. He slid the old gentleman's books into a bag and, after Mr. Palchesky had scratched his name across the bottom of the receipt, handed him his credit card and purchases.

“Thanks, Mr. Palchesky, and give Mrs. Palchesky my love.”

“Yes, I will.” He looked to the wall behind Sebastian again, shaking his head. “And you ought to call an exterminator to come check that out,” he wheezed. “Sounds like you might have a rat problem, son. Can hear ‘em in there.”

Sebastian gritted his teeth. “Oh, it's not rats. But it is a problem I plan to take care of in short order,” he assured his customer.

The blaring music, and the clientele traipsing in and out of the place next door was bad enough, but the last thing he needed was for Mr. P to spread the word to all his and Mrs. P's jet-setting senior-citizen friends that Great Escapes had rats. Sebastian couldn't afford to lose any business— no matter the reason.

“Well, good. That's good.” Mr. Palchesky clutched his sack of books and tottered to the door.

Sebastian took several long-legged strides to get ahead of him and pushed the door open for the portly older man. The bell hanging from the top jingled, and warm spring sunshine poured down on Sebastian. He stood for a moment savoring it, trying to let it coax him out of his bad mood.

But the sight of Mr. Palchesky making his way, huffing and puffing, at a slow shuffle down the sidewalk in front of the strip mall to Sebastian's right— past Great Escapes, past Sugar Plum Bakery, past the children's consignment store called Oh, Baby Baby, before finally reaching his Buick Lucerne parked in front of Dr. Dean's optometry office at the end of the building— brought on a new surge of annoyance. As had been the case recently, the few parking spots in front of Great Escapes were filled. And certainly not with vehicles belonging to Sebastian's customers, since Mr. P had been the only one in the store.

With a dark expression, Sebastian looked to his left, at the tattoo studio that, in his opinion, was a complete mismatch with the other businesses in the Green Meadows strip mall.

Six years Sebastian's book store had been in this location and, up until last month, he'd loved it. But when Bernice Truman— known as “Bunny” to her family, friends, and customers— had decided to retire and close her store, Lamb Fluff Knitting, so she could spend more time with her grandchildren, the shop next door had been vacated.

For all of one night.

The business owners in the mall had held a tearful goodbye party for Bunny on her final day, and the very next morning hammering and drilling had begun inside the empty space. The windows had been papered over, however, so no one could tell what was going on inside. That had been a Saturday. Sebastian's store was closed on Sundays and Mondays, but he'd been curious all weekend what type of business would be moving in next to him. When he'd arrived Tuesday morning, the flashing red and black neon sign in the window had announced to him and everyone up and down the street that Rad Tattoos had arrived.

Sebastian remembered sitting in his car and staring at the blinking sign with a sick knot of dismay in his stomach. He'd had it ever since.

Of all the businesses that could have replaced Bunny's knitting shop, why a tattoo studio? The type of customers who gave their patronage to the stores here were a vastly different crowd from the type who populated places like tattoo shops. So far Sebastian hadn't noticed a marked decrease in sales at his store, but he'd had more than one customer ask him about the loud music, hadn't missed the gawking stares his customers had given some of the clientele next door, and now the parking situation compounded the problem. Many of his customers were senior citizens, and it infuriated Sebastian that they had to walk so far to get to his store because Rad Tattoos’ clients were hogging more than their fair share of spots.

He was certain it was just a matter of time before his customers decided braving the colorful carnival next door wasn't worth it, then they'd take their business over to the book superstore out by the interstate. The thought made him both sick to his stomach and furious. And it was all the fault of the insufferable tenant next door— Dylan Radamacher, the owner of Rad Tattoos.

Like oil and water, Sebastian Keller and the Dylan Radamachers of the world didn't mix. He'd learned that lesson the hard way and was still trying to clean up the mess from it, which was why he needed every penny he earned from Great Escapes. He'd been wrung through the wringer before by someone of the same ilk as the tattoo artist, and he damn well wasn't going to allow a repeat performance.

Steeling himself, he took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and marched to the door of the tattoo studio.

Unlike the pleasant, jingling bell on his door, this one let out an electronic
ding-dong
when he entered. One he could barely hear over the drumming, screaming music... if one could call it
music
.

The place was packed, as usual. Two middle-aged, bearded bikers perused the framed tattoo designs lining all the available wall space. And pale, dark-clothed bodies lounged on the leather couch and sat on the floor around it in the waiting area.

The bikers gave him brief, raised-eyebrow glances before resuming their study of a collection of skull art.

At the same time, the group of six or seven dyed-black heads in the waiting area turned his way, and although he couldn't even see all the young people's eyes from the over-the-face emo hairstyles, he felt them staring at him.

He shifted, uncomfortable, feeling like a conservative, uptight sore thumb in this place in his khakis, white button-down shirt, and loafers. And it really ticked him off because wasn't
he
the one dressed like a normal person? Why should he feel uncomfortable? Good God, he couldn't even tell whether he was looking at boys or girls, teens or twenty-somethings in the tight T-shirts and skinny-jeans on the even skinnier bodies.

None of them said a word to him... just gaped like he was a strange bird in their nest, then turned back to their cell phones and continued texting, their fingers flying as they pushed buttons. Heaven forbid they might have actual real verbal conversations with one another.

He fricking hated feeling like the bastard stepchild, yet every time he set foot in this place that's exactly how he felt. Like he didn't belong here.

And who was he kidding. He didn't.

He grumbled under his breath and went to the glass-topped wood counter that served as a half-wall between the waiting room and the tattoo and piercing studio itself. A colorful batik curtain had been drawn to close off an alcove of the studio, and Sebastian knew it was probably because the tattoo artist was working on a sensitive piece of someone's anatomy that required privacy.

Two people occupied another alcove, however, this one with the curtain open. Sebastian recognized one of them, the young man. His name was Ander. Rad Tattoos was a full-service studio that not only did tattoos, but piercing as well, and Ander was the piercer. He was a walking billboard for his work, with lip, brows, nose, and chin displaying assorted metal.

The girl with him, who'd just risen from a chair and approached the counter with Ander, had several brow piercings, and her lower lip looked red and swollen with a shiny metal ball protruding from it. Obviously her newest addition.

Ander glanced at Sebastian and nodded, but then studiously ignored him as he shouted instructions on aftercare to the girl and rang her up. As cash changed hands, both of them had their heads bouncing to the beat of the music.

Having to wait annoyed Sebastian, but he'd been in retail long enough to appreciate that customers came first, so he managed to keep his mouth shut and resign himself to glaring. But only just.

When the girl finally meandered back over to the couch to accept hugs from everyone, the piercer called out, “Saffron, you're up next.”

“Uh... excuse me,” Sebastian growled, leaning on the counter, putting himself in Ander's face.