Bishop laughed loudly and patted his mostly flat stomach. “Shit, man, that’s Eddie. I told him he’s feeding me too much.”
“Hmmm,” Wood hummed, shaking his head at the lovesick expression on his friend’s face. “It’s the way to a man’s heart, right?”
“Sure as hell is.” Bishop smirked. “Speaking of food. Come on, let’s get to the oceanfront. I’ve been thinking about a seafood dinner all day.”
“Sounds good. Let me get my coat.” Wood picked up his pad and took it to his bedroom, and Bishop followed behind him.
“So how’d it go last night?”
Wood blew out a long breath of exhaustion. “Wasn’t exactly a When Harry Met Sally moment.”
Bishop stayed on his heels while he went to his closet and pulled out his scarf and a thick beanie. He ignored the almost desperate vibes coming at him from behind when he turned off his light and left out of his room.
“Trent really is a great guy once you get past his guard. And trust me, it’s in place for a reason. But if you can ignore the blustering and earn his respect, he’ll start to trust you. With his trust comes his loyalty. And if you’re lucky enough to earn that, then he’ll be the best man in the world to have in your corner.”
“Better than you?” Wood asked, realizing he was intrigued by the sudden challenge.
“Ten times better,” Bishop said, then clutched onto his shoulder. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you? Come on, Wood. You’re used to dealing with mouthy men who simply… need a friend.”
Wood spun on Bishop once they were in the living room. “That guy doesn’t need or want a friend. And even if he did, he doesn’t want me… he wants you.”
“Trent has me.” Bishop frowned.
“Does he?” Wood asked seriously.
“Yes! But I want you both. I mean, I want you two to get along so we can all chill together. Double up and stuff. Trent won’t hang out with me and Eddie because he says he doesn’t want to be a third wheel.”
Wood scowled. “Are you insane? What the hell you mean double up? Me and him are not a— He thinks I’m freakin’ Father Time. He asked me if I had any dietary restrictions.”
The front door opened just as Bishop let out a loud bark of laughter. Trent grinned when he walked in as if he was pleasantly surprised to see him there. Then his smoky eyes landed on Wood and his smile fell from his lips faster than Lucifer fell from grace. It was hard to miss the slightly annoyed glare as he scanned Wood’s “dressed nice” outfit.
“Been a long deployment, huh, sailor?” Trent asked snidely. “Looks as if you’re planning to have more than just dinner tonight.”
Wood narrowed his eyes, and Bishop hurried to speak as if sensing the discord. “Trent, go clean up real quick and get changed. We’re gonna take Wood to his old shop, then get some food at Rudee’s.” Bishop greedily rubbed his big hands together. “Come on, that’s your favorite.”
Trent looked back and forth between them, his gaze lingering on Wood a few seconds longer, then shook his head. “Y’all go on.”
“Trent,” Bishop said, seeming surprised.
“I’m just tired, all right? I worked all day.” Trent walked by with his bag and whispered in Wood’s direction, “Hope you have a good time.”
“Damnit,” Bishop hissed. “Why won’t he snap outta this?”
“Not everyone likes change. Especially when it’s forced on them.” Wood added his two cents whether Bishop wanted to hear it or not.
“Let’s just go. The shop’ll be closing in an hour.” Bishop left out before him, and Wood turned off the lights and locked the front door.
Chapter Seven
Wood
“Man, a lot sure has changed down here. Wow, I see the haunted mansion is still there though.” Wood said as Bishop drove them up Atlantic Avenue at twenty miles per hour.
No one drove fast on the strip; they had to cruise slow to take in all it had to offer. Because it was winter, and the tourist off-season, it wasn’t swarming with people. Which was the perfect time for him to go. He didn’t prefer large crowds; they made him nervous. Something always happened when too many people were gathered in one place. He had the window of Bishop’s work truck rolled halfway down so he could smell the salty ocean and hear the waves washing up on the shore.
He remembered walking to the Dairy Queen they’d just passed and having a mint Oreo Blizzard on his break between customers. And the Beach Arcade where he embarrassed his friends in Skee-Ball on the weekend before they went to the bar. He was glad some things never changed. There was a new naval aviation monument along the boardwalk, and Wood figured he’d take the bus back alone later and check it out. So many memories flooded over him as Bishop eased up to the curb in front of the tattoo shop he’d put his blood, sweat, tears, and entire life savings into, only to see it now with someone else’s name on the front. He didn’t get out right away as he stared through the glass windows.
“You good, man?” Bishop asked quietly.
Wood nodded stiffly. If anyone could understand the inner turmoil he was feeling, it was the guy beside him. He wanted to barge through those doors and tell whoever was at his station to move the fuck out the way, and then he’d dig in the apprentice’s ass for not having the windows spotless.
“Go in and see what they say, Wood,” Bishop encouraged.
“I am… I just… I just wish I had my damn portfolios,” Wood ground out. He needed to somehow get them back, but that was going to be a hard-fought war, and he had to focus on one manageable task at a time.
“I’ll go park in the municipal lot and meet you back over here,” Bishop said, and Wood knew he couldn’t stall any longer.
He got out of the truck and went inside the familiar but strange tattoo shop. The location was perfect, and the foot traffic was nonstop during the peak season. He and Gary would make enough during the summer to carry them throughout the year, during the slow months. A man with long blond hair and jet-black roots looked up from the counter when he walked in. He gave Wood a quick nod and waved him to the counter.
“What’s up, brother. How can I help you?” The man looked to be no more than thirty, with his low beard and crooked smile.
“Yeah, um. I was wondering if you knew where I could find the previous owner to this place. His name was French, Gary French.” Wood desperately wanted to go nosing around, but he maintained eye contact.
“Yeah, I know Frenchy,” the guy said. “He sold this place to my uncle about ten years ago, and I bought it from him in 2018. How’d you know him?”
“I was his business partner when he first opened,” Wood said gravely, feeling the pain at remembering his long-lost friend.
“No shit.” The guy’s smile got wider. “I didn’t even know—”
“Wood?” a man said, coming from around the corner where Wood’s old business office used to be. He beamed at the recognizable man who was once Gary’s apprentice. He was older of course, and he had some gray at his temple and laugh lines in the corners of his eyes, but he looked the same. “Herschel Wood, is that you?”