Princesa, you have no idea.
“Thanks.” She looked at her arm, then backed away, turned, and went inside.
Spider took his position on the back fence, lit another cigarette, and stared at the door where Daisy had disappeared.
Self-control.
He fucking had it.
Spider skipped the café for a solid week after talking with Daisy at the Ice House. He knew that seeing his ink on her skin would be a little too tempting, and he was hoping it would be gone or at least pretty faded by the time he walked into the place on Wednesday.
He wasn’t going to completely deprive himself of her presence, but he knew he could only take small doses of Daisy Rivera. It was the same way he’d taken drugs when he was running with Chino. Spider knew he had to do some shit because otherwise he’d have stood out, but since he’d seen what that kind of garbage did to other people, he was careful.
He’d manage to avoid most of it by making his hands tremble violently the one time he took meth. Since no one wanted a tattoo artist with the shakes, he was allowed to skip most of the harder stuff that Chino pushed on the boys as long as he kept busy.
The morning was fresh and the sky a clear blue when he walked downtown. He wasn’t working until two that afternoon, but he’d promised Betsy to help her pack some boxes at the bookstore. He could justify the coffee if he was helping with the books. Maybe Daisy was wearing that shirt with the ruffles again. He’d decided it was his new favorite.
Spider had carefully washed out the travel coffee mug that Betsy gave him the previous Christmas. It made the old lady smile every time she saw him use it, and hell, that thing kept coffee warm for fucking hours. It was amazing.
The bell rang as he pushed open the door, but there was no Daisy in sight. Instead, her aunt was at the register, sitting on a tall stool with a padded back and chatting with Ruby, his boss’s wife.
“Spider!” Ruby grinned at him. She was in her midforties and a solid artist. “You switch shifts with someone?”
“Nah.” He nodded toward the street. “I told Betsy I’d help her out with some heavy stuff.”
“You’re a sweetheart to help her.” Ruby winked at him. “Don’t worry; I won’t tell the guys.”
Spider liked working with Ruby because not only did she do good work, she didn’t have an ego like most tattoo artists. Including him.
Yeah, he could admit it. His ego was fucking huge when it came to his ink. He was the best artist in Metlin, not that he could say that yet, but he knew he was. Hell, he’d been the best artist in LA when he was fifteen. Guys came from all over the city to have Spider tattoo them, and he wasn’t just talking about the assholes in Chino’s crew.
He stepped up to the counter and handed the old woman his travel mug. “Can I get a refill? Just black coffee please.”
“I know what you drink, young man.” She patted Spider’s hand and glanced at Ruby. “I better get back to work, Miss Ruby. You be good.”
“You too.” Ruby headed toward the door. “See you later, Leg Man.”
The older woman turned to frown at Ruby, but she was already gone. She turned her eyes to Spider. “Leg man?”
“Spider,” he muttered. “’Cause they have lots of legs. I don’t know, she thinks it’s funny.”
Daisy’s aunt laughed a little. “That one has a strange sense of humor.” She waved a hand. “A good person though.”
“Yeah, she and Bill are great.”
“You’re living in that apartment over their garage, right? Their son’s old room?”
“I think so; some of his stuff is still there.”
“He’s a nice boy, but now that he has a fancy job in Seattle, he’s embarrassed by his parents.” She shook her head. “What kind of child is embarrassed by their parents? They run an honest business.”
Spider knew better than to talk shit about Ruby and Bill’s son. “I don’t know anything about him, so I can’t say.”
The old woman set his coffee on the counter, and Spider noticed that there weren’t many people in the café, which was probably why the lady seemed ready to strike up a conversation.
No sign of Daisy at all.
“Thanks, Mrs. Rivera. How much—?”
“Oh, I’m not a Rivera.” She smiled. “That’s Daisy’s father’s family. I’m her grandmother’s sister. Just call me Tia Imelda.”
“Tia…” Spider had never called anyone tia. Not even in his own family. He didn’t know any of his aunts. “Okay, thanks. How much for the coffee?”
Imelda ignored him and asked, “What do your parents do?”
The wound was well and truly scarred over, so Spider didn’t flinch. “Both my parents are dead.” He opened his coffee and grabbed three sugar packets from the counter. “But my dad was a car upholsterer, and my mom was a housewife. Until my dad died; then she cleaned houses.”
There had been a flash of pity, but that was why Spider kept talking. If you stopped talking at the dead-parents part, no one listened to anything else you said.
“See? Working people. And I don’t see you being embarrassed by either of them.”
“No, ma’am.” Of course, he was a tattoo artist, not a financial analyst or whatever Ruby’s kid was now.
But Spider could never be embarrassed by his parents. He only wished his mother hadn’t been embarrassed by him when she died. On good days, he thought maybe they could see him from heaven and be happy that he’d turned shit around. Now the challenge was keeping it that way.
Imelda was shaking a finger at him. “I think you have a beautiful old car, don’t you? I’ve seen you drive it around town.”
“The El Camino?”
“Yes! Was it your father’s?”
Spider couldn’t stop the smile. “Yeah. You like old cars?”
“Are you joking?” She pointed to a black-and-white photo behind the counter. “You know who that is?”
Spider leaned forward and examined the picture. There was a slick-looking pachuco in a black suit and a shiny black pompadour haircut with a low fade. On either side of him were two beautiful women: A curvaceous woman who looked more than a little like Daisy was standing with her hand at her waist, a scarf tied around her neck, wearing a halter-top dress and dark lipstick. The other woman was taller, with attitude to spare. She was leaning on the car and kicking up a pointed heel.
The group was standing in front of a very sweet car that was vintage 1940s American-manufacturing gold. The chrome made Spider want to drool.
“You were rocking those shades.” He had a feeling he was seeing Imelda in her prime. “And that car is insane. Is that a Buick?”
“You do know cars.” She smiled. “That’s a 1948 Buick Roadmaster Riviera. Maya and Enrique had only been married a few years, and I had come north for a visit. I thought it was so glamorous! Enrique said he had to get it because of the name. Rivera. Riviera. Maya called it his Roadmaster Rivera.” The old woman laughed. “We took that picture in the fifties. My sister loved that car, and Enrique loved driving her in it. He kept it perfect.”
“Enrique was Daisy’s grandfather?”