“Nothing,” Shamrock said breezily. “Just that you’re a conservative, quiet bastard and somehow you still understand the brotherhood.”
Fly laughed. “Don’t try your passive-aggressive shit on me, Shamrock. It won’t work. I understand the brotherhood just fine. You’ll need a different jig to dance.”
Shamrock’s eyes narrowed. “You and your fucking Gallagher Logic. Damn if you aren’t the toughest pain-in-the-ass alive.”
He wandered to one of the flash books on the counter and flipped through it, humming to himself like a menace.
“This one.”
Fly sighed, then actually looked at the damn design, and his gut tightened.
Fuck.
A gong went off inside him, black ink woven into a pattern that looked like it had been forged from ocean current and instinct. Sharp lines. Smooth turns. Strength and motion. It was his identity in ink.
Shamrock’s voice softened, almost wise. “Look, mate, a tribal band fits you like a surfer’s board. Leadership, strength, command. It ties into where you’re headed.”
It was this goddamned argument that hit deep and hard somewhere inside him.
Bolt grinned. “Also, girls will want to fuck you just to get their hands on it. Ink is like crack to women.”
Shamrock shoved him, hard. Bolt didn’t even stumble.
“Weak, Mac,” Bolt muttered.
His breath eased out slowly, eyes dropping shut for a beat.
Shamrock leaned in close, voice a devilish whisper. “Ohhh, is the lad wavering?”
“Goddamn you, Kavanagh.”
“Hoo-yah,” Shamrock crowed, triumphant. He threw his arms wide like a mad priest. “All right, lads! Let us mark the moment we became legends!” He claimed a swivel chair and immediately began spinning in it like a toddler on espresso. Bolt leaned against the wall, smirking, shirt already half-untucked like he’d been waiting for this his whole life.
Than stood quietly, steady as a stone, taking everything in.
Fly snorted. “Pretty sure that happened when you invented Gallagher Logic.”
“Oi,” Shamrock shot back. “Legendary developments in military theory should be honored.”
“That’s not military theory,” Fly muttered. “That’s neurological chaos.”
Bolt clapped once. “Enough foreplay. Who’s first?”
Shamrock grinned, wicked as hell. “You first, babycakes,” he said, pointing at Fly. “Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.”
The chair felt colder than he expected, metal beneath thin fabric, and the hum of the tattoo machine vibrated through the room in a low, steady thrum that reminded him of the ocean just before it broke over a sandbar. Fly rested his arm on the padded support and tried not to think too hard about the fact that he had voluntarily walked into a place that smelled like sterilized needles, disinfectant, and a reckless decision.
Shamrock was already holding court from a nearby chair, spinning slowly as if motion might keep his mischief contained. Bolt leaned against the wall with his arms folded, looking maddeningly entertained, and Than stood in the corner with that quiet steadiness that made Fly want to live up to something he couldn’t quite name.
The needle touched his skin, a hot, sharp sting that jolted straight to his spine. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was persistent, a constant bite that refused to let him forget he was being carved open by ink and intention. He sucked in a breath, jaw working, and kept his gaze fixed on the far wall as the machine buzzed along his arm.
He hadn’t expected the pain to open something inside him, yet it did. As the needle pressed deeper, the burn spread in a slow, determined line across his bicep, and with it came thoughts he’d been refusing to face. He was stepping into a future that terrified him in ways he didn't dare say out loud. Annapolis. Officer training. Responsibility. A life that demanded more than speed, cleverness, or instinct. A life that demanded steadiness, judgment, leadership. A life he wasn’t entirely sure he could rise to meet.
Failure had never been a word he allowed inside his lexicon, but it whispered now, thin and insistent, threading itself beneath the noise of the machine. What if he wasn’t enough? What if Bear’s belief in him was borrowed confidence rather than truth? What if the ocean, which had always welcomed him, couldn’t teach him the kind of steadiness required on land?
The pain deepened, then leveled, a raw heat that settled under his skin like a forge at full burn. He breathed through it, felt each pass of the needle as a reminder that growth rarely came from comfort. He had leapt off cliffs, swum through riptides, crossed lines most people never dared approach, yet nothing had unsettled him quite like the idea of stepping into a role where people might one day look to him for direction, for decisions that altered lives.
The tattoo artist paused only to wipe the excess ink, his movements efficient and calm, and Fly caught a glimpse of the armband beginning to take shape. Black. Bold. Curved lines interwoven with sharp angles. A design that looked as though it had been pulled straight from the heartbeat of a breaking wave. Something wild. Something certain. Something that felt like him.
