CHAPTER 1
KNIGHT
Take it easy for a few days.” I wipe down the fresh ink on Spike’s shoulder—a skull wreathed in flames, teeth bared in a permanent snarl. “You don’t want it to get infected like the last one.”
Spike grunts, twisting to check out my work in the mirror. The leather of his cut creaks as he moves. “That wasn’t my fault. Dumbass prospect spilled beer on it.”
“Sure.” I strip off my gloves and toss them in the trash. “Unscented lotion. Twice a day. No swimming, no direct sun.”
“Yeah, yeah. I don’t even know how to swim. You tell me the same thing every time.” But he’s grinning as he pulls out a wad of cash, peeling off bills. “Looks mean as hell, Knight. The boys are gonna lose their shit when they see this.”
I take the money without counting it. Spike always tips well, and he’s been coming to me for years. He knows the drill.
The bell above the door chimes as he leaves King Ink, and Clancy’s voice carries across the space from the front desk. “Yourthree-thirty canceled. But a woman called who wants to take the slot.”
I grab the antiseptic spray and start wiping down my chair. The smell of it cuts through the lingering scent of ink and skin. “What does she want?”
Clancy leans back in his chair, boots propped on the counter. He’s got at least fifteen years on me, salt-and-pepper beard, arms sleeved in faded traditional work. “Twenty bucks to anyone who guesses what she wants.”
“Pass,” Liam says.
“Tramp stamp. Little butterflies flying up her spine.” Carmine laughs.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not betting on what some stranger wants permanently inked on her body.”
“You’re no fun.” Clancy scratches his jaw. “Could be a sorority thing. Those little symbols they all get.”
“Every tattoo means something to someone.” I spray down the armrest, scrubbing harder than necessary. “Not my place to judge.”
“Since when?” Clancy snorts. “Last week you told that kid his tribal design was a ‘crime against creativity.’”
“That was different. He wanted it on his face.” I shake my head at the memory. The kid didn’t even seem drunk or high, but we sent him on his way. We don’t do that kind of work here.
“Maybe it’s another infinity symbol. Might as well tattoo ‘I have no imagination’ instead,” I say as Liam comes out of the back room.
Clancy barks out a laugh. “There he is. For a second, I thought you’d gone soft on me.”
Soft. If he only knew.
“What’s this girl actually want?”
Clancy checks the intake form and chuckles. “Huh. Says here she wants a Purrfect Kitten design.”
My hand freezes mid-wipe.
“You know, that artist who went viral last year?” Clancy continues, oblivious. “The cartoon cats with the big eyes. Everyone online is obsessed with figuring out who’s behind them. I don’t get what the big deal is. They’re just cute little drawings.”
They have no fucking idea who they’re talking to.
The air in my lungs turns solid. I force myself to keep cleaning, to keep my face neutral. “Which design?”
“She didn’t say, but she said she’d bring in the design she wants.” He looks up at me. “You okay with it? I can get Carmine to cover if you want.”
“I’m fine,” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible. “Send her back when she gets here.”
Clancy shrugs and goes back to scrolling on his phone. He doesn’t know.Nobodyknows. That’s the point—the anonymity is what makes it safe. Behind a screen name and a faceless brand, I can be soft. I can be vulnerable. I can be the person Grandma Rose saw in me, not the rough-edged tattoo, grumpy-ass artist everyone else sees.
I finish prepping my station, but my hands want to shake. I shake them out because I can’t let anyone know I’m rattled. Someone wants to wear my art on their skin. Permanently.
