Chapter Seven
Things That Bother Me
Maverick
Sleep hasn’t found me.Every time I close my eyes, I see it again, the damn car seat wedged in the back of Zora’s car, the flash of pink fabric, and the crayon stuck in the holder.And her face, shuddering the second she caught me looking.It gnaws at me, sharp as broken glass.
I tell myself it isn’t my business.She can live however she wants, build whatever life she wants.I have no right to wonder.But the thought digs in deep, every passing hour feeding it like a fire.
By the time I walk into House of Ink, I’m wired and restless, my jaw aching from grinding my teeth all night.The shop buzzes with the usual chaos.Luke is already holding court in his booth, spinning some wild story to a client who keeps laughing between nervous glances at the needle.Alistair leans against the counter, all broad shoulders and steady silence, like a wall holding everything in place.
And Skye, seven months pregnant, belly rounding under her loose dress, still buzzes around like she hasn’t heard the phrase “slow down.”Phone in one hand, clipboard in the other, she orders Luke to shift toward the window for better light, then barks at Hailey to stop stealing her ring light.
“Bossy,” Luke mutters.
“Pregnant,” Skye shoots back, smirking.“I get a pass.”
The entire shop laughs, even Alistair’s mouth twitching like he wants to but doesn’t want to hurt his tough guy image.
I should feel steadied by it, pulled into the rhythm of their banter.Instead, my skin prickles like I’m trying to crawl out of it.Because no matter where I stand, I feel her.Zora.
She moves through the shop with her camera, lens flashing, adjusting the light, laughing at some stupid comment Luke tosses her way.She looks normal.Calm.Like she hasn’t upended my whole world just by being in it again.
I sit at my booth, sketching for my first client of the day.She is a young woman wanting a floral piece on her wrist to honor her grandmother, delicate vines with roses intertwined.Not my usual work, all softness and curves instead of sharp edges and shadows.But my hand knows what to do anyway, building the design petal by petal, line by line.
When she sits down, I work steadily, quietly, my machine buzzing low.The roses bloom across her skin, shaded softly instead of my usual stark style, an echo of someone she’d loved.She smiles through the sting of the needle, tears bright in her eyes when she looks down at the finished piece.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.“She loved roses.”
“Good,” I mutter, cleaning the tattoo.“Now she’ll always be with you.”
This is why I became a tattoo artist.Not for the tramp stamps or the skulls but for the pieces that matter, the pieces that have a story, and the people who carry their truth on their skin.
She hugs me when she leaves.Another first.Two days in a row.I don’t know what to do with it, so I just stand there, stiff, until she lets go.
The second she walks out, I catch it.
