Fuck.I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
I left her behind for a reason.Because what we had was fire and destruction and need, and I wasn’t man enough back then to hold onto it.She deserved better than the wreck I was.Maybe she still does.She’s probably married now, with some steady asshole who fixes cars or teaches kids and looks good on paper.She probably forgot all about me.
Good.That’s what I want.That’s what I need.
I roll into Main Street, parking my beat-up truck at the far end.Franklinton hasn’t changed, but House of Ink sure as hell has.It used to be a plain brick building with a flickering sign, one of those places only locals knew about.Now it looks alive.Big bold letters above the door, glass shining like someone actually gives a damn, flashes of color from the artwork hanging inside the windows.Even the street outside looks different, cars from out of town lined up, people lingering, waiting for their turn to get inked.
It feels less like a tattoo shop and more like a heartbeat.And for the first time in a long time, I feel something like ...hope.
I kill the engine, grab the bag with my tattoo kit, and climb out.The summer heat slams into me like a fist, sweat already gathering at the back of my neck.I square my shoulders, take a breath, and push through the front door.
The hum of machines greets me, steady and familiar.The place smells like disinfectant, ink, and faintly of coffee.The walls are covered in framed artwork, bold splashes of color mixed with black-and-gray realism that makes my fingers itch for a machine.Couches line the waiting area, and the place is buzzing with people, clients, friends, maybe both.
Behind the counter, a tiny dark-haired woman with more curves than sense is juggling a phone call, a laptop, and a paper schedule.That must be Skye.I’ve heard Laine bitch about her and praise her in the same breath in some of our conversations on the phone.The shop’s success rides on her chaos along with the talented artists that work here.
She glances up, and her eyes widen.“Oh!You must be Maverick.”
Before I can answer, a mountain of a man, Alistair, has to be, leans out from one of the booths, arms crossed over his chest, tattoos spilling down like armor.He sizes me up in one look, the kind of look that says, “hurt my family and I’ll bury you.”
“Laine said you were showing up today,” he rumbles.“Come on.He’s in the back.”
I follow him down a hall lined with booths, each one alive with buzzing machines and focused artists.The crew’s good.I can tell just from the work I glimpse as I pass.Clean lines and bold shading.Real talent.
Laine’s waiting in the back, a jagged scar cutting down the side of his face, hazel eyes sharp but not unkind.He shakes my hand like we’re equals, no bullshit between us.
“Glad you made it,” he says.“We’ve got more work than we can handle.If you keep your head down and do good ink, you’ll fit right in.”
I nod.I want to say something, thank him for the opportunity, but the words feel heavy in my throat.It’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at me like I belong somewhere.Like I might be worth the effort.
But then the air shifts.I feel it before I see her.That prickle on the back of my neck, that punch to the gut you get when the past comes crashing through the present.I turn, and there she is.
Zora.
Time has barely touched her, it’s only carved her sharper.Her dark hair is pulled back, strands escaping to frame her face.Her body, curvier now, moves with the kind of confidence I don’t remember her having.A camera hangs from her neck, her fingers poised on the lens like it’s an extension of herself.
Her eyes meet mine.And just like that, I’m twenty again, drowning in her.
For a second, neither of us moves.The shop noise fades, and it’s just us, locked in a stare thick with everything we never said.
Then her mouth tightens, her eyes harden, and she walks past me like I’m no one.
The hit lands harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
I swallow, force my face blank, and turn back to Laine.“So,” I rasp, “where do you want me?”
Anywhere but here.Anywhere but where she can cut me open with just one look.
But fate is a sick bastard.Because she’s here.She’s everywhere.And I already know I’m fucked.
