Chapter Three
Doing What I Love
Maverick
The shop is already alive when I walk in the next morning.Machines buzzing.Voices low and easy.The faint smell of coffee and disinfectant mixing with ink.House of Ink isn’t just a tattoo studio, it is a goddamn ecosystem.Everyone has their place, their rhythm, their style.I’m not quite part of it yet but I will be soon enough.
I drop my bag at the back booth they’d assigned me.Clean counter, fresh disposable tubes, and boxes of needles neatly stacked.Everything organized in a way that makes me itch.I’m used to chaos.The kind of hole-in-the-wall shops where you wiped the dust off the flash sheets before you hung them on the wall.This place feels like a machine, running smooth, everyone doing their part.Which means if I screw this up, I’ll stand out.
Alistair is already at his station, ink winding up his arms like armor, focused and silent as he sets up for a sleeve.Laine stands across the room, talking to a client with that calm authority that makes people lean in and listen.Luke cracks a joke loud enough for the waiting area to hear, his laugh quick and sharp.Abigail floats between clients like quiet water, steady and patient.And Skye is everywhere, phone in hand, snapping shots, filming clips, already planning how to spin it into the next viral post.
And then there is Zora.Camera around her neck, dark hair pulled back, lips pressed in a thin line as she adjusts the lighting for Skye.She doesn’t look at me, not once.But I feel her there.Every nerve in my body is vividly fucking aware of her.
I force myself to focus.
My first client of the day is a guy in his mid-thirties with nervous eyes and a printout clutched in his hand.He stops dead when Laine gestures toward me.
“This is Maverick,” Laine said.“He’s your artist today.”
The guy looks me over like he isn’t sure he trusts me with a ballpoint pen, let alone permanent ink.I don’t blame him.With the scar down my jaw, tattoos up my neck, and the fact I didn’t sleep much last night, I don’t exactly scream “trustworthy.”
“What are you looking for?”I ask, keeping my voice low.
He hands me the printout of a lion, fierce and snarling.The kind of thing I’d seen done a thousand times, half of them badly.
“You want this?”I ask.
He nods quickly.“Yeah.On my forearm.”
I study it a second, then shake my head.“I can do better.”I know I’m good at what I do and I’m not afraid to show it.
His eyes widen, but Laine, standing nearby, just raises a brow.Silently testing me.
I pull a sketch pad from my bag, charcoal pencil in hand.The lines come fast and sharp, almost violent.The lion’s mane tangles into shadows, every strand detailed, eyes like fire, teeth gleaming in contrast so sharp it feels like it might bite.Dark realism.Brutal, honest, and alive.
When I turn the pad around, the guy’s jaw drops so hard I think it might dislocate.“That’s ...yeah.That.Exactly that.”
I nod once, no smile, and get to work.
The needle’s buzz steadies me.This is the one place my head goes quiet and my demons simply fade away.The world narrows to skin and ink, black against pale.My hand moves with practiced ease, building shadows, layering depth, pulling the beast to the surface one line at a time.The guy flinches at first, but then he stills, staring as the image comes alive on his arm.
When I am finished, he can’t stop grinning.
“It looks real,” he whispers, turning his arm in the light.“Like it’s gonna jump off me.”
