He looked at me sideways, trying to gauge if I was about to lose it. “You’re a weird kid, Hardesty, but you’ve got guts. You ever want another, let me know. First one’s on the house.”
I fished in my pocket for the cash I’d brought, but he waved it away. “Seriously. Consider it a gift for finally landing my brother. Not that he ever shuts up about you.” Ransom’s eyes softened for a second, then he rolled them. “Just do me a favor—take a picture of his face when you show him. He’s gonna bust a vessel.”
“Will do,” I said, pulling my sleeve down gently over the bandage.
I stood, legs a little wobbly, and grabbed my sketchbook. As I headed for the door, the air outside hit my lungs sharp and new. I flexed my wrist, feeling the sting of the fresh wound, and imagined the moment when I’d show Quiad. How he’d grip my hand and maybe scold me, then kiss the tattoo anyway, lips pressed right to the band of his name. Maybe he’d call me an idiot. Maybe he’d never let go.
Either way, I was ready.
As I walked out of Inked Rebellion, the sign behind me blinked INKED REBELLIO_ one last time, red and blue and pulsing like a heartbeat.
I couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
* * * *
I never really got used to the shop’s smell, no matter how many hours I spent there: sawdust so thick it settled in your nose, glue like stale sugar, and always—no matter how clean he kept the place—the ghost of motor oil from some engine Quiad had rebuilt in another lifetime.
Most days, the doors were propped open and a box fan churned the air, but today was so hot and bright the haze just clung to the workbenches and painted everything with a weird, amber glow.
I brought a paper sack of lunch, heavy with two fat sandwiches and a stack of Ma’s sugar cookies, and carried it in the crook of my right arm like it was a shield.
The other wrist—my left—was wrapped with the Saniderm Ransom had insisted on, though I’d covered it with the sleeve of Quiad’s old hoodie, rolling it twice to keep the bandage hidden.
Even so, every time I bumped it on a door frame or nicked it against my thigh, the skin underneath pulsed with a fresh ache. It felt alive in a way nothing ever had before.
Through the warped glass of the shop’s back window, I caught a slant of sunlight throwing gold across the floor, catching every dust mote and speck of wood like glitter. The rest of the world was quiet—no horses in the paddock, no trucks rolling by on the lane, just the slow, deliberate rasp of sandpaper against oak.
I peeked around the door and saw Quiad standing at the far bench, shoulders hunched, a smear of sawdust feathering up theback of his t-shirt. His left arm braced the edge of the table; the right moved in steady, hard strokes, sanding the inside curve of a chair rail with a focus that made my brain short-circuit. I watched the flex of his forearm, the way his jaw clenched and released in time with each pass. He didn’t look up when I came in, but he’d known I was there.
He always did.
“Brought lunch,” I said, setting the sack on the nearest patch of clear worktop. I tried to sound casual, but my voice came out thinner than usual, stretched tight around the new secret burning on my wrist.
He paused, knuckles pale on the sandpaper, and looked over. His gaze did the slow sweep from my face to my hand, lingering on the way I hugged the hoodie sleeve to my chest. “You hurt?” he asked, voice so low it sounded more like a warning than a question.
I shook my head and tried to smile. “Just… rough night,” I lied. “Ransom had me test out some new designs for him. Kinda went overboard.” I dropped the sleeve a little and peeked at the edge of gauze, as if I was embarrassed and not hiding a literal brand of his name.
He set the wood aside and came over in three steps, boots loud on the floor. He reached for my hand, but hesitated, hovering inches above my wrist. “Let me see.”
I tried to back up, but he caught my elbow, gentle but impossible to escape. He thumbed the edge of the bandage and lifted it, checking for blood or broken skin, I don’t know. His touch sent a shiver up my arm.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, and this time there was a tremor, just enough to tell me he was worried.
“Only if I think about it,” I said, and forced a laugh. “So I try not to.”
He arched a brow, unconvinced, but let my hand go. I shoved both arms into the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, holding them there like a kid caught sneaking candy before dinner.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the ancient drafting stool by the main bench. I perched on it, the height forcing my legs to dangle a few inches from the ground. He pulled a rag from the shelf, wiped the dust off his hands, then tore into the paper sack with a focus I recognized: if you didn’t attack the awkwardness head-on, it might consume you.
He fished out the cookies first, eyed them, then slid the whole stack toward me. “You made these?”
“Ma did,” I said, taking one and breaking it in half to give him the bigger piece.
He leaned back against the bench, folded his arms, and just watched me. It wasn’t hostile—not really. But the air felt loaded, like both of us were waiting for something to detonate.
“So what’s really up?” he asked, softer this time. “You get in a fight with Ransom?”
“Kind of,” I said, then winced. “Not, like, physical. He just—he dared me to do something, and I did. That’s all.”
