“If I had to pick, gun to my head, I’d say neo-traditional.” His mouth curves a little. “I like the bold color pallets and the strong contrast that can bring to a piece. Kind of like Hale’s work. Bright colors, harsh line, but when you putitalltogether,itbecomessomethingcohesiveandbeautiful.” His voice warms, and his eyes are gentle as he thinks of his mate. “I love that look.”
Chapter Seventeen
I’m your host, Ewan McManus. Welcome to Tattoo Spectacle. Tonight, fifty of you walked in believing you belonged here. Confident. Talented. Certain you had what it takes.
Unfortunately… half of you were wrong.
Tattoos don’t care how badly you want it. Skin doesn’t care about excuses. And this competition definitely doesn’t care about potential. What matters is what you put down. Clean lines, solid choices, and the ability to perform under pressure.
Twenty-five of you proved that you can handle the stakes. You’re stillin this.
The rest of you? You’re going home. Take a good look at the work you did on your first day because that’s the mark you leave on this competition. Some of you will be proud of it. Some of you will wish you’d had one more hour.
That’s Tattoo Spectacle. And tonight, the spectacle moves on without you.
Hale
The next day, we arrive downstairs twenty minutes early for the first eliminations, like punctuality might earn us mercy. The convention area smells like burnt coffee and regret. The acrid scent of stale alcohol mixes with anxious sweat, clinging to the air no matter how well the industrial air conditioning works. We make a beeline for the coffee bar setup close to the entrance, shamelessly filling plates with carbs and cups with caffeine, with the vague hope that it’ll soak up whatever’s still sloshing around in our stomachs.
The coffee is thin and bitter. It was probably leftover from yesterday and reheated out of spite at an early hour. The donuts are stale and leave a film of grease on my fingers when I add them to my plate. I grab three.
We follow Eric as he heads straight for a table in the back corner. I’ve come to think of it as our table. No one is looking at us as we shuffle through the table-filled convention area. Everyone seems either hungover or lost in thought.
I’m currently both.
I’m not usually much of a drinker. Not like this, anyway. Since I’ve been in Vegas, though, it’s basically all I’vedone,andmybodyisfilingformalcomplaints.It’snot that I never drink, I just usually don’t drink until I’m drunk enough to marry a virtual stranger.
I know, I know. Aksel isn’t technically a stranger.
But he was a guy I thought I hated up until a week ago, and somehow that feels worse. More dangerous. Like willingly stepping into heavy traffic instead of being pushed.
Maybe I’m overthinking everything.
Aksel has me tied up in knots so tight my stomach actually hurts. Every time I think about our future or what comes next, a dull, anxious ache twists my gut. Amazing orgasm aside, we don’t really know much about each other. Not really. We’ve talked a lot, but it's all been surface-level truths and carefully edited answers like in our interviews, both of us scared to cross any uncomfortable lines.
We don’t lie, but I feel like we aren’t telling the full truth either.
I drop heavily into my chair, the plastic creaking under my weight as I slouch and drink my shitty coffee. It’s lukewarm now, but I keep drinking it like penance paid for my night out. My brain won’t shut up. My thoughts are stacking on top of each other, each one louder and more frantic than the last.
Aksel nudges me gently with his shoulder.
The contact is small, but it sends a jolt straight through me. Heat flares under my skin. He leans closer, and I can smell his cinnamon scent even stronger than before. It’s familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten.
His eyes search my face, asking if I’m okay without saying aword. My head spins with his ability to read me so easily. One look tells him how I’m feeling. One touch, and I’m all better. I hate how much I like it.
I nod quickly and turn back to my bitter water beverage, like it might have all the answers I need.
We sit in relative silence as we wait for the eliminations to start filming. The room hums with nervous energy. People are shifting in their seats and having whispered conversations. I doubt I’m going home this week, but you never know. The judges might decide they don’t like my style and fry my ass on the spot.
I hope that doesn’t happen. I need this.
More than I’ve ever needed anything.
The scary show host calls for everyone’s attention, his microphone screeching with feedback before settling. The sound drills directly into my skull.
Eric moans dramatically and clutches his head like he's been shot.
“Good morning, everyone. I trust you had a good day yesterday,” he says, voice sharp and commanding. He sounds like a drill sergeant who feeds on fear. “We are here today to announce the first round of cuts. As you all know, half of you will be eliminated today.
