He saunters to the coffee machine and refills his mug.He drinks coffee like a tweaker about to launch into space, twitchy and hyper-focused on everything and nothing at the same time.
“What did Jag say?”I rest my forearms on the counter.
“He said if you showed up, I’m supposed to tell you to leave.Like, no drama, no scene.Justget lostin the friendliest way possible.But between you and me?You should be running this place.I’m supposed to be your mentor, but you’re a natural, man.People come in all the time asking for you.You got regulars.Your own damn fan club.I had this chick last week—two face tattoos—asked if you died.I mean, it was the only day you took off in six months.I told her no, that you were just being mysterious.”
“Where’s Jag?”
“Out of town.Left this morning.Honestly, I don’t even know if he has a home.Sometimes he crashes here, in the back, on that disgusting cot that probably has more DNA samples than a crime lab.I hear he’s got like a million secret girlfriends or maybe even a few boyfriends.Did you know that?It wouldn’t surprise me.He’s so secretive and brooding and honestly kinda terrifying.Anyway, he’s not here now, said something about going out of town.Didn’t say where.Typical Jag, right?Sometimes, I don’t see him for weeks.He just kinda appeared one day about a year ago.Before that, he was a ghost.Anonymous owner.Paid the bills.Didn’t exist.Then boom!He’s here, watching everything, barely talking, just hovering like a hungry gargoyle.And this morning when I saw him, he had a bandage on his hand.”
Humans are eighty percent water.But not Declan.He’s one-hundred percent wind.
“Did he tell you what happened?”I ask.
“No.I think he punched a mirror or someone’s face.”He pushes his glasses up his nose.“You’d think he’d wear it like a trophy, but he was acting like he wanted to bite me because I noticed.”
“You sure he’s gone?”
“Positive.He packed up and left when I got here at seven.Took that creepy duffel bag he always carries.The one that probably has a murder weapon or a severed head in it.I didn’t ask.I never ask.”
I push off the counter, scanning the space.My chair.My tools.Everything is still there.
“So,” I say, “you hiring?”
He snorts.“Technically, we’re always hiring because we’re the only tattoo shop in Sitka, and we’re always understaffed.I’m running solo here.Could really use the help.But you’re banned.So like… You’re banned but beloved?A legendary outlaw-type deal.”
“That’s fine.I’m not here to beg.I’m here to work.”
“Wolf—”
“Tell the camera I broke in.That way, you’re off the hook.I’ll take the back corner.Won’t touch clients unless they ask.”
He stares at me, torn between excitement and panic.“Jag’s gonna kill me.”
“Not if I kill him first.”I flash a grin.“Worst he can do is fire me again.”
“You’re trouble.”
“You say that like it’s not my entire brand.”
“Fine.Back corner still has your crap in it.But if he finds out I let you in—”
“I’m an outlaw, remember?Just doing outlaw things.”
I settle into my corner, surrounded by the aroma of ink, antiseptic, and fake leather.My little kingdom of creativity.
Everything is where I left it.My chair.My station.The worn stool I kick more times than I sit on.Even my rusty old lamp with the sticker that says DON’T TOUCH ME, I BITE.
Running my fingers along the edge of the workbench, I admire my machines.All lined up like soldiers waiting to be picked for battle.I spend hours here.Days.Nearly every day for the past six months.
Tattooing is the only time my brain shuts up.Dragging ink under someone’s skin feels like a holy ritual.Meditation with needles.Primal and permanent.
But even in my happy place, my mind won’t stop drifting to Dove.
I pull out my phone and start a chat.
Me:
I’m at work.Technically trespassing.Stepbro skipped town.
