“That’s good to hear,” Dominic said, “because I’d like to steal you away for a few minutes before you leave for whatever party you guys have on the roster tonight.”
“The only party I’m having is the one in my bed. I mean— That sounded— Sleep. I’m going back to my hotel, and I’m going to sleep.”
“Even better,” he said, and gave a short laugh. “That means you’re in no rush.”
Wait, what? Had he not heard the part about me looking forward to bed and sleep?
He led me through the main hall to a side room off the floor, the panel discussion room, and I stopped short in the doorway. It was packed. People filled every available seat on a floor that easily held upward of five hundred. There were even rows of people standing up against the walls for the lack of chairs.
“They won’t bite, I promise.” Dominic placed a steady hand on the base of my back and ushered me deeper into the room.
“Looks full.”
But I was never meant to be part of the audience. It started sinking in when we skirted the front of the stage and I recognized a few familiar faces standing as if on display. People I’d tattooed over the past two days, including the tribal band who’d just left my booth. Looming large on the wall behind them was a screen flashing through close-up projections of a wrist, a bicep, the inside of an elbow.
My work.
Every line and shading was visible to the whole room.
Dominic gestured for me to lead the way onto the stage, but I shook my head.
“What is this?”
“Well, you’ll sit in one chair, I’ll sit in the other, and we’ll talk about what makes your work so fucking good.”
I blinked at him.
He must’ve clocked the level of disbelief coursing through me, because he laughed again, and said, “It’s not as intimidating as it looks. And the questions you’ll get from the audience won’t be anything you haven’t heard a thousand times before.”
“There’ll be questions?” My pulse spiked, and I broke out in a cold sweat.
Dominic’s impatience started showing through as I held him hostage off-stage. “You’re young, talented, and it’s valuable to share about your training, your process, all the good shit potential artists want to know.”
“I’m just— I work in a small studio in San Antonio. I haven’t—”
“The tattoo world loves fresh blood,” Dominic said smoothly. “I believe you have a perspective people want to hear.”
I glanced at my watch, remembering the reason I’d been looking forward to bolting out of here today.
“Hotel room beds don’t have curfews.”
“Fine,” I said with a sigh. “This won’t take long, though, right?”
His smile widened. “Not long at all.”
Dominic led me up the steps, the crowd clapping as I stepped into the light. My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear the applause. Overwhelmed didn’t begin to cover it. But happiness—pure, stupid, ridiculous happiness—curled through me in waves. And I let it.
*
The hotel room door hit the wall behind it with the way I sped into my room. Bags thudded to the floor as I lunged onto the bed, hair sticking to the back of my neck, pulse still sprinting from the panel. I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. The interview had run longer than I’d anticipated, and my stomach churned with guilt. Every second wasted meant missing part of Aiden’s game, the one I’d been counting down to all day.
The TV flickered to life. They were already into the second period. Score 1—0 to The Surge. Okay, that was good at least. My chest tightened, half with adrenaline, half with relief that he was on the ice. Looking solid, throwing himself into the thick of it.
I grabbed snacks from the mini bar—nuts, chips, and a few of those tiny bottles of vodka—and arranged them on the bed beside me. Settling back against the headboard, I let the day’s tension drain out in a long exhale, eyes glued to the screen. The game was already moving fast, and I didn’t want to miss another second. This was my way of being there with him, even if I was a thousand miles away.
Second period crawled on, and Minnesota Wild kept pressing, teeth bared, sticks slashing, but Surge held firm. Tucker cleared the puck, and Aiden streaked across the ice, skates cutting tight lines. I picked out Landon on his wing, and Grayson trailing. Landon broke toward the goal, but his shot was blocked easily. The rebound ricocheted to Aiden, who snapped it past the defense and into Landon’s path again—goal. I jumped so hard a good third of my drink sloshed out of the bottle and soaked the covers.
A few seconds later, something bad happened. I tried to make sense of the scuffle on ice, the ref’s call that definitely got The Surge guys angry, and Tucker moping to the bench.
