The truck roarswhen I press the accelerator a little too hard, but the familiar rumble does little to calm my nerves.
I glance in the rearview mirror as Noia’s cottage grows smaller behind me, guilt twisting in my gut. Leaving her home alone feels wrong somehow, like I’m abandoning her.
My chest aches at the memory of the look on her face before I left. I could’ve asked her to come with me, but I know this is something I need to do on my own. Not just for me, but for our story to progress in the right direction.
Taking the road that winds through dense forest, opens up to reveal a small lakeside town. The ‘Welcome to Lakeside’sign flashes by as I take the exit.
Quaint storefronts and café’s line Main Street, with people strolling the sidewalks enjoying the morning sun. It all looks so normal, so real.
But what if I’m not? What if I walk into my shop and no one recognizes me?
My palms start to sweat.
Fuck, I’ve faced gunfire and IEDs with less anxiety than I’m feeling about what I’m about to do.
“Get it together, Blackwood.”
According to the GPS on my phone—another item that conveniently materialized in my room—Skin & Ink is located just off Main Street, sandwiched between a coffee shop and a vintage record store.
As I drive through town, things start to look vaguely familiar. It’s like having the strangest case of déjà vu.
I approach the address, slowing my truck down to a crawl as a storefront with a black awning and bold red letters that reads “Skin & Ink” in gothic script comes into view. My heart pounds as I back the truck up into a parking spot across the street.
The building looks exactly like I remember. Can I really call these fragmented flashes memories, though? With its red brick façade, the building’s large windows display different styles of artwork and a flashing neonOPENsign.
I sit, staring in disbelief as my hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. I can see movement inside. People. Real people who supposedly know me.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, killing the engine.
The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, and the familiar scent of antiseptic, ink, and leather hits me smack in the face. The walls are covered with flash art—skulls, roses, pin-ups, and intricate Celtic knots. There’s a counter display full of jewelry and aftercare products, and the steady buzz of tattoo machines fills the air.
“Ryder! There you are, man,” a deep male voice calls out.
I turn and see a guy about my age with a full sleeve of tattoos on each arm and gauged ears grinning at me like we’ve known each other for years standing behind the counter. My mind scrambles, and then—like a key freeing a lock—recognition clicks solidly into place.
“Jax.” The name falls from my lips without a thought. “Sorry I’m late.”
Jax Riley is my business partner and best friend. He’s not only the guy who taught me how to clean a tattoo machine, but the one who got my name tattooed on his ass after losing a drunken bet.
“No worries, brother. Your client’s already here. She’s in the back with Lizzy, filling out paperwork.” He tosses me a binder. “Here’s the final design you worked up for her dragon sleeve. Fucking sick, by the way.”
I catch it and flip it open. Detailed sketches of a Japanese-style dragon designed to wind from shoulder to wrist jump out at me from the page.
Not only do I recognize the sketch as mine, but my handwriting with abbreviations about shading and color—notes only I know how to interpret—line the margins.
“Yeah, thanks.”
This is beyond fucking weird.
He cocks his head and studies me. “You don’t look so good. Late night?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, glancing around.
The shop is exactly as I remember.
Leather couches sit in the waiting area, with framed photos displaying our best pieces gracing the wall behind them. A row of stations for the other artists’ are along the wall to the right.
It’s all so familiar, yet I’ve never actually been here before. At least, not in any reality I know of.
