Jax claps me on the shoulder. “You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Dude. You have no fucking idea.
“Just... didn’t sleep much,” I manage, which isn’t entirely a lie.
“When do you ever?” He laughs, turning to help a customerlooking at display jewelry before he turns back to me. “Let me guess. Another nightmare?”
The casual way he asks tells me he knows about my PTSD and night terrors. The cold sweats that sometimes leave me gasping for air at three a.m.
“Oh, and Claire called. Said she’s bringing lunch for everyone around one.”
Claire. The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, I can see her in my mind—tall, with short purple hair and tattoos sleeved down one arm. A few years older than me, she’s the one who gave me my first real job after I was discharged from the Marines. The woman who believed in me when no one else did, now manages my shop.
He brushes off my silence by clearing his throat.
“So… Your station’s all set up. I cleaned your machines this morning since you were running late.” He tosses me a set of keys. “You left these in the back room again.”
Snatching them out of the air, I turn them over in my hand. They’re different than the ones that appeared last night.
“Thanks.”
As I walk toward the back, it feels like I’m in a dream. Muscle memory guides me past the reception area, over to where multiple tattooing stations are set up. Each one is spotless, with different artwork and personal touches, making them unique to the artists that work there.
I pass two other artists working on clients who smile and nod.
The station in the far corner has my name etched on a small plaque. The walls surrounding it are covered with both dark and colorful, intricate designs—all of them mine. A framed Marines emblem hangs next to a worn Megadeath poster, and a small desk holds a sketchpad, various pens, and a black coffee mug withFuckOffprinted in blue onthe side.
“There he is,” a bright female voice calls out.
When I turn around, a petite woman sporting long black hair with blue tips and colorful tattoos covering almost every visible inch of skin is standing behind me smiling.
“Hey, Lizzy,” I nod as more memories start clicking into place. Lizzy Cade was my first hire and is the best portrait artist in the county. She loves whiskey and has a pet iguana named Slash.
“This is Allie.” She gestures to a woman with long blond hair, who looks nervous, standing beside her. “She’s ready for you. Oh. And I got her paperwork sorted for you, too.”
“Thanks, Liz,” I say as she walks away.
Stepping forward with a shy smile, Allie holds out her hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this for months,” she says, smiling shyly. “Ever since I saw your work at the tattoo convention in Denver.”
Denver? I’ve never been to Denver. Except... Flashes of memories from that weekend suddenly flood my mind.
Jesus. This is starting to get disorienting.
“Good to see you again,” I say, taking her hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “Ready to get started?”
She nods enthusiastically and follows me over to my station, where I signal for her to have a seat.
Everything feels surreal as I adjust the height of my stool. I set up my equipment, prepare the stencil, and mix the ink.
When I remove the stencil from Allie’s arm, she grins in the mirror. “It’s perfect. Exactly how I imagined it.”
“Great. Then let’s get started.”
The moment my needle touches her skin, everything fades away. The buzzing of the machine is like meditation, and I lose myself in the rhythm of doing line work. The outline of the dragon slowly begins to take shape—scales and claws emerging from her skin like they were always meant to be there.
A couple of hours go by, but it feels like minutes. My back aches from hunching over, but I barely notice. Creating art on a living canvas feels right, like it’s a part of me.
“Hey, Ride. Got your favorite.”
