Page 67 of Full Tilt
He looks better today. Less tight around the eyes. There’s colour in his cheeks again, and the heaviness he carried yesterday seems to have eased, if only slightly. It’s a look that makes my chest squeeze, because I know what it took to get him here—and I know how fragile it still is.
“Meeting should be short,” he says, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “Few admin things and some reflection.”
“Text me after?” I ask, already knowing he will.
He nods, then jogs down the steps. I watch him go, still a little dazed that this—whatever it is—is actually happening.
It’s only when I go back inside that I spot it: his gameplay folder, sitting neatly on the side table near the door.
Shit.
I grab my phone and shoot him a message.
Me: You forgot your stuff. Folder on the table.
Me: Stay where you are. I’m bringing it down. Also, you owe me another kiss.
I grab the folder and rush down, my boots thudding on the stairs. When I round the corner of the building, Camden’s already by his car, grinning at me through the window.
I jog up to the driver’s side and lean down to hand him the folder through the open window. “Your brain still in bed or just distracted by my stellar goodbye technique?”
“Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.
I lean in, kiss him again—short and sweet this time—and then step back with a wink. “Go. Be important. We’ll talk later.”
He nods, eyes lingering for a second longer than necessary, then pulls away down the street.
I’m back at the studio an hour later, prepping for a full day. Carrie’s already here, elbow-deep organising stock, the usual playlist humming in the background. I’m half focused on prepping my station when the bell above the door rings.
I glance up, expecting my midday appointment—but it’s a man I don’t recognise. Older, well-dressed, clean-cut, and with no visible tattoos.
“Hey there,” I say, polite but guarded. “Can I help you?”
He smiles and offers his hand. “You the owner?”
“I run the place,” I say, shaking it cautiously. “Brent.”
He nods slowly, gaze flicking across the shop walls. “Lovely work. Thought I’d come in, see what kind of stuff you do. You the artist?”
“One of them. You looking for something?”
He shrugs, lingering by the reception desk. “Just curious, I guess. Always been interested in tattooing. Never quite got the nerve.”
I nod, still not entirely at ease. “Well, I’m happy to show you some portfolios if you’re thinking about it.”
We chat for a moment—surface-level stuff. Then he asks, casual as anything, “Ever inked anyone famous?”
Alarm bells clang in my skull. “Can’t talk about clients,” I say evenly. “Privacy’s part of the deal.”
He nods like he gets it, then leans in slightly. “Not even Camden Crawford?”
My spine goes ramrod straight. “What?” I ask, too flatly.
“I mean,” he continues, smile still easy, “are you his artist? Or his boyfriend? Or both?” He laughs lightly. “Do you always sleep with clients or just the famous ones?”
I blink. “You need to leave.”
He raises a brow, surprised by the sharpness in my voice. “I’m just asking?—”
