Page 25 of Full Tilt
I’m not proud. I’ve handled humiliation better than I’ve handled this. But to be fair… humiliation never involved me moaning a man’s name into a voice memo by accident.
I drag a hand down my face. Maybe he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s moved to Antarctica. Whatever the reason, Camden’s been radio silent since that night—and somehow, that’s worse than any punch to the face I ever took wrangling with my brothers.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the sketch of his tattoo-in-progress. And yeah… I miss him. Even if he probably thinks I’m a walking cautionary tale about mixing lube and mobile devices. Even if I deserve it.
Still.
Goddamn.
I hope he texts back.
Camden Crawford, local rugby god, guardian of his inner sanctum, has ghosted me so hard I feel like I’ve been benched from his entire emotional league. Sure, I’ve been ghosted before. It comes with the territory of adulthood. Sometimes after a first date, sometimes after a night of sweaty limbs and bad decisions. I don’t usually get sucker-punched by it.
And now, apparently, I’m the proud owner of a growing collection of unanswered messages, a dangerously overworked design sketch, and a complex emotional attachment to a man I’ve kissed once.
Awesome.
To top it off, Tank’s last day was yesterday. He hugged me, said something vague and encouraging about “owning thespace,” and then buggered off to Canada like this place isn’t held together with duct tape and good intentions.
So it’s real now. It’s mine.
Black Salt Ink is mine.
And while that’s what I wanted—hell, what I worked for—it’s also suddenly a lot. Bookings to manage. Equipment to maintain. A damn thermostat that seems to have two settings: surface of the sun or Arctic Circle. And apparently, I’ve already managed to screw it all up by running off one of the few high-profile clients we’ve got.
I moved here thinking this would be it. The place I put down roots. The life I build for myself instead of waiting for something back in the States to call me home. I miss my family—some days more than others—but this?Thiswas supposed to be my next chapter.
Right now, though, it’s hard not to wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
Still, I’ve never been a quitter. Not when I left home at eighteen, not when I apprenticed for a man who didn’t believe in second chances, and not now. Especially not now.
So I suck in a breath, push my hair out of my face, and get back to it. If Camden’s ghosting me, then fine. I’ll wait him out. Let him come to me.
Or at least… try. But still, Camden isn’t just hot. He’s a great canvas. The kind of guy who knows what he wants, respects the art, and isn’t full of crap. I was genuinely excited to work with him. Still am.
But instead, I’ve been obsessively tweaking the sketch for his sleeve design like it’s going to sprout legs and walk out the door without me. I’ve reworked the shading, cleaned up the linework, and adjusted the elbow flow three times, even though I know the first version was fine.
Carrie keeps throwing looks at me like I’m leaking emotional damage all over the front counter. And Flick? He’s trying to bribe me into beer o’clock every twenty minutes. I don’t have the heart to tell either of them I’m just… waiting.
Waiting for my phone to buzz.
Waiting for a grumpy message.
Waiting for someone who kissed me like he meant it, then walked away like it was a mistake.
And I hate that it stings. Because it wasn’t even a real thing.
Right?
Right.
The day crawls. There’s no client in the chair and no distraction in sight. It’s just me, a lukewarm coffee, and a mountain of intake files that somehow never shrinks no matter how many I go through. The shop is quiet, with Carrie humming at the front while Flick taps his foot to whatever’s coming through his headphones.
It’s the slow kind of day that drags every loose thought up to the surface. Which, of course, means I’ve spent far too long wondering if Camden’s going to text back. Still nothing.
I’m flipping through appointment notes from two months ago, trying not to obsess over the sketch I’ve already reworked to death, when my phone rings.
I lunge for it like it’s a lifeline—too quick, too hopeful—and end up juggling the thing as it nearly flies from my hand.
