Page 1 of Ink Me Three Times
CHAPTER ONE
Ivy
The wheelof my suitcase gives up its final gasp right as I hit the cracked pavement of Main Street.
"Seriously?" I mutter, staring down at the crooked mess of plastic that's now dragging behind me like a wounded animal.
Pickle, my French bulldog and unwilling travel companion, lets out an indignant snort from his carrier bag, which I’ve rigged like a crossbody backpack. His round bat ears twitch in disgust as he wriggles to get a better view, then sneezes dramatically, like he’s filing a complaint.
I don't blame him.
We've been on three buses, a train, and one terrifying rideshare with a guy named Ace who swore by crystal healing and drove like he wanted to meet Godtoday.
Coyote Glen smells like pine trees, old wood, and the kind of cold that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. It’s dusk, and the sky above the mountains is doing its best watercolor impression… muted purples and oranges bleeding into each other, trying to make this look like a storybook.
It’s not working on me.
I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text to my best friend, Olivia:
Ivy: Made it. Town’s cute in a creepy, Hallmark horror hybrid kind of way. Smells like trees and generational trauma.
Three dots appear. Then:
Olivia: LOL. Don’t get murdered. Send pics.
Ivy: Will do. As soon as I get to my brother’s cabin in the woods… sounds creepy, right?
I reach Jesse’s place and bang on the door with more force than necessary. My brother opens it, grinning, already barefoot and beer in hand like it’s still 2012 and we’re crashing in someone’s off campus rental.
"Ivy! You made it!" he says, pulling me in for a hug that smells like laundry detergent and weed. "You look like shit."
"Thanks. You look like someone who forgot I was coming."
"I cleaned the spare room," he says, like that’s proof of moral excellence.
I step over a pile of clean laundry and drop my suitcase with a thud. The busted wheel gives up entirely, folding under like a sad little knee.
Pickle hops out of the carrier the moment I unzip it and trots a lap around the living room like he owns the place. He barks once at a house plant, then hops onto the couch and stares at Jesse like he’s judging his life choices.
"You hungry? I was just about to heat up some frozen taquitos," Jesse says.
"Tempting," I say flatly, sinking onto the couch next to Pickle, who immediately crawls halfway into my lap with a snort. "But first, I want to lie here and pretend the last four months of my life didn’t happen."
He raises an eyebrow. "That bad?"
"Worse."
He doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Jesse, he knows when to shut up. For five whole minutes, he lets me lie there in peace.
Then: "So. I was thinking we could hit up The Hollow tonight."
I groan. "No."
"Come on. You need a drink. You need, like, five drinks."
"I need a job and a place to live."
"And you’ll figure it out. But first, beer. Burgers. Bad music. Local weirdos. If you’re going to crash my hometown, you need to get to know everyone."
