Page 141 of Ink Me Three Times
Not because he’s wrong.
Because for once, I can’t laugh it off. Can’t deflect. Can’t hide behind charm or sarcasm or whatever deflection tactic I’ve made an art form.
So I don’t.
I just meet his eyes and say it.
“I didn’t mean to be.”
That shuts him up.
“You wanted this harem thing to be fun, Mitchell,” I say, quieter now. “And it was. At first. But feelings don’t exactly care about the rules, do they?”
He stares at me, jaw clenched. He’s seconds from throwing something.
I can feel my heart pounding in my throat.
“I care about her,” I say, voice low but steady. “And yeah, maybe it started as fun. Maybe none of us thought it would get this far. But it did. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t give a damn just to make you feel better about running away again.”
There’s this awful, heavy pause.
Outside, a car horn blares down Main Street, distant and hollow. The neon ‘Open’ sign in the window hums, flickering at the edges. I can hear Mitchell’s ragged breathing, sharp little inhales, like he’s drowning on dry land.
His breathing gets louder. Rougher. I see his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Say that again,” he grinds out.
I swallow, my own hands shaking now. “I said I care about her. I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”
And that’s it.
“Mitchell…”
I barely get his name out before he shoves me back against the counter, his forearm pressing into my chest. I shove back, hard, adrenaline roaring through my veins, and we slam into the front desk with a crash that sends pens scattering across the floor.
“Stop!” I hiss, grabbing his shoulders and trying to push him off.
But he doesn’t. He keeps pushing into me.
“Fuck you,” I snap, grabbing his shirt and driving him backward. He hits the wall behind his station, sketchbooks and ink bottles crashing down around us.
He roars, actually roars, and slams me back. My spine cracks against the corner of his station chair. My vision swims, rage and pain mixing into something feral.
“Enough!”
The voice booms through the shop loud as a gunshot.
Both of us freeze.
Mitchell’s fist is cocked back. My hands are twisted in his shirt, chest heaving. We turn as one, panting, to see Jesse standing in the doorway.
His face is thunder.
“The fuck is going on?” he demands, slamming the door shut behind him so hard the windows rattle.
Neither of us speak.
Mitchell drops his fist. I let go of his shirt. We’re both still breathing hard, sweat and fury making the air around us heavy.
