Page 94 of Ink Me Three Times
Unknown Number:Looking forward to seeing you at the con!
I frown at it, stopping mid step.
What the hell?
Is this a marketing text from the con?
“Everything okay?” Ivy asks behind me, noticing I’ve gone still.
“Yeah,” I say automatically, locking the phone and tucking it back into my pocket. “Probably some spam thing.”
She gives me a look like she doesn’t totally buy it, but she doesn’t push. And honestly, I don’t want to give it oxygen. It’s probably nothing.
Just a weird blip in an otherwise weird week.
I reach for the door and pause. “Thanks for saying yes, by the way. I think Penny would’ve staged a protest if you didn’t.”
“She’s persuasive,” Ivy says, and for a moment her eyes soften again, really soften. “And honestly? I think I could use the change of scenery too.”
I nod. “It’ll be good.”
She smiles, small but real.
And I leave with that in my pocket, trying not to think about the message burning in my phone like it’s waiting for me to catch up to something I can’t see.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ivy
The convention iswild.
Awesome… but also a little insane.
Don't get me wrong, Iwantedto come. Penny’s face when Freddie invited us was like watching someone win the toddler lottery. She practically vibrated out of her body. And honestly? I needed the distraction. Something to jolt me out of the swamp of feelings and guilt and whatever the hell else I’ve been stewing in lately.
But now that we’re here, I’m utterly overwhelmed.
It’s loud.
Like,fire drill inside a karaoke bar during an earthquakeloud. People are everywhere. Tattoo guns buzzing like angry bees, music thumping through the walls, and at least two dudes dressed like sexy rhinos…
I don’t know. I haven’t asked.
And the Iron & Ink stall? Oh, it’s a whole production.
Imagine if a punk rock band and a minimalist interior designer had a baby, and then that baby discovered espresso and eyeliner. That’s the booth.
There’s a giant vinyl banner overhead with the shop’s logo, black ink on deep crimson, looking like it was clawed intothe fabric with something angry and expensive. One side is all glass display cases filled with piercing jewelry, mini prints, and Mitchell’s flash sheets, which mostly feature skulls, flowers, and women who look like they could kill you with their eyebrows.
The other side? Two massive black leather chairs and a waiting line that wraps around like we’re giving away free Beyoncé tickets. There’s a small screen looping timelapse videos of tattoos in progress, and a guy in line literally claps when Mitchell takes off his flannel to start working.
There are shirts for sale, Timothy folded them perfectly, obviously, enamel pins shaped like tiny syringes, Freddie’s idea, I’m told, and a hand written chalkboard sign that reads:
NO, WE WON’T TATTOO YOUR BABY.
YES, WE’VE BEEN ASKED.
Behind the booth, Mitchell is already in full tattoo wizard mode, sleeve rolled up, beanie pushed back on his head, hunched over someone’s forearm like he’s conjuring dark magic through needle and ink.
