Page 27 of Ink Me Three Times
"Seriously?" I ask, stunned.
"Yup."
"No warning? No custody battle or…?"
"She didn’t fight him on it," he says, jaw tight now. "Didn’t want custody, didn’t want anything. Said she was too young, not ready. That being someone’s mom felt like a prison sentence."
Something twists in my chest. "Damn."
"Yeah," he mutters. "Freddie tried to keep things stable for Penny, but it was rough. I don’t think he slept more than three hours a night for the first year. Built his whole world around her after that. Still is."
I stare at the popcorn, suddenly not hungry. "That’s… a lot."
"Yeah," Jesse says again, softer now. "It is."
I think about the way Penny lights up around him. How safe she always seems, even when she’s leaping off couches and inventing disasters. And I think about how he looked at me when I dropped her off the other day, half exhausted, half grateful. Like he doesn’t take any of it for granted.
And then I think about Mitchell again.
I don’t know why that part won’t let me go.
"So what about the tattoo guys?" I ask, aiming for casual, though my stomach’s already in knots. "Mitchell and Timothy. You’re friends with them, right?"
Jesse shrugs, reaching for his beer. "Yeah. I mean, I know them. We’re friendly. Tim’s easier to talk to. Mitchell’s... Mitchell."
That tracks.
"But Freddie’s your actual friend?" I ask.
Jesse nods. "Yeah. We go back farther. He’s more my speed. Steady. The twins are good guys, but they’ve got their own thing going on. Intense, kind of closed off. Especially Mitch. He’s not the kind of guy you just get to know overnight."
My fingers fidget with a loose thread on the throw blanket. "Yeah. I noticed."
Jesse glances at me, like he’s trying to read between the lines, but he doesn’t push. Just says, "Freddie trusts them, though. That counts for something."
I nod like I get it. Like it doesn’t sting more than it should.
Like I didn’t once trust Mitchell with my entire body, and now I can’t even get a real sentence out of him.
The popcorn’s gone cold in my lap, and I don’t know if I’m imagining the silence or if it’s just settled around me like a weight.
And I still don’t know what any of this means.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Timothy
Mornings can go to hell.
I’m here an hour early, which is unnatural on a good day, but Mitchell’s holed up at the townhouse buried in invoices, and Freddie won’t roll in until ten. So it’s just me, black coffee, the hum of the shop lights, and the sound of pencil dragging across paper.
I’ve been chipping away at this floral sleeve for days now, trying to get the shading to flow just right. It's for a return client… an older woman who wants peonies and smoke and something to honor her sister. I want it to be perfect.
Debussy plays low from the speaker behind the counter, the kind of quiet piano that helps me keep my hand steady. I’m lost in it, almost relaxed, when the front door crashes open like someone kicked it.
A Frenchie comes barreling through the shop like he owns the place. Tongue out. Ears flapping. Demonic glee in his eyes.
"Pickle!Pickle, you little shit… get back here!"
