Page 4 of Ink Me Three Times
Karl left not long ago with a wink and a promise to "make better bad decisions next time," and Leo ducked out right after, muttering something about an early shift and slipping away before I could even say goodbye.
Now it’s just me, my half empty glass, and a jukebox that’s decided Fleetwood Mac is the mood of the hour.
I think about going home. Then I think abouthim.
Not Jesse. Not even Vanessa and her dangerously perfect cheekbones. No. I meanhim,the walking red flag with a jawline that should be illegal and a name I was stupid enough to let someone ink across my skin like a promise.
Stupid.So stupid.
It’s burned into my shoulder blade in a delicate black script.Luca. God, what a cliché. Who gets a man’s name tattooed after six months and one terrible EDM festival?
Me. I do. Apparently.
I drain the rest of my beer and slip off the barstool, tossing a wave at Arlo, who grunts something that might be "take care" or might just be indigestion. Either way, I’m not in the mood to linger.
Outside, the cold hits me like a reminder. Sharp, unforgiving, and absolutely not waiting for me to get my shit together. I wrap my arms around myself and start down the sidewalk, the soles of my boots scuffing against the uneven pavement.
It’s not a long walk back to Jesse’s cabin. Just a few quiet blocks, a left at the gas station, and then uphill until the pine trees outnumber the streetlights.
My breath fogs the air in front of me as I walk, but I’m not really here.
I’m somewhere else. Somewhere warmer. Louder. Where the music is all bass drops and bad decisions, and Luca is looking at me like I’m the whole damn world.
He lied.
He lied so easily I think he might’ve believed it himself. The late night promises. The sweet nothings. The half packed bags hidden under his bed. When it all came crashing down, he didn’t even try to fix it. Just left me in the wreckage with a useless key and a name I couldn’t look at in the mirror without wanting to scream.
So I screamed. Then I packed a bag, stuffed Pickle into his carrier, and bought the cheapest ticket I could find to anywhere that wasn’t him.
Which is how I ended up in Coyote Glen, bruised pride, broken bank account, and all.
I pause at the corner of Main Street, rubbing my hands together for warmth, when I catch a flicker of light across the street.
Ink & Iron.
A tattoo shop glows softly behind its front windows, like it’s offering sanctuary. There’s noOpensign, no customers that I can see, butsomeone’sin there. I can hear faint music, and I catch a glimpse of movement inside, a shadow shifting past the window.
I should keep walking. It’s late. I’m tired. But something tugs at me.
Maybe it’s the ache in my shoulder, or the memory of Luca’s voice in my ear, or maybe it’s just the desperate, bone deep need to start over.
A clean slate. A new town. A chance to be someone who doesn’t carry his name like a curse.
I square my shoulders, cross the street, and push open the door.
If this is the first day of my new life, I might as well start by getting rid of the worst mistake of the last one.
The door swings open with a soft chime, and warmth washes over me. Dry, heady, and laced with the unmistakable scent of ink, antiseptic, and something deeper. Leather. Cedar. A whisper of clove that hits low in my spine.
Ink & Iron is nothing like I expected.
The space is immaculate. Dark wood floors gleam under warm pendant lights, and the walls are covered in framed flash art, custom sketches, and photos of inked skin in every shade.
A single black leather chair sits in the center of the main room, surrounded by a halo of equipment that’s clean, gleaming, and arranged with military precision. There’s music playing softly… bluesy and raw, all slow guitar and gravel throated vocals.
Andhim.
He’s behind the counter when I step in, flipping through a sketchbook with long, ink stained fingers. He doesn’t look up right away. Just turns one more page, taps his pencil against the edge of the paper, and finally lifts his head.
