Page 58 of Ink Me Three Times
"No, I…"
What the fuckdoI want?
That’s when the door swings open.
The bell jingles softly.
We all turn.
A figure steps inside. Hood pulled low, hands stuffed in jacket pockets.
He moves with a quiet confidence that somehow still feels hesitant.
He pushes the hood back, revealing sharp eyes and a stubble lined jaw.
The room seems to still.
"Hey," the stranger says, voice low and smooth but carrying weight.
Like gravel under silk.
Like he hasn’t spoken in days and forgot how it felt.
"I’m looking for someone who can do a piece for me."
We all stare.
Freddie recovers first, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Uh. Sure, man. What kind of work you thinking?"
The guy glances at each of us in turn, sharp, assessing, as if cataloging every fracture in the room, before his gaze finally rests on me.
"Lyrics," he says simply. "I want lyrics."
I squint at him. There’s something familiar in the way he stands. The quiet watchfulness. Like he’s used to being in the background. Or hiding from it.
"You a writer?" Tim asks, crossing his arms, the tension from moments ago still tight in his shoulders.
The guy lifts a corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.
"Something like that," he says. "Ezra. Ezra Vaughn." He glances toward the flash wall, then back at me. "Staying at Meadow Creek Retreat for a while. Trying to get used to this town…"
Freddie straightens slightly, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Wait… Vaughn? Like…"
Ezra cuts him off gently. "Yeah. That one."
His expression shutters. Closed. Like the mention of his name is a door he’d rather keep locked.
I hear myself say it before I can think better.
"I can do it."
The words hang there, heavy and pointless, like they might stitch this mess back together. Like taking some stranger’s tattoo is going to clean the air.
Ezra just nods, quiet. Like he knows the hell he’s walking into.
"Cool," he says, voice low and even. "Whenever you’ve got time."
I gesture toward the schedule without looking up. "Got time now."
