Page 4 of When Love Found Us
I grunt. “I’m good here. In fact, I can head to New York if Seattle doesn’t want me anymore.”
“Bullshit.”
I don’t look at him. Instead, I focus on the way the whiskey catches the dim light, swirling in my glass like it holds some kind of answer. It doesn’t.
“I go back, and what?” I say finally. “Nothing’s changed. I just want them to sell the fucking Old Birchwood Timber company. I could use that money to actually do something with my life.”
Sanford scoffs. “Everything’s changed, kid. You just haven’t been paying attention.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “You talk like you’ve got a lifetime of wisdom when you’re, what? Six, seven years older than me?”
He doesn’t react, just takes a slow sip of whiskey, like he’s the picture of patience. He’s been on me about this since we left Birchwood Springs.
And yeah, I could handle whatever mess is brewing in town. What I don’t want is to deal with my brothers.
Malerick, the oldest, is now the sheriff. Who goes from FBI agent to small-town cop? Apparently, my dumbass brother. Then there’s Ledger, whose hockey career went up in flames after an injury. Now, he’s pretending to run the family business.
Hopper is the town vet and, somehow, engaged to my best friend. So even though I’d rather not deal with him, I don’t have a choice. The only way to keep the peace is to stay far away.
And thank fuck Keir is . . . well, I don’t even know what he’s doing, but at least he’s not my problem.
This is why I live out of a duffel bag. A guest in someone else’s tattoo parlor, in someone else’s city. No roots, no expectations, no past clawing at my heels.
Sanford watches me, rolling his glass between his hands. The man is built like a brick wall, sleeves pushed up to reveal ink-covered forearms. He doesn’t just talk—he follows through. I met him years ago, back when I was trying to pay my way through college. The trust fund Therese kindly created for me covered tuition, but I had to figure out the rest. He got me odd jobs and introduced me to Kevin and Anderson Hawkins, the original owners of this tattoo parlor.
Sanford and his friends have this tight-knit crew that operates like a family—some of them are family. They take strays like me and make them their own. I’ve worked for all of them. And I mean all of them. At one point, I was even a roadie for Sanford’s band—Too Far From Grace.
From everything I’ve done, I chose to stick to being a tattoo artist. That’s the closest I can get to publishing comic books. Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever finish something so I can publish it or if I’m just attached to an idea that doesn’t fit into who I am anymore.
“You’ve been floating for too long,” Sanford says. “Drifting from one shop to the next, never staying long enough to put your name on the goddamn door. You’re good, Atlas. One of the best I’ve seen. People fly to other states and countries just to get a tattoo from you. But you’re wasting your talent playing guest artist year after year.”
I huff a laugh. “I like the freedom. Not everyone is like you, wanting stability, a house, and the family.”
He doesn’t flinch. “You like running because you haven’t found your home. I was there once. I might’ve had a place to live, but I was running because I was missing the pieces of my heart.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t argue. He’s right. I don’t have a fucking heart.
Sanford leans forward, elbows on the counter. “Listen. I’ve got money to invest. And I don’t throw my cash at just anyone. But you? You’re worth it. You set up shop in Birchwood Springs, and I’ll back you. Equipment, lease, whatever you need to get started.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Because I believe in you. And because you’re too damn stubborn to believe in yourself.”
I rub a hand down my face. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is, but also, we need eyes there,” Sanford counters and there it is . . . they need a someone to watch around. “Your brothers need more help than they want to admit. And Cassian just bought the bar. You got people there. People who give a fuck about you.”
“Yeah, I still don’t get why Cassian is suddenly a bartender,” I state. “And in Birchwood Springs of all the places.”
He shrugs. “You could give him a hand while you’re setting up shop.”
I let out a slow breath. Cass is probably doing more than just bartending. I know he’s an agent for the high intelligence company his brother-in-law owns. This is probably a nice way to ask me to be there, keeping an eye on the town. We know bad people are hanging out there, trying to take it over.
Fuck, I really hate that everything always ends up having to do with Birchwood Springs and me being stuck there. Even from the beginning. I was born and raised in Boston. Mom was sweet and one of the best people in the world. Dad was absent, but when he visited, he was loving. That’s how I remember my life up until I was six and Mom died.
Things all of a sudden went from a happy average life to a fucked-up nightmare where I was dragged away from my home into a small town where I had four older brothers who hated me. Their mother was cold with me. Until one day she took pity on me and decided to feed me, and treat me better than anyone else in that home.
“Give it a couple of years,” he insists. “If it doesn’t work, then we sell it.”
