Chapter one
Tristian
Iwiped down my station one last time, the smell of antiseptic cutting through the stale air of the shop, before throwing the wet paper towel in the trash.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold night air. I didn’t look up.
“Tristian!” called Kane. “Customer wants a touch-up.”
Customer.
He probably had a name.
I never cared enough to learn it. That was more Kane’s thing, remembering names for bigger tips.
I suppressed a sigh, grabbing my black gloves and heading for the chair.
The guy peeled back a sleeve to reveal a compass on his forearm, one I’d put there myself. I gave it a look over. Lines were still solid. A few spots needed tightening now that it was fully healed, but a few spots weren’t quite right. Wasn’t an artist error, just a thing that happened, something to do with the way the body accepted the ink; most tattoos needed a touch-up once they were healed, and it was a part of the job I’d come to accept.
I set to work, needle buzzing.
He tried to chat a few times. I wasn’t in the mood.
I rarely was.
It was past eight when he left. Darkness had fully settled over the city of Chicago.
I looked in the mirror, pushing my hair back from my face. The guy had peeled his sleeve back, proud to display the ink on his skin. I kept my sleeves long, hiding the ink that mapped out my own history. I wasn’t like the guys who flaunted it. My tattoos weren’t a billboard.
For me, the art was personal… parts of me no one else got to see.
I grabbed the empty supply tray and walked to the back to restock.
Kane looked up as I approached. “Good work today.”
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing a fresh box of gloves. “Tried to work through them a bit quicker—you know, put that whole ‘tortured perfectionist artist’ thing to one side.”
Kane snorted, about to fire something back, when the door swung open again. Another blast of cold air swept in—and with it, high-pitched giggles.
Great.
I glanced over my shoulder to see Amber and May, regulars who came in for “tattoos” but mostly for attention… interested more in the artists than the art.
“You can have them,” I muttered, patting Kane’s back.
“Hey, Tristie, hey, Kane,” Amber smirked, her voice dripping with a seduction that rolled right off me.
Kane stepped forward, hands open in a show of welcome, already turning on the charm. “Evening, ladies. What are you here for today?”
“We both want a new belly ring and matching tattoos on our wrists… For our friend too,” May said.
I was about to ask who they dragged along when a small, trembling voice cut through the heavy atmosphere of the shop.
“I-I can’t get a tattoo.”
I peered in the direction of the voice, soft but nervous, with a faintly Spanish accent.
That was when the air in the room seemed to shift.
