Page 63 of Right Up His Alley

I glance down at it, then back at him. “I don’t see it as a nod to being a pro,” I say. “It’s more like… honoring Spare Time. That’s where I figured out I love the sport. Where it all started for me. So yeah, I’m sure.”

Ezra nods, just once, then peels off the transfer paper. “It’s perfect,” I say before he can even ask. And I mean it.

The buzz of the tattoo gun startles me when he flicks it on, and even though I’m trying to play it cool, I flinch. My body jerks before I can stop it, and sweat beads at the top of my lip.

Ezra notices. Of course he does. He’s a professional.

He turns the tattoo machine off, sets it down gently, and reaches for my hand. His thumb brushes over mine with a calm, steady touch. “I got you, okay?” he says softly. “We also don’t have to do this.”

Then, without warning, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it. Just once, just barely. But it’s enough to quiet the nerves in my gut.

I swallow before I nod. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’m ready. I want to do this.”

He smiles and turns the gun back on. This time, I don't jump.

A sharp burn flares as the needle touches down, dragging across my wrist. A small pinch that turns into a quick numbing, but I keep still. Ezra’s focused, calm, grounded as hell. It’s oddly comforting, knowing his hands are the ones doing this.

When he finishes, he sets the gun aside and wipes down my wrist. The skin is red and a little puffy, but the pin is there with its sharp lines and tiny red ring around the top. It’s exactly what I wanted.

Zeke wanders over, surveying the work. “Damn,” he mutters, crouching a little to get a better look. “For that size, that is one clean tattoo. Nice line work.”

Ezra looks like he’s trying not to smile, but it creeps through anyway.

Then Zeke claps a hand on my shoulder. “Gotta say, though, you’re gonna need to get me a towel for this chair, boy.” He grins. “Or maybe a damn mop.”

A nervous chuckle slips out. My cheeks are hot, and when I sit up from the chair, the back of my shirt is drenched in sweat.

He turns back to Ezra, nodding. “If you keep that steady hand, that laser focus, and the precision in those details, you’re gonna be a fantastic tattooist, Ezra. Who knows, with a little more mentoring from Damien, I might just call you up and persuade you to take over for me here one day.” He jerks his chin toward me, tickled. “Just don’t go kissing all your clients’ hands. My studios have a reputation to uphold.”

Ezra rolls his eyes, even as a blush spreads up the back of his neck. Then there’s a look on his face, like something coming alive in a way I haven’t truly seen in him.

He’s proud.

Happy, even.

The kind of happy that settles a warm feeling throughout my entire body. “This is really what you should be doing, Ezra.”

He doesn’t look up when he replies, but his mouth twitches into a smile. “One day.” He pauses, and his smile fades quickly. “But the alley needs me right now. How do I afford my own ink gear, when my savings goes to neon lights, paint, and new bowling shoes? Which reminds me, we need to get new shoes. Add that to the list, please.”

I don’t say anything back, but in my head, it’s already decided. If he’s chasing this—if he really wants to become a tattoo artist instead of running the bowling alley—I’m going to do everything I can to help him figure out how to do it, even if I don’t know what that looks like for him yet.

Or us.

These last few days have been the best of my life, and I’ve been riding that high ever since I dropped Truett off late last night. Going to his tournament was a split-second decision, one I tried to talk myself out of because it meant closing the alley. I mean, what man drives three hours for a guy who may or may not be his boyfriend? Apparently, that’s the type of man I’m turning into for Truett.

Seeing Truett in his natural element was spectacular. My guy made each frame look effortless. The way he could command the ball and make it seem like he was gliding it down exactly where he wanted to go. Each and every time. I almost felt bad for his competitors. Even when he faltered, he always found a way to bring himself back up to the top.

Our night together was everything and more. And then to spend the entire day together? It was more than I had hoped for. He somehow convinced me to give him his first tattoo, a permanent reminder of our weekend together. The only person I know, other than Damien, who has let me tattoo them. More than that, he believed in me and thought I could make my dream of becoming a tattoo artist and owning my own shop a reality. Crazy part is I’m starting to believe it myself.

Maybe. Just maybe. Hope for the future is dangerous, sharp enough to cut if I hold it too tightly, but I can’t deny the thrill of it either. While I tattooed True, something inside me settled into place. Happiness bloomed, warm and steady in my chest, the kind that felt unfamiliar after so long without it. For the first time in a while, I wasn’t just surviving. I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Needless to say, I’m in an unbelievably good mood when I pull into the parking lot this morning. The memory of our time together lingers, wrapping around me like a warm buzz, and I can’t help the knowing smile that creeps onto my face as I get out of the car. It’s very out of character for me.

When I reach the front door of Spare Time though, my smile slips into a confused frown when I see a bright yellow sign on the door. At first, I think it’s a flyer for some fundraiser or a lost pet announcement. There have been many put up throughout the area. My brain is slow to process what I’m actually seeing.

It’s not a missing pet or fundraising flyer.

In big, bold letters at the top is a word that makes everything inside me grind to a halt. The happiness drains out of me in an instant, replaced by an icy wave that rushes through my body. Just like that, one word strips it all away—the last word any business owner ever wants to see.