Page 2 of It Should Have Been You

Kim bounces on her heels, pulling on the sleeve of my denim jacket. “I can’t believe we’re actually here.”

I force a tight smile as the nausea begins to build. This is a terrible idea. I passed out during a vaccine in high school.

I send up a silent prayer that tonight won’t be a repeat. How embarrassing.

My eyes drink in every inch and naturally fall to the booths at the back of the shop. It’s quiet. I expected the buzzing of needles, but apart from the low bass of some music playing over the hidden speakers and someone rustling with papers behind the reception desk, there’s not a sound.

“Why is it so quiet?”

“I was squeezed in on a favor. It’s closed,” Kim explains.

Approaching the high desk, we’re greeted by a young woman with white platinum hair and amazing black ink crawling up her neck before disappearing behind her hairline.

“You must be Kim. Eric’s girl, right?” she asks, a thin smile on her lips.

“That’s me,” Kim replies, omitting the part about their recent break up.

The woman introduces herself while typing something into her computer. “I’m Cindy.”

Kim looks to me with narrowed eyes.

Cindy?

Her name suits her as much as Bethany Rose suits me—which is not at all.

Still hunched over, Cindy glances at me over her rimmed glasses. “And you must be… nervous?”

“Can you relax?” Kim whispers, embarrassed. “This is Bethany Rose.”

I don’t bother correcting her. She’s doing it to get on my nerves.

“Whatever, Mom,” I breathe.

I groan when she nudges my ribs.

“Bethany Rose,” Cindy acknowledges, peering at me with a gaze that lingers a moment too long. “Well, I’ll let Logan know you’re here.”

“Actually, I really need to use the restroom.” Kim bounces back and forth on her heels. “Will you be okay on your own?”

I nod. “Unless someone comes at me with a needle, I’m sure I’ll still be standing when you get back.”

She rolls her eyes and follows Cindy.

Seizing the opportunity, I venture further into the studio, my gaze scanning the endless awards and black-and-white photographs on the walls. I recognize some faces, but one photo catches my attention—a picture of three men, one of whom I’ve recently seen in a magazine.

Jaxson King. He’s the lead singer of an up-and-coming band. Apart from a shared last name, I’m assuming all three men are related. Their lips tilt into the same small grin for the picture, hair almost inky black with the bone structure only seen in magazines. Standing shoulder to shoulder, it’s a wall I’d have no problem running into.

Brothers. It’s the only explanation.

Some people get lucky with their genes.

It's not until someone clears their throat that I realize I've lost myself in a world of my own, captivated by a photograph of three strange men, creating stories for them in my head.

I spin around, the camera hanging from my neck lifting with the force. When I open my mouth to say something, only air comes out, and I’m left with a gaping hole in my face.

Holy shit, he’s huge.

I immediately recognize him from the picture, but I underestimated his size when they were all standing together. He smooths his fingers over his short beard, but even under the kept facial hair I see his full lips lift, revealing straight, white teeth, and a smile I wasn’t expecting. His arms are heavily inked, and I trace their outline until it cuts off where his T-shirt skims his bicep.

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