Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I lose time again.
It happens a lot. Hunched over my sketchpad with graphite smudges up to my wrist, I get in the zone.
Sometimes it happens in other ways. When I’m thinking about Hoss. When bad memories cloud my vision until my brain breaks. Those are more like blackouts. But I didn’t think about Denver today. Or the doctor. Or the scars I keep hidden.
Today is a good day.
So far.
Music thrums low on the speakers. Grunge, old punk, and some Glass Animals thrown in to keep it weird. Just the way I like it. Outside, rain patters lazily against the windows, and I glance up.
Shit. It’s already noon.
My phone flashes. One unread message. Not from Dove. Just Kody checking in to make sure I ate something that isn’t vodka.
I grab my jacket and head to the deli down the street. The deli guy knows me by now. Probably thinks I’m a freak for never ordering the same thing twice.
Today, it’s a Reuben for Declan, turkey pesto for Dove, and roast beef for me.
Back at the shop, I drop Declan’s at his station, where he works on a geometric sleeve for a tourist with a sunburn. I bounce before he can give me a dissertation on deli meat.
Hood up and head down, I cut through alleys and side streets, letting the drizzle soak through the edges of my sleeves. Dove’s shop isn’t far, just a few minutes from the tattoo parlor if I walk like I have somewhere to be, even if she makes it clear I don’t.
In the bay with the roll-up door open, she bends over the guts of an engine. Grease smears her forearms, and that somehow makes her look even hotter than this morning.
I stand there, sandwich in hand, watching her for a long, hungry minute. Waiting for her to look up.
She doesn’t.
“Brought you lunch.” I sidestep into her line of vision.
Nothing. Not even a shift of her eyes.
There’s a tall guy next to the tool bench, wearing a name patch that says Taaq. He leans against a tool cart with his arms folded and an eyebrow raised.
I nod in his direction, and he nods back. Just two wolves sizing each other up across neutral territory.
“For her.” I hold out the sandwich.
He takes it and inspects the wrapping like he’s checking for explosives. “She eat meat?”
Fuck, I didn’t think of that. She ate salmon last night, so I know she’s not vegan.
Feeling suddenly irrationally territorial, I snap, “She didn’t gag last night, so either she eats meat or she was being polite.”
He grins at that, and I hate how easy his grin looks. Hate it even more when he turns toward her as if I don’t exist.
“Hey, Dove,” he calls. “Your boyfriend dropped off food.”
Her only response is a grunt.
Not even a glance.
I’m suddenly cold despite the muggy shop air. Her frostiness doesn’t bother me, but come on. A half-second glare in my direction wouldn’t kill her.
If she expects me to stand here like a simp until she deigns to give me her attention, she has the wrong guy. But that’s the thing. She doesn’t expect that. She expects nothing from me. Not my help. Not my protection. Not my sandwich.
Without another word, I leave before I do something unforgivable like grab her throat and shove my tongue between her pressed lips.
Back at the tattoo shop, I plant myself behind my station and draw until I forget how to feel. The sketchpad fills fast. Faces, shapes, dark fairy tale designs I keep obsessing over. I don’t stop until my fingers cramp.
Then the clients start coming in.
First, a girl from Juneau. She wants a black rose on her ribs, and I slay it. Delicate lines. Bold shading. She stares at it in the mirror afterward like I just gave her a mind-blowing orgasm. Then she hangs out, flirting and begging me to go out with her tonight.
Not interested. Even if I didn’t have Dove on the brain, I don’t date clients.
I don’t date anyone.
A local fisherman walks in next. He wants a giant squid wrapped around a lighthouse. Unusual request. Killer design. I freehand the whole thing while he talks about storms and losing his brother to the sea. I don’t say much. Just let him talk. I think he’s lonely.
I get it, man.
The afternoon drags on with ink and music and fading light. My phone vibrates every few hours. I check it. Nothing from her.
I text again.
Me:
You good?
Brought a sandwich just to watch you pretend I don’t exist.
Worth it.
I’ll be there when you’re finished. I dare you to look at me this time.
Dove?
Okay.
Nothing.
Ghosted.
The setting that shows Read is disabled on her phone, so it feels like a double punch.
Declan leaves around eight, flipping the sign to CLOSED on his way out. I clean my station, mop the floors, and restock needles until ten. Everything is neat and controlled. Unlike me.