But I never lost my passion for creating. On paper, I could control what was impossible on the outside. I could make art of my demons. And by the time I was eighteen, and I found Twisted Roses, I’d gotten pretty good at it.
Blaze brought me in, and Sage taught me how to translate what I could do on paper with skin. And I built up my client list one work of art at a time, until Blaze went back to his motorcycle club and left the shop to the four of us.
It was my first taste of real freedom—the moment I stopped accepting Dad’s money and started making my own path. First as a part owner in the shop, then with the fight nights. I found what I’m good at when I didn’t think there was anything.
And that was the singular thing I’ve cared about.
But now, as I drag my needle across Tatum’s calf, for the first time since Mom died, I do care about something more than myself or my art—a girl who won’t get out of my head since she left my bed last week and started spending every other day at the hospital with my brother.
I’ve given her space, but I’m getting impatient.
And tonight, there’s no escape.
Fel convinced Echo to attend Blaze’s bloody Valentine's party with her, and even if she thinks I wasn’t listening, I heard every word. Echo’s name has become some kind of beacon my mind targets.
My chest constricts just thinking about her.
I don’t care if my brother almost died. She’s not using him as an excuse to avoid me any longer. Just like my father isn’t going to leverage Rhett’s injury to try and drag me back into the Kingsley family mess. At least Adam iskeeping Dad’s focus on bigger problems because if I get one more text requesting a family meeting, I’m going to smash my phone.
Pulling back on the needle, I set it aside and clean off the fresh tattoo. It’s a black and gray portrait of his kid’s face, and when Tatum smiles, I accept the only validation I allow myself.
“Fuck, man, you’ve got talent.”
I know.
Not that I say it.
There’s a reason people pay stupid amounts of money to get inked here. And since I’ve always had a natural knack for realism and portraits, I’ve made it my specialty.
“You still planning out the half sleeve?” I stand.
Tatum nods. “Debating how bloody I want to make it.”
“I’ll sketch out a few ideas. Just drop off anything you’ve been eyeing, and I’ll work on something you might like.”
“You got it, man.” Tatum stands up and walks over to the mirror, twisting his leg to get a better look at the tattoo.
“It’s like a photograph. You seriously nailed it.”
I lean against the counter and cross my arms over my chest, nodding, but not offering much more.
It’s flawless, but lately, even that doesn’t relieve the pressure between my temples.
“Hey, is Echo here?”
“Why?” And why do I instantly want to stab my tattoo needle through his eye for asking me that question?
“Oh shit.” Tatum slaps a hand on his forehead. “I forgot she’s still dating your brother, right?”
I nod.
“Well, if it doesn’t work out…” He smirks, and I’m resisting the urge to hold his head under water until all he can think about is how his lungs are on fire and his eyes are going to explode.
“Sure thing,” I say instead because no one needs to realize how unhinged I’m becoming over this chick, especially Tatum.
I’ve always been aware of the attention she gets from anyone who walks into the shop, but this past week it’s mind-splitting. Every pair of eyes that dart in her direction makes me want to carve them out.
This girl is going to be the literal end of me, and she’s avoiding me like the fucking plague.
