My hand was starting to have that deep, familiar ache set in, but the piece was almost done.

When the slip of a girl came in with no ink besides a tiny bit of script above her hip and asked for an anchor over more than a quarter of her back, I had my doubts about whether we’d be making it through in one session. Joke was on me, go fucking figure.

After ten years tattooing, I should know better. I’d had behemoth dudes get in that chair and pussy out after twenty minutes, and I’d had chicks that looked like they were flowers and sunshine take that needle for hours without so much as a wince. I’d even had clients covered in ink struggle through the whole process. There was no way to predict how someone was going to take to it.

My dumb shit aside, the piece was turning out perfect. The last of the shading I was adding were really making the thing pop. My client hadn’t said much since she’d laid out and let me get to work. I had no clue if this tattoo meant something in particular to her, though my gut said it did. Whatever it was that had her getting it, at least I was confident I was giving her something she’d love, aching hand be damned.

I could hear the click of heels approaching over the hum of the gun even before Jess let out a low whistle.

“That looks amazing.”

I didn’t respond right off, focusing instead on laying in the last bit of shadow to the bottom tip. Some clients wanted to talk to anyone and everyone, happy to chatter about anything to pass the time or just get their minds off the sensation. Some wanted to drown us out with music, blasting it through noise-canceling headphones. And some, like Candace, seemed to prefer no talking at all unless it was necessary. Giving the client whatever they wanted was part of the job, and Jess knew that as well as anyone. She needed nothing more from me than a lack of response to wander off knowing she and I were cool.

It took another half an hour before I had the last of the tatt done, and Candace squared away with aftercare instructions. I followed her up to the front, hanging out behind the desk while Jess took care of the payment part. When the door closed behind her, Jess spun in her chair to face me.

“Did you get a picture of that one?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded. “Send it to me. I’ll add it to the site and the slideshows.”

It seemed I wasn’t the only one that thought that tattoo had kicked ass. An anchor wasn’t the sort of design that I thought right off the bat as standing out, but the wear she’d said she’d wanted on the metal surface gave me a lot to work with. The slideshows played on a couple flat screens right in the front of the shop, and it wasn’t every day a piece got added to the mix. Jess had carte blanche over what made it in. Her picking something to add to them was a huge compliment.

See, Sailor’s Grave wasn’t just any shop. I’d worked in my share of places. Most, before now, had been the sort of wander in and get some bullshit tatt from the wall or replicate some trend on the internet type places. It was that lack of respect for the art that usually had me moving on as soon as I could afford to. If customers wanted that shit, that was fine, but tattooers that couldn’t hack anything else was something I couldn’t take.

Sailor’s Grave was different.

Sketch, the current owner, and Carson, who’d run it before him, didn’t take tattooing lightly. They also didn’t bother employing anyone who did. It was that mentality that had made the shop that was well off the beaten path into a fucking Mecca in the tattoo world. That it was in my own hometown had made it the pinnacle to me since I’d really gotten into art in high school.

I’d met Sketch at a convention just over a year ago. It’d been rough to keep my cool when he’d approached and started thumbing through my portfolios while we chatted. When he’d asked for my card, I’d about shit myself. He offered me a job that same weekend, and I was on the phone with my mom planning out a stay with her until I found a place ten minutes later. It was the best decision I’d made since learning to tattoo after art school.

Jess, as always, didn’t linger on the praise she’d just offered. She may have looked and dressed like the ultimate tattooed pin-up girl, but she was far beyond eye candy around here. She ran a tight ship, and she kept all of us in line.

“Your next appointment canceled; he said something came up at work. He’s on the schedule for next Thursday when you had that gap,” she reported.

Seeing as my next appointment was supposed to be with a firefighter I’d been doing a huge backpiece for, work was a pretty fucking good excuse to cancel.

“Guess that means I’ve got some time to kill.”

“Your next appointment is at five-thirty.”

I was already heading back to my station. “Yes, Mom.”

“Fuck you,” she called after me.

After getting everything clean and sanitized, I went to leave when she stopped me with, “Where are you going, young man?”

Pulling up short at the door, I gave her a look. “Grabbing food.”

“Ooooh,” she teased. “You’re going to get cupcakes. Of course.” I shot her the finger as I stepped out, hearing her call after me, “You could at least offer to get me dinner!”

I didn’t bother to stop and respond. She knew I would, which was why my phone buzzed in my pocket a minute later with her order.

Jess lived to give me shit, and she knew my frequent trips to Sugar’s Dream was an easy target. She wouldn’t be laughing if I scored some of the lemon cupcakes she loved, though. Especially when I didn’t share that shit—or at least pretended not to for a few minutes.

I was right down the street to the bakery when my phone rang through the car speakers. With a quick glance at the display, I tapped the button to answer.

“Hey, Momma.”

“You’re the favorite today. You will not believe what your sister did.”

Ah, so this was that type of phone call. It was probably ridiculous that I still enjoyed these kinds of rants from my mom at thirty-two, but I wasn’t about to pretend I didn’t. Tracy, my little sister, had studied law at UCLA and now worked at some hot-shot office up in Seattle. I loved her to death, and we were fortunate enough that we’d grown up in a home where being a tattoo artist didn’t make me the black sheep bum by comparison while she was off being exceptional, but it didn’t hurt to have something over Tracy once in a while.

“I’m always the favorite. I’m your first born.”

“Yeah, before I knew how magical epidurals were.”

“It’s been three decades. Let it go.”

“Never.”

I sighed. Mom would be in a nursing home lamenting over my abnormally large newborn self to the nurses while they passed out the meds and applesauce.

“I thought I was the favorite today,” I reminded her.

“You are,” she agreed, which surprised even me. Usually, that status went out the window any time Mom was reminded of how I came out at a hulking ten pounds, eight ounces.

“What did Tracy do?” I was gearing up to either revel in whatever I was about to hear or come to her defense. With how Mom often overreacted to stupid shit, it could go either way.

“She has a boyfriend.”

“Oh, no. Will the horrors never cease?”

“That’s it. Connor is my favorite now.”

That wasn’t surprising. Of course, Connor was actually always the favorite. Not just Mom’s, but mine and Tracy’s, too. Even Mom saying I’d been the favorite was just a game of second place.

I pulled into a spot outside of Sugar’s Dream and parked, knowing I wasn’t going anywhere until she got whatever this was off her chest.

“Why are you pissed Tracy’s dating someone? I thought you were bitching on Easter that she needs to stop spending so many hours at the office and start getting out more.”

“Well, she does!”

“Well, it seems like she is,” I shot back.

“They’ve been seeing each other for two months. Two. Months. And I’m just hearing about this today.”

Damn. Bad move, sis.

Tracy talked to Mom as much as I did, which was to say multiple times a week. That much time on the phone and no mention of something like that was bound to incite this kind of reaction.

It seemed it was big brother to the rescue time after all.

“With the hours she pulls, that probably means they’ve been on all of two dates.”

“No, this is different. She’s serious. She’s going to call me again in another two months and they’ll have done something crazy like flown to Vegas to get married.”

Let it never be said that my mother wasn’t dramatic.

“Mom, you’re acting crazy.”

As if on cue, my phone buzzed, and I checked it to see a text from my sister.

“If I am, it’s because you kids make me that way,” Mom insisted. “You’re thirty-two and not giving me grandbabies. Tracy has a secret boyfriend. And Connor’s now talking about how he wants to get a tattoo from you.”

“Connor wants a tattoo? Fuck, yeah, I’ll give him one.”

“You aren’t helping!”

Another couple texts from Tracy popped up.

“Mom, Tracy’s an adult. She’s dating. Two months isn’t a big deal, particularly for someone as busy as she is. Odds are, this guy’s some hotshot with a crazy work schedule, too. And Connor’s twenty-two. By his age, I had nearly a full sleeve already.”

“We both know Connor’s situation is different.”

She wasn’t wrong there.

When he was eleven, Connor and my dad were in a car accident. Connor suffered a traumatic brain injury that impaired his motor and cognitive skills and stunted his emotional development.

Dad didn’t make it.

The reminder of how our family changed that day still felt like a blow to the chest.

“You know I’d never let Connor do something rash or stupid,” I reminded her. “But he’s come a long way. It’s not like I’d sit him in my chair tomorrow and tattoo him, but we can start a conversation about doing something down the road if he’s truly getting that, it will never go away.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, honey.” There was a tiredness in her voice that I hated. She’d shouldered a lot on her own for us, and Connor was likely never going to be capable of living on his own.

“It’s okay. I’m not working tomorrow. Why don’t I come by and hang with Connor? You and Derek can have a date night.”

“You’re just trying to be my favorite again.”

I laughed. “Is it working?”

“You know it is. Though, grandbabies would keep you there longer,” she pressed.

“I get it. Go out and impregnate a woman. Damn. I’ll take care of it.”

It was more than a bit disturbing that I didn’t catch any flack for that comment before she gave me an “I love you” and said goodbye.

When we were done, I checked my phone again to see Tracy had been busy.

All right, maybe Mom was onto something. There was definitely something more than “casually dating” happening if it had Tracy on such a defensive.

I had the sneaking suspicion they were already “there,” but Tracy wasn’t one to open up easily. Whoever this Aaron was, he had a battle ahead of him. One he’d better be prepared to fight fully if he wanted my sister.

Knowing that was all I’d get out of her for now, I pocketed my phone and turned off the car. I took a deep breath. My trips to Sugar’s Dream were the sweetest form of torture that had nothing to do with the food behind the counter. It was all about who was behind it.

If she was in, it was going to be the highlight of my day and the ultimate test of my will because she was definitely off-limits.