My cell sits on the passenger seat, reflecting the sun, daring me to text Emma.

There's some way to fix this.

To soothe her.

Convince her I deserve her trust.

I need to figure that out before I push her.

The song switches to the next. Another radio hit. Damn, I have to hand it to Emma. She knows how to pick music that cuts all the way to my bones.

My thoughts swirl as I park on the street and feed the meter.

When I close my eyes, I can feel her fear. The way it furrowed her brow. Shook her voice. Curled her shoulders.

Then I open my eyes and the only thing I can feel is my thudding heart.

It's right there.

Blacklist Tattoo.

Same bright sign.

Same big windows.

Same art lining the walls.

This place was home for years.

For most of my adult life.

Now…

I know I'm not welcome here.

But the degree is up for debate.

I swallow hard as I cross the street.

A red sports car stops just in time. The driver yells a curse, but the words don't flow through my ears.

The last time I was here, Chase pushed me out the door.

I deserved it.

He has every right to hate me.

To make good on his promise and never speak to me again.

I still remember the day that switch turned. He'd scheduled an intervention a few months earlier. Issued an ultimatum—stop drinking or get out of his life forever.

I promised I'd stop.

Picked up a bottle that same night.

When he caught me drinking at work, that was it.

He was done with me.

I wish I could say that was what inspired me to get clean. But it took another few months of drinking my money and an ultimatum from my parents—no rehab, no rent—to even consider putting down the bottle.

Even then… I didn't plan on getting sober.

I was going to do my time, get out, get drunk as soon as possible.

It wasn't until I was clearheaded enough to give a fuck that I actually wanted to change.

Now…

I'm still not sure where I'm going.

Only that I want to be better.

To stay sober.

To fix the shit I broke.

A short dude steps onto the sidewalk. Shoots me a what the fuck's your problem look.

He's a new customer. Or one I forgot in a blur of bourbon.

Either way, he's not impressed by the way I'm staring.

It's not helping.

I've got issues with the twelve step program, but that whole only make amends if it's not making shit worse thing?

That's a good policy.

I've done enough damage.

If my friends and family aren't read to forgive me—

I have to be okay with that.

Somehow.

I suck a breath through my nose, then I step into the shop.

My feet barely touch the ground.

Same flash tattoos in black frames. Same clean white walls. Same heavy guitar riff flowing through the speakers.

Chase has the same favorite band as Emma.

That can't be a win.

I laugh. For a second, I believe my brother and I are close enough I can tease him about his music.

Then I see him standing behind the desk, stern look on his face, posture screaming go away—

All that joy fades.

He doesn't want me here.

But Wes—my younger brother is standing next to Chase—is smiling.

Chase looks the same as he did the day he tossed me on my ass. Tall. Broad. Imposing.

He's an inch taller than me now, two maybe, but I never managed to outgrow seeing him as my tough older brother.

Wes has always looked small to me. Like he needed protecting. But he doesn't. He's not. He's the same height as I am. And he's utterly unaffected by everything.

He's wearing his usual aloof grin. Like he's ready to start shit right away.

Like he doesn't care that I'm here.

Usually, Chase is all steel and ice.

Usually, I don't have a clue what he's thinking.

Right now, his deep blue eyes are filled with pure disdain.

It's as clear as day.

My older brother hates me.

The buzz of a tattoo gun ceases.

That's Griffin, in the corner. Not a blood relative, but close enough to be a brother.

He's a good guy. Loyal. Idealistic. Straightforward.

Which makes his what the fuck is this look all the more concerning.

"Hunter…" Griffin whispers something to his client. Sets his gun down. "You look—"

"Like shit." Wes shrugs. "Sobriety hasn't been kind to you."

"Thanks." A chuckle falls off my lips. It's more nerves than anything. But it's good to see Wes. It's good he's the same. "I've been working on it."

"Yeah, I can tell. You wearing red eyeliner or something?" Wes motions to my eyes. "Maybe some light foundation. Like during your goth phase."

"That was to impress a girl," I say.

"So he says." Wes motions to Griffin.

But Griffin doesn't take the bait. He stares at Chase. His brow furrows. His lip corners turn down.

"Fuck, it's like a funeral in here." Wes moves out from behind the counter. "And Hunter isn't even rocking the My Chemical Romance look." He offers his hand.

I take it.

He pulls me into a hug.

Pats my back. Stage whispers. "Fuck, maybe I'm the only one glad you're here, but I am."

"Thanks." I step backward.

Chase's eyes stay fixed on mine. He's practically screaming what the fuck do you think you're doing here?

He's still my larger than life big brother.

But I can see the signs of strain. The frown on his lips. The tension in his shoulders. The tiredness in his blue eyes.

He looks so much like Mom.

Same deep eyes. Same dark locks. Same vicious stare.

Wes turns to our older brother. "Hate to break it to you, Chase, but you haven't mastered telepathy yet."

Chase's stare deepens.

"You know this tension is bad for your heart." Wes taps his chest. "Why don't you take him outside, hit him, get over it?"

"No." I take a step backward. "I get it."

"Fuck that. You're looking buff as hell, Hunter. Don't tell me you're still afraid of your big brother," Wes says.

Of him? No. Of disappointing him—I could write an essay about that.

"You do look good," Griffin says. "Even without the eyeliner."

"You got any I can borrow?" I try to tease, but it doesn't land.

Wes is the only one laughing.

And it's hollow.

Fuck, if Wes can't pretend everything is okay—

This really is dire.

"Are you here for a reason?" Chase's deep voice echoes through the room. It drowns out the thrashing guitars. The hum of the air-conditioning. The pounding of my heart.

"I want to apologize." It's not what he wants to hear. He wants something he can fix, something that will get me out of here. A last paycheck. A sketchbook I forgot. A client who needs a referral.

He's willing to deal with Hunter Keating, tattoo artist.

Not Hunter Keating, brother.

Fuck, I shouldn't be here. Even if it's my only option. "I am sorry."

"That's great, right, Chase?" Wes shoots Chase a look.

Chase stays firm.

Wes's shoulders rise with frustration.

I'm going to fix this.

That means giving my brother room. "I should go."

"Fuck that. Stay. Help me with this mock-up." Wes motions to his sketchbook. "The perspective is off."

"Not my strong suit," I say.

Wes struggles to fight a frown. "Then tell me what you want for your birthday. It's next week. And I can't exactly buy you a bottle of Jim Beam this year."

Griffin shakes his head fuck, did you really say that? He turns back to his client and picks up his gun. "I'll see you around."

"I'm good," I say. "Really."

"Fuck that. I'm getting you something," Wes says. "If you want it to be appropriate—"

"Just come to my party," I say.

Wes and Griffin share a look.

Griffin shrugs.

Wes turns to me. "Fuck yeah. Is it gonna be dry or—"

That's a good question. "It's at Inked Hearts. On Friday. Starts around eight or nine." My eyes flit to Chase. He's still staring with disdain. "Hope I'll see you there."

Wes nods.

Griffin too.

Chase…

Well, I get the message.

I nod a goodbye to my brother, then I turn and leave.

He wants nothing to do with me.

It's fair.

I can give him space.

I can wait forever.

Whatever it takes, I'm fixing this.