Dean's light eyes brighten as I step into the shop.

The tall tattoo artist is all smiles and fucking with people. He always has been.

I've known him since high school.

And now I'm working for him.

Fuck, it's weird.

He nods a hello then looks to his suite.

"Hmm?" Chloe steps into the main room. She folds her arms over her chest. Taps her combat boots together.

She's his apprentice.

And—I don't have the details, but there's something between them.

They've known each other since high school.

Hated and wanted each other in equal measure.

They would make a cute couple.

He's a foot taller than her. He's bright and cheery down to his white t-shirt and his checkered Vans.

Whereas she dresses exclusively in black.

"I looked at you. That enough to make you miserable, sunshine?" he teases.

Her eyes narrow. Of course it is. She turns back to me. "Hunter, it's nice to see you again." Her tone shifts to something pleasant. The irritation falls off her face as she extends her hand.

I shake. "You too, Chloe." We just barely knew each other in high school, but I stopped by last week to sign my paperwork.

"Chloe Grace Lee," Dean adds. "She knows karate—"

"Aikido," she corrects.

"Don't fuck with her or she'll fuck you up." Dean lets out a hearty chuckle.

It's a sweet warning, though it's obviously not the case. He's already fucking with her.

She's biting back, yeah.

But considering his lack of bruising, I'm pretty sure she isn't fucking him up.

"Shit, you can cut the sexual tension with a knife, huh?" Dean winks at Chloe.

She stifles a smile.

Her eyes light up.

They stare like they're waiting to rip each other's clothes off.

It's bizarre.

And, this time, I'm pretty sure it's not my inability to communicate sober.

More their inability to hide their desire to bang.

"You're borrowing Brendon's suite for now." Chloe motions to the suite in the middle of the room. "Not that it's officially his. Now that you're working here—"

"I'm just filling in," I say.

She looks back to Dean.

He nods.

I'm not sure what the hell it means, but it conveys something to her.

She turns back to me with a smile. A big, bright smile that lights up her eyes.

She's expecting something from me.

But I haven't got a clue what it is.

"Been awhile, huh?" I ask.

"Yeah." She looks from Dean to me. "How have you been?"

I study her expression. It's earnest. Chloe was always the earnest type.

Except with Dean. The two of them traded barbs like it was going out of style.

She must not know what a mess I made of my life.

Better to keep it that way.

"All right," I say. "How about you?"

"I'm here." She looks back to Dean then raises her voice. "It's horrible torture, being here, but at least I'm learning."

"Oh yeah? You want to quit?" Dean teases.

She flips him off. "Fuck off, dick face."

He blows her a kiss. "You know I take that as a compliment."

She makes a show of rolling her eyes. "He's under some delusion that by calling him dick face, I'm saying his dick is beautiful."

"And?" I ask.

"I've seen better." She steps into the suite and points out where everything is. "You have a few appointments; the stuff Brendon couldn't move. And you can take walk-ins. We usually get a few."

"Thanks." I find a spot for my backpack then pull out my sketchbook. "Good seeing you again."

She nods. "You too." She plays with the pocket of her black jeans. "Let me know if you need anything. And Dean…" She lowers her voice to whisper. "Sometimes, he's okay. I'm sure he'll help if you need it." She turns and moves back to the desk.

Dean whispers something.

She laughs.

It's funny. Familiar. Like high school.

Like I didn't spend the last eight years fucking up my life.

My eleven o'clock steps into the shop with a nervous smile. Stephanie. Instantly recognizable from her Instagram, mostly shots of her hot pink hair or an outfit showing off her massive tits.

She's hot.

My body gets it.

But it's not like it was with Emma yesterday.

The guy I used to be wants to fuck Stephanie.

He wants to sweet talk, to flirt all through her ink, to let his fingers linger on her skin.

He doesn't care that she's nervous and vulnerable.

That guy is still there, at the back of my head.

He still wants to get wasted and take her home.

But the guy I'm trying to be—

He knows better.

"Hey, Hunter." Her red lips press into a smile. "You look just like your pictures." She opens her arms for a hug.

I accept it.

She squeezes tightly.

It's the closest I've been to someone in months.

It should feel good having a hot woman's body pressed against mine.

But it doesn't.

It's too much.

Too intimate.

Too demanding of something deep inside me.

She releases me with a smile.

I motion to the coffee machine and the water cooler next to it. "You want something to drink?"

"Coffee's probably a bad idea. With all the nerves?"

I nod. I've already had too much. I'm shaking. It's a cliché, trading an addiction to booze for one to caffeine and sugar, but that's 'cause it works. "How about a decaf?"

"Decaf?" Her brow furrows. "Is there a point?"

"Water?"

She nods. "Thank you."

I motion to the suite. "Take a seat. I'll bring it over."

She does.

I fill two cups with water. Chloe and Dean look up from whatever they're doing at the front desk to watch me.

They whisper like best friends trading gossip.

Or lovers.

Hard to tell.

I'm not sure what they know.

Brendon is a quiet guy. I trust him to keep secrets. But it's not hard to put the pieces together.

Last time they saw me, I was drunk and wild.

Now…

I'm not sure what the hell I am, but I'm not that guy.

My fingers brush Stephanie's.

She looks up at me with a smile. It's somewhere between I'm so excited about this and I want to fuck you senseless.

It's the mix of adrenaline and dopamine that comes with ink.

It's that I'm a hot tattoo artist about to mark her body.

It's not about me.

She finishes her water in three gulps, then hands the cup back to me. "Am I supposed to be ready?"

"I still get nervous too."

"Really?" Her eyes go wide as she studies the sleeve on my left arm. "After all that?"

Sometimes. But it's not the needle on my skin that scares me. It's having my hands on the gun.

I've done this buzzed a lot more than I've done this sober.

I need this job.

I need to be as good as I was.

"That's part of the thrill." I finish my water. "The rush is addicting."

She nods true and looks to the tattoo on her forearm—the lyrics to a song. I don't recognize them, but they're familiar. Something I've seen before. And not just on her Instagram.

"You ready?"

She nods yeah.

"Then let's start." I wash my hands. Don gloves. Play with a few temporary tattoos until we find the perfect placement.

It's all normal. Easy. Familiar.

Then I clean her up.

Get her in the chair, facedown—this is going on her shoulder blade—and tape the stencil to her skin.

My heart thuds against my chest.

My limbs get airy.

There's something about the gun. Something more than that Spider-man quote about great power and great responsibility.

Lightness spreads through my torso and chest as I turn on the gun.

This is an easy design. A simple stencil. Chloe's been apprenticing for a month and she could probably do it.

I can do this.

I've been doing this for nearly a decade.

So what if this is my first time accepting a paying client sober?

I suck a breath through my nose. "You ready?"

"I think so."

"Take a deep breath."

She does.

"Slow exhale."

She does that too.

"Stay like that, Steph. Okay?"

She giggles at the nickname. "Okay."

This is it. I need to let routine take over. Flirt. Tease. Work. "On three."

She nods.

"One, two." I bring the gun to her skin. Turn it on. "Three."

She yelps as the needle hits her skin.

I freeze. Turn it off. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Totally. Keep going."

"Sure." I'm not sure which of us is more scared, but I'm the one who has to deal. My nerves are only going to make hers worse. It's part of my job to walk her through this. The biggest part, even. "Tell me about this tattoo."

"Yeah?"

I turn the gun on.

Her breath gets shallow, but I still bring the needle to her skin.

"This will be fast. I promise." I bring the gun closer.

She nods. "Go."

Again, she yelps as the needle hits her skin. Her fingers dig into the teal vinyl. Her toes tap the shiny tile floor. "It's the lyrics to a song."

"What do you like about it?"

"Huh?"

I finish tracing the first letter and move to the second. My shoulders and back tense. Sweat drips to my brow. I'm not used to this position. I'm not used to this, period.

"What do you mean?"

"The song must be special. Or you wouldn't want the lyrics on your skin forever."

"Yeah." She grunts as I finish the second letter. "Is it going to hurt more or less as you move to the right?"

"Both. Closer to bone hurts more. You need a break?"

"No. Just conversation."

"I'm waiting."

"Oh. Yeah. It's just… kinda personal."

"But you want the whole world to see it?"

"It's on my back."

"You live in Southern California."

She laughs.

"I saw your Instagram, Steph. I know you show off."

Her laugh gets bigger. Heartier.

I have to pull the gun away, so it won't stutter.

"Am I that bad?" Her voice gets bouncy. Coquettish.

She's flirting.

I can flirt back.

Hell, I should. That's the easiest way to relax her.

But I can't bring myself to compliment her tits.

It feels wrong.

She saves me from finding a response. "I guess… it means something to me. But you know how it is. Most people don't look closer. They think about how they love the band or the song. But… God this sounds stupid."

"It doesn't."

"Did you ever feel like no one understands you?"

For the last decade. "What gave it away?"

She laughs. "Something about you."

"Where you at that party where I stood up and started singing Linkin Park?" I tease.

Her laugh gets louder. "I wish. I'd love to see you do In The End."

"How about Crawling?"

Again, she laughs. "How about you sing it with me?"

"You want the main vocals or the backing vocals?"

"Which gets you on stage?" She makes eye contact through the mirror. "You seem more like the backup type."

"Why do you say that?"

"There's a steadiness to you. Like you don't want attention."

"I might be convinced."

"I know a place that does karaoke Tuesdays. No cover. Strong drinks."

And there's that hitch.

At some point, I'm going to have to face the fact that everyone wants to combine alcohol with… everything.

But not yet.

Right now, I just need to get through this.

"I have a card in my wallet. I'll leave it at the counter," she says.

"Thanks."

"I… Uh… I guess everyone feels like that sometimes. Like no one understands them. But this song… when I was a teenager, I felt like no one would ever get how fucked-up my head was. But this song did. It was the only thing that made me feel like someone would understand."

It hits me right in the gut.

She's honest and vulnerable and she's offering that to me.

I should reach out.

Say me too. I'm still fucked-up. I've been fucked-up since I can remember. I thought it was cool, when I was a kid. I thought there was something beautiful about embracing my misery. About drowning everything I felt under a bottle of bourbon. But when I got over the idea of beautiful damage and realized I wasn't having fun anymore, I couldn't handle that. I couldn't handle shit.

So I drank more.

It was the only way to make everything easier.

Now that I'm sober, everything is so fucking hard again.

And I don't remember what the point of it is.

When does it get easier?

I want to understand it.

I want someone else to understand it.

To understand me.

I say none of that.

Stephanie is brave as hell, laying herself bare like this.

I'm not there yet.

I'm not even close to there yet.

"Is that stupid?" she asks.

"No." It's really not. "Everybody wants to be understood."

"And to understand someone else."

"Yeah."

"Why can't it always be this easy?" she asks.

"This is easy?" I finish another letter.

"Painful. But easy."

"It's the same with other people, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess it is. Simple. But painful." She bites her tongue.

"Halfway there."

"Thank God."

My laugh is soft.

Stephanie is sweet.

If things were different, if I was the kind of person who could handle intimacy—I'd run into her fucking arms.

But I'm not.

I can't.

I can barely handle this.

I bring up the band's first album.

Stephanie starts gushing about her favorite song.

I lose myself in finishing this work.

For the first time in forever, I'm on steady ground.

This is where I'm supposed to be.

What I'm supposed to do.

The reason why I need to hold my shit together.

For a while, I feel good. I check her out. Make it through my second client. Shoot the shit with Dean.

Then Emma steps into the store and shoots me that look that's equal parts leave me the fuck alone and I want to see you naked again.

And the ground falls out from under me.