Page 1

Prologue

Poe

I watch the people going into the shops with a frustrated grunt.

This block has several tattoo shops lining it. I’m sitting at a cafe watching the traffic go in and out. I may have chosen the wrong day to do this, but when I woke up this morning, it seemed imperative that I take the plunge. Stop hesitating and doubting. Do it.

Each place is busy enough to make this task daunting. I can feel my bravado shriveling up the longer I sit here.

The only place that remains empty is a tiny shop close to the end of the block. I’m not sure why no one ventures in. Maybe the artist is shit. Or the place isn’t hygienic. Who knows. People glance in and keep walking.

I’ve been here for hours. Nothing is changing. If I’m going to do this, I need to get off my ass. I drop a hefty tip to make up for my monopolization of a table before I leave.

Every shop I pass has at least one customer. It’s worse at the places that offer piercings, too.

This is a horrible idea. I need to warn people about the pitfalls.

My group in Survivors of Tragedy has been talking about tattoos for so long, with no one brave enough to get one, that I decided to be the guinea pig. I want to be more than a mouthpiece. We all do. But it’s hard to reveal things to a stranger who’s going to grill you about your life with a tattoo gun in their hand and no escape.

I stop at the deserted shop, noticing all of the differences at a glance.

The window doesn’t have any graffiti on it. It’s wide open for people to see inside. Only a blinking open sign and a small plaque stating Whisper Ink to let a person know this is a tattoo shop. Too subtle for the popular crowds. The owner is flying under the radar, and the business is suffering for it.

There’s a counter with a swinging side door to accept clients into the back. A break room is barely visible in the background. Only two sections are set up for use. Oddly, there are privacy curtains instead of closed rooms. Still, an oasis of safety without the constraints of walls someone couldn’t escape from. Do the artists have claustrophobia? A lot of my group does.

It’s interesting but not my focus.

No. It’s the woman flipping through a magazine standing at the counter. Her blond hair is eye-catching under the lighting, with darker roots slowly growing in. Her pink lips purse as if she’s frustrated. The angry motion she’s using to flip the pages completes the picture. A heart-shaped face of innocence filled with irritation.

She’s beautiful in an unfiltered way. No makeup and a slight blemish on her cheek. She doesn’t seem concerned about her appearance at all. Her shirt has a raccoon holding a knife on it.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and snap a few pictures. I’ll go inside and ask for permission to use them if I want to publish any of them. When I’m done, I scroll through them with a scowl. I don’t want to share these with the world—or anyone.

When did I become a perverted voyeur instead of a photographer? Or do the two naturally go hand in hand?

I’m suddenly embarrassed as I hurry to pocket the phone. I’m not telling her about this. How can I? Something that I wouldn’t have thought twice about before is suddenly a teeth-baring refusal to share an image.

Sometimes, I don’t understand my compulsions. I have to accept it and move on.

There’s something different about this place, this woman. Something that has all of my focus. I want to know what it is. My mission has turned into introspection all because a woman at a counter doesn’t fit the chic, rambunctious ones I’m used to flatly fending off.

I’m moving to the door before I can second-guess the decision.

Chapter One

Adelaide

I’m ready to close up shop when he comes in. It’s been a slow day and not really worth having the lights on. I want to turn him away to come back tomorrow, but business first. I can’t afford to miss an opportunity anymore.

He’s tall and wearing a lot of baggy clothes. All in black. Wavy black hair hangs over his face to hide his features. There are hints of a maroon color in it that reflect in the light. A good dye job? He stares at the floor as he comes in.

If he’s an introvert, he’s trying a little too hard to be incognito. Despite his apparent need to hide, his walk is casual and confident.

He’s odd enough that I’m intrigued. I wonder what secrets he’ll tell me while I tattoo whatever it is he wants. Or if he’ll talk at all.

“Hello. How can I help you?” I say in the slow drawl I love. Despite everyone else in the family conforming to toss away the accent, I revel in mine. I haven’t been in Louisiana for years, and I’ve still got it.

He doesn’t respond as his attention goes to the flash on the walls.