Page 15 of Inked Desires

AReS

I try to focus on the sketch in front of me. Drawing usually helps. It silences all the thoughts gnawing at my mind. But today… it’s different. Everything is different.

I thought I knew what heartbreak was. Turns out I had no clue. Andrew brought that feeling to a level I didn’t even know existed.

Anger pulses through my veins. How can one man cause so much chaos in so little time? Not even my ex ever messed me up this bad. And yet here I am, sulking like a fool.

I toss the pencil onto the table. It’s pointless. This morning, I tried blowing off steam with a workout, then with sketching, even with a random drive. None of it helped.

I fell for that stupid bastard. Fell hard. So hard I can’t even face it. And on top of it all, I’m worried about him. I should be furious. Andrew stole from me and didn’t trust me, but I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at myself. I let him go.

“Shit…”

I get up again, pacing the living room, desperate for anything to do. Everything is clean, almost sterile. No appointments today, and the drawing refuses to take shape. I look up at the ceiling.

The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the silence. I sigh, cross the room, and grab it.

“Devil’s Sign,” I say, my voice colder than intended.

Great way to scare off potential clients.

On the other end, silence. I wait. Sometimes new clients are so nervous they don’t even manage a word.

When the pause gets awkward, I speak again:

“Hello?”

I hear breathing. I press the phone tighter against my ear, straining to catch more.

“If this is some prank call, I’m really not in the fucking mood,” I growl.

“I’d like to speak to Andrew,” a man’s voice finally says.

My brows lift. My free hand curls into a fist. A man’s voice.

I don’t remember Andrew mentioning anyone he wanted to talk to. Or anyone who’d have this number.

A bad feeling curls in my gut.

“He’s not here,” I snap.

Has he already replaced me? The thought vanishes as fast as it came. Why the hell would Andrew give someone the tattoo studio number if that were the case? And three days would be a record to find someone new—especially with his trust issues. He wouldn’t just jump into another guy’s arms.

“Where is he?” the man asks, voice calm now.

Something clicks in my head. Loud and clear, like a light switch being thrown.

“No idea.”

Even if I knew where Andrew was, I wouldn’t tell this rat.

“Tell him his husband’s looking for him,” he adds with a smile in his voice.

He wants to provoke me—and it’s working.

“Listen to me, asshole,” I spit, seething. “I’m not telling him shit. I know what you did to him. You must really have a tiny dick if you need to beat up someone weaker than you.”

“You better watch your mouth,” he replies, voice low and dangerous. “I let it slide that you fucked that little whore. I can’t blame you. He’s good at manipulating people. But if you get in my way, I’ll burn down your fucking shop—with you in it.”

I breathe deeply. He’s trying to scare me, but he picked the wrong guy. I’ve already made the mistake of backing the wrong person once, and a brother-in-arms took a bullet for it. I’ve killed men—men who thought their cause was righteous. Threatening to kill me is pointless. I’ve wished for it too often myself.

“You’re threatening me?” I ask, my voice like ice. “Don’t underestimate me, Benton. That would be your last mistake. And stay the hell away from Andrew if you value your life at all.”

I hang up. The sound echoes harshly in the studio.

My chest rises and falls rapidly. I stare at the shattered remains on the floor. Bits of gray plastic scattered across the tiles. My hands are shaking. The phone is gone from my left hand.

I lost control. If Jace had walked in at that moment, it wouldn’t have been a phone I smashed—it would’ve been his skull.

I turn away from the mess and drop into the chair behind the desk. If that bastard’s calling here, it means he’s sniffing around. That’s bad. The only good news is that he doesn’t know exactly where Andrew is… not yet.

What does he want now? He’s not going to take him back, that’s for sure. He needs to preserve his image. People would talk about Andrew’s absence, draw conclusions.

Then a chilling truth hits me: he wants to make an example out of him. To assert his dominance.

I pull my cell from my back pocket. It takes way too long, but finally, the ringing stops and a groggy voice answers:

“What do you want?”

“I need a gun,” I say flatly.

Rustling, then a groan. He’s probably hungover.

“Did I hear that right?” Kiran asks. “You swore you’d never have one of those in your house again. Why the hell do you need a gun?”

“Can you get me one or not?” I press, ignoring his questions.

“Whoa, calm down, big guy,” he mutters. “Damn. I’m not even dressed enough to be having this conversation without it getting weird.”

I take a deep breath. I have zero patience for his usual morning banter. If I could, I’d strangle him through the phone. Is it so hard to answer a simple question?

“Kiran!” I bark.

He sighs dramatically, just to piss me off.

“I’ll be at your place in an hour. Let me at least wash the remains of last night’s hookup off first,” he says before hanging up, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I plant my palms on the table, every muscle in my body taut. The urge to leave the shop and hunt Jace Benton down burns in my veins. I want to rip his head off and play basketball with it.

A black revolver appears in my line of sight. I look up, startled. I didn’t even hear anyone enter. Too busy imagining a thousand ways to make that bastard pay.

“What exactly do you plan on doing with that?” my best friend asks.

I reach for it. For the first time in a long while, my fingers brush cold steel. Memories hit like a freight train: stifling heat. A woman’s piercing scream. A gunshot.

I shake my head, pushing the images away, and wrap my hand around the weapon. Its weight settles heavily in my palm. I have to face my past—it's the only way forward.

“I’m going after Jace Benton,” I say coldly.

Kiran watches me, searching for any flicker of doubt in my eyes. He won’t find any. I failed to protect someone once. I won’t make the same mistake again.

“And you think you can pull this off alone?” he asks calmly.

“This is my fight,” I say firmly.

I won’t drag anyone else into this mess. It’s my responsibility. I have to finish this myself.

“He left you,” Kiran reminds me.

“I know,” I reply flatly.

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

“Right. So this is a man-on-a-mission kind of story. Like there aren’t already a thousand of those—with shitty endings, by the way. Fantastic,” he mutters.

“No,” I whisper. “This is a fight for love.”

He turns toward me sharply.

“I’ll regret this, but screw it—you’re not doing this alone. We’re calling the crew. You won’t get far on your own.”

“No,” I say firmly.

“That wasn’t a suggestion, asshole,” Kiran snaps. “We swore we’d always fight together. I intend to keep that promise.”

I shoot to my feet, ready to knock some sense into him with my fists, when the door suddenly bursts open.

A man steps inside, followed by others. All their heads are shaved down to the exact same buzz cut. They look at me with wide grins and take position side by side, arms crossed.

“Hey, AC,” the leader calls out.

I blink at each of them, confused out of my mind. What the hell is going on?

“Looks like baby boy’s gone speechless,” the last one chuckles.

The years have left a few wrinkles around his eyes, but that spark of mischief is still there.

“I took the liberty of calling everyone and bringing them here,” Kiran announces, tossing a folder onto the table I hadn’t even seen in his hand.

“Everything’s in there. What we need to know, what we need to do. We’re not charging in blind, AC. We need a real plan if we’re gonna save your lover,” my best friend says, voice firm.

ANDREW

A sharp beep pierces through the fog in my head. A loud, grating sound rings in my ears, refusing to stop, until sleep starts to slip away. Every part of my body aches, and I don’t dare open my eyes.

What the hell did I do last night? This has to be the worst hangover of my life. I haven’t felt this awful in years.

I blink slowly against the light. A stranger’s face hovers over mine, smiling softly. How many drinks did I have? I don’t even remember being at a party.

“Oh! Hello! You’re awake,” the woman says.

Disoriented, my gaze drifts around the room. That’s when I notice her green scrubs. Everything is white and sterile. A small TV hangs in the far-left corner. A white blanket with thin stripes covers my body. The smell of disinfectant stings my nostrils.

“Why am I in a hospital?” I croak, throat dry and raw like I haven’t spoken in days.

The woman, probably in her forties, keeps her gentle smile.

“What do you remember?” she asks calmly.

I shut my eyes. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a void—and an unbearable pounding behind my eyelids. Then an image flashes through my mind. My fingers curl, my stomach lurches. It’s strange. It’s not a bad memory.

“I was supposed to meet my friend... Jace. Jace Benton. Is he here?” I whisper, eyes flying open.

Her smile falters.

“I’ll get the doctor,” she says and hurries out of the room.

I watch her go, confused. Did I say something wrong? Where is Jace? Was he with me when I was brought in? I vaguely recall we were supposed to have dinner.

An older doctor walks in, his thick gray hair combed neatly. He pushes his glasses from his nose up to his forehead and takes the seat beside the bed.

“Welcome back, Mr. Benton. Are you in any pain?” he asks gently.

Mr. Benton? What?

“Lopez,” I correct. “My last name’s Lopez. I’m fine... aside from the headache.”

He raises an eyebrow and writes something on his clipboard, then stands briefly to check my eyes with a small flashlight.

“What do you remember?”

Didn’t I just answer this? Didn’t the nurse tell him?

“I had plans to meet my friend for dinner. Then nothing,” I say quietly.

He nods and jots more notes.

“Where’s Jace?”

“We managed to reach your husband an hour ago,” he replies. “He’s on his way to see you.”

“He’s not my husband,” I correct again.

He sighs, lifting his eyes from the clipboard.

“What year is it?”

I frown. What kind of question is that?

“Two thousand fifteen.”

“It’s two thousand twenty-two,” he says calmly.

I stare at him, stunned. What?

“How long have I been here?!”

The doctor lets out a soft chuckle and leans toward me slightly.

“Three days,” he explains clinically. “Don’t worry. It looks like you’re experiencing dissociative amnesia, but we need to rule out retrograde amnesia. We’ll run a few more tests. Aside from that, you suffered a nasty head injury—a concussion—and were stabbed. Luckily, it didn’t hit any major organs, but you lost a lot of blood.”

“Dissoci—what? Stabbed? I don’t... I don’t understand.”

My head pounds harder.

“You were attacked at New London station and brought here. It appears to have been a mugging,” he adds, offering more context at last.

A mugging? I’m in the hospital because of a mugging? My head spins.

“New London?” I echo. “What was I doing in New London?”

“That’s what everyone’s wondering, Mr. Benton. You’d been reported missing by your husband, then presumed dead. No one could find you.”

People thought I was dead?

That means I vanished without a trace. And… Mr. Benton. I’m apparently married to Jace. We passed the “dating” stage. It’s 2022. That’s seven years. Seven years gone from my memory.

“What does this amnesia thing mean?”

“If I’m right, the trauma was so intense that your brain shut down part of your memory. Dissociative amnesia. Therapy might help recover it.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

He sighs and rubs his forehead.

“Then it’s retrograde amnesia. In that case, you’ll be lucky if some fragments come back.”

I swallow hard. With my luck, it’s probably the second option. Seven years... gone.

“Do you remember anything after your disappearance? Anything at all?” he presses.

Annoyed, I turn my head—only to regret it instantly. Pain rips through my skull, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I don’t even remember marrying Jace,” I whisper.

A squeaking noise pulls my attention back. He adjusts a dial on the IV.

“All right. You need rest. I’ve increased your pain meds. You’ll feel better soon. I’ll come back later.”

“You’re really leaving me alone?” I call after him, panic creeping in.

He pauses in the doorway and glances back.

“You’ve had enough emotions for one day, Mr. Benton. Rest,” he says before vanishing down the hallway.

The meds don’t help much. The pounding in my head gets worse. I try to remember anything—but it’s all just out of reach. I give up.

I mentally review what I do know:

I’m married to Jace.

I disappeared.

I was declared dead.

I was found in New London, stabbed.

I’m in a hospital.

Seven years of my life are missing.

What the hell happened?

The fog in my head grows so thick I can’t think straight. I try to stay awake, desperate to piece it together. But it’s useless.

Darkness pulls me under. And I sink into a sleep that feels endless.