Page 18 of Inked Desires

ANDREW

Six Months Later

I still don’t understand what happened to me, or how I could’ve been so damn na?ve.

After the attack, someone stood at my bedside. Turned out he was an undercover FBI agent who had infiltrated Jace’s gang to gather intel.

That part, I get. It makes sense, at least. But how could I have been so careless? I literally welcomed Jace with open arms and let him beat me down for years. Some scars from that time still remain, but none of the memories ever came back. My subconscious keeps them locked away, while my mind struggles to bring them to the surface. No matter how hard I try, it’s like fighting through thick, black tar.

The only thing I’m certain of is that the entire country is hunting down drug lord and murderer Jace Benton... my Jace.

I shake my head. I’d always believed his business was just corporate. What a fucking fool I’ve been. I was in love with one of the most powerful and ruthless men alive. And now, to top it all off, he wants me dead.

Robert made the decision to let me live in his apartment. He says it’s the safest place. No one would think to look for me in a gang member’s home.

And here I am, sitting on the couch like I do every day, watching the minutes crawl by, like I no longer have any control over my own life. I don’t know anyone. I have no reason to go outside.

A sigh slips past my lips as I stand and head up the stairs. In the hallway, I stop—probably for the thousandth time—and turn my back to the mirror. I lift the messy hair growing at the nape of my neck. Beautiful roses wind around my collar. Every time I look at this tattoo, I feel safe. It’s become my most precious symbol. I still wonder who did it. It can’t be very old—the ink hasn’t faded yet. I take care of it. I don’t want it to disappear. Ever.

I remember Robert telling me I hid out in Maple Creek for a while. Until now, I haven’t dared to investigate. What if I find something I’m not ready to face? Would it change who I am now? Would it alter what little I do remember?

As much as I search for answers, I don’t even know if I want them.

I sigh again and go back downstairs, sinking into the couch. On the table in front of me is a laptop. Hesitantly, I reach out and turn it on. It takes me a minute to click on the internet icon.

Then, after six months of silence, I finally do it—I type “Maple Creek” into the search bar.

A small sleepy town appears on the screen. Two thousand residents. A guesthouse. Just below, a website catches my eye. Drawn to it like a moth to flame, I click.

Devil’s Sign. A tattoo studio. The style of the pieces shown looks a lot like mine. I search for the artists, but there’s almost no info. No photos. Barely any data. All I get is the name of the owner: Ares Clark.

My chest tightens painfully.

I was hoping to learn more, but now I just feel... disappointed.

“What are you doing?” comes a voice from behind me.

I jump, then see Robert settling beside me. I close the laptop just enough so he can see the screen.

We’ve grown close—like best friends, in a strange way. He visited me in the hospital several times. He helped me reclaim my real identity. Thanks to him, I’m Andrew Lopez again. I’m alive. I even have a green card now, letting me stay in the country.

I should be happy. But no emotion comes.

“Did you remember something?” he asks, noticing I haven’t spoken.

I let my head fall back onto the gray couch and close my eyes. He thinks it’s simple, like I can just snap my fingers and everything will come rushing back.

“No,” I say. “You told me I was hiding out in Maple Creek. I wonder if that’s where I got this tattoo.”

Robert runs his hand through my hair, gently brushing it from my forehead. I turn toward him.

“Do you want to remember? It’s been six months,” he says.

I shrug. I don’t have an answer. I’m not even sure myself. Every answer comes with its own set of consequences. I just know I can’t keep living like this.

“Do you feel safe here?” he asks again.

“Yes. But...”

“But you’re not happy,” he finishes, watching my face closely.

“What does it mean to be happy?” I ask, more to myself than to him.

“Andrew, I’m in love with you,” he says softly, his voice shaking.

My heart skips a beat. I look up at him, speechless. His eyes meet mine—filled with truth. No hesitation. He means every word.

Shit.

A storm of emotions crashes over me. Since when? How didn’t I see it? Every glance, every touch—it was all there. No man risks his life like that without a reason.

“You look like you’re about to run,” he sighs. “And I get it. You don’t feel the same. I hoped maybe, with time... But I guess I’ve been chasing stars again.”

I gently place my hand on his arm. Robert is attractive, but he’s not my type. His deep green eyes, golden-blond hair, defined features—he’s objectively handsome. But he doesn’t spark that fire inside me. I’ve never seen him that way. To me, he’s a brother.

“Robert…” I begin, searching for the right words, but he cuts me off.

He places his hand over mine, giving it a soft stroke.

“Your eyes say it all,” he murmurs. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

Then he glances at the laptop.

“Go,” he encourages. “Maybe you’ll find answers there. Take my car. Maple Creek’s only about an hour away.”

Gratitude swells in my chest. I squeeze his arm.

“Thank you, Rob. For everything.”

He smiles and digs into his pocket for his car keys.

“Don’t thank me yet. Just be careful. If Jace finds you, you’re a dead man.”

I nod. According to intel, Jace is currently out of the country. He knows exactly what punishment awaits if he shows his face. He’d be stupid to come back. But can the FBI really stop him?

“I’ll be careful,” I say, full of new energy, grabbing the keys.

I’m so eager I don’t even stop to say goodbye. I throw on some clothes and rush out. I slip into the black Mercedes and start the engine, eager to escape the biting chill of November. The cold nips at my cheeks. The engine purrs.

The streets are quiet. Some stores are already decked out for Christmas, making everything feel warm and nostalgic. As soon as I reach Maple Creek, I feel... something. Peace. Like I was happy here once.

I think about walking around town, but then I spot a tattoo studio and instinctively pull over.

As I step out of the car, icy wind slips under my jeans and makes me shiver. A warm glow spills from the shop window. A sign says they’re hiring.

My trembling fingers grip the door handle. But I freeze. Something’s holding me back. Do I really want to go in without knowing what I’m even looking for? The person who inked me probably won’t remember. So what am I hoping to find?

I take a deep breath. God, I’m such a coward. Even if no one remembers me here, someone at least knows the tattoo. It would be something real—something I can hold on to. Until now, I’ve only had Robert’s version of my past. But now, I want to learn who I am—for myself.

I inhale again, deeper this time, and push the door open. Warmth envelops me. A little bell above the door jingles.

“Be right there!” calls a deep voice from the room beyond.

I stand still, stunned. A man steps into view. His very presence floods me with emotion. Messy hair. Strong brows. A faint scar on his left cheek. A slightly crooked nose. Full lips that complete the picture.

I wonder what color his eyes are. I want to see them, but he’s still focused on slipping on latex gloves.

I should say something. I should catch his attention. But I can’t find the words.

Then he finally looks up—and freezes.

Our eyes lock.

Time stretches.

It feels like some invisible force binds us. I slip into a kind of trance. Even the noise in my head fades to a distant hum.

He shakes his head at first, closes his eyes, and blinks several times. Finally, he looks at me again.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he hisses through clenched teeth.

I can’t pull myself together. I need to answer, but my lips simply refuse to move.

In three long strides, he’s in front of me. He glances toward the entrance, then grabs my arm tightly, making me jump. A jolt runs through me—small, sharp bursts of electricity that ripple beneath my skin and spread through my whole body. What the hell is that?

He drags me toward a small kitchen, tossing his gloves onto the counter with visible irritation.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he mutters darkly.

Okay. This guy clearly doesn’t like me. Did I forget to pay for the tattoo?

“Normally, people say hello first,” I mumble, trying to start a civil conversation.

His lips twitch slightly, as if he might smile, which weirdly makes me want to smile too.

“Hi,” he replies, his gaze scanning my face intently.

He’s still holding my arm.

“You could let go now,” I say gently.

He looks down at his hand as if only just realizing he’s touching me, then quickly releases it. He seems uncomfortable with the contact. Well, at least I’m not the only one feeling awkward here.

I turn around and lift my hair.

“Did you do this?”

There’s a pause. Then a long, heavy sigh.

“Yeah. It’s a cover-up,” he says.

“A cover-up?”

Another deep sigh. Then he grabs my free hand and lifts it. I’m about to protest when my fingers brush against my neck.

“Feel that? There’s another tattoo under the petals,” he says.

I frown, confused. I hadn’t noticed anything before.

“What was under it?” I ask, eager for answers.

“You don’t remember?” he counters.

I sigh and let my hand fall, turning to face him.

“I’ve made some dumb choices in my life. Because of them, I almost died twice. Since then, I’ve had dissociative amnesia,” I recite, bracing myself for the usual flood of follow-up questions.

My therapist warned me—people always want more than that sentence lets on.

“Any memories come back?”

I shake my head.

“Do you know who I am?”

“My tattoo artist?” I offer, testing the waters.

He exhales sharply at that.

“More than just your tattoo artist?” I ask, stunned.

“That’s in the past, Andrew. You should go,” he says, turning to leave the room.

Without thinking, I grab his wrist and stop him.

“You do know me,” I say quietly.

He freezes but says nothing.

“Please don’t throw me out. I’ve lost seven years of my life. I just want to know what really happened. All I know is what Robert told me…”

Maybe I can get through to him. He doesn’t want me here, but I can’t leave. I need to understand who he is… and what we were.

His brows draw together as he turns his head toward me. He studies me, searching for something in my face.

“I’m going to regret this,” he mutters.

Then he closes his eyes, flips his hand, and laces his fingers with mine. My heart stutters.

“Come with me,” he says, tugging me toward the door.

Oh no. He’s really going to kick me out. My plea didn’t work—I only made things worse.

But instead of opening the door, he locks it. I watch him, confused. The second the door is secured, he leads me to an adjoining room.

Inside, there’s just one tattoo chair that can be converted into a table, a few cabinets, and a stool. Looks like his workspace.

He inserts a key into the mirror—it clicks open, revealing a hidden hallway.

“Whoa. That’s impressive.”

His shoulders twitch. Is he laughing?

Did I just make the grumpy guy smile?

My heart skips again. He’s still quiet, but at least I can see he’s not made of stone.

In the lounge beyond, he stops.

“Sit,” he says, nodding at the couch.

I obey, curious about what’s coming next. He disappears and returns moments later with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“I’ve got a drive ahead. I can’t drink.”

Even so, he pours the amber liquid into both glasses.

“You’ll need it,” he says, sitting beside me. “So. What do you want to know?”

His eyes bore into me, blazing like a bonfire. Nervous, I start bouncing my foot. My fingers trace circles on my forehead.

“I don’t even know what I don’t know,” I admit honestly.

Suddenly, he grabs my wrist and yanks my arm away from my face, stopping me from scratching at my skin.

“Guess that little tic stuck around,” he says.

“I always did that?”

Again, the corner of his mouth lifts. A small smile plays on his lips.

“At least since I’ve known you,” he replies, taking a sip from his glass.

“You own the shop?” I ask finally.

He takes a longer drink.

“Yeah.”

“Your name is Ares? Ares Clark?”

Surprised, he raises an eyebrow. The glass hovers at his lips—those lips, distractingly perfect.

“You remember me?”

“No. I don’t remember anything... I just searched Maple Creek online and found your shop. By the way, you’re missing a photo of yourself on the website.”

He makes a strange sound, still staring at me.

“Still as snarky as ever,” he says, smiling a little more.

Oh, fuck. He’s even more attractive when he smiles like that. What must his real smile look like?

“And you’re still as grouchy, I guess?”

His brows twitch before he nods.

“Guess nothing’s changed.”

“Does the FBI know you’re here?”

Caught off guard, I set my glass down and tilt my head.

“What do you know about that?”

“Plenty. So… do they?”

“Yeah. Robert encouraged me to come here. He saw I wasn’t happy the way things were.”

His eyes darken.

“The way things were?”

I pick my glass back up and down the rest in one gulp. The burn makes my eyes sting, and I blink away tears before they fall. No way I’m crying in front of Ares.

“I live with him. He’s taken care of me these past months. Always been there. But I don’t have a life. I don’t know anyone, don’t have a job, and I don’t even know who I am anymore… I’m just a hollow shell, lost in a world I no longer recognize.”

I feel so fucking alone. I spill everything to this man without thinking. And weirdly, I don’t care if he judges me or thinks I’m crazy. With him, somehow… it’s easy.

The glass in his hand cracks suddenly, his fingers tightening around it. I stare, startled. His smile is gone. His jaw is tight.

“You sleep with him?” he mutters.

Is that… jealousy?

“Of course not. He’s like a brother.”

His shoulders relax slightly, but I still see anger simmering beneath the surface.

“Did I come here often?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away.

“You worked here,” he answers.

I absorb the information. So he wasn’t just a stranger.

“I was a tattoo artist?”

That surprises me. I can barely draw stick figures.

He laughs—a deep, genuine laugh. It’s incredible. I never want it to stop. His features soften, and his eyes light up. I could watch him forever.

“No. You ran the front desk,” he says, chuckling.

I grin. So, no drawing or tattooing skills. Shame. But at least I made Ares laugh.

“Were we more than coworkers?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

My cheeks burn immediately. Why did I say that? I just completely bulldozed his privacy.

Ares shakes his head and refills both glasses.

“Sorry if I’m asking too much,” I say when I notice him pulling back.

He stares out the window, silent. Looks like the interrogation is over.

“Maybe I should go,” I murmur, rising to my feet.

But before I can leave, his voice stops me:

“I still need someone at the front desk.”