Page 77 of Inked Desires

“No one. Just scribbling,” I lie.

“Didn’t peg you as the flower-drawing type,” he teases.

I pour coffee into a mug and leave the room.

“I’m full of surprises,” I toss over my shoulder, hurrying to Travis before Andrew can ask more questions.

Travis is already on the table in his boxers. I hand him the coffee and get to work.

“You never told me Andrew looks like William,” he says as I shave the skin on his thigh.

My hand stills for a fraction of a second, then continues.

“Why? Should I have?”

I glance up. Travis rolls his eyes. He’s always been the pretty boy of the team, with those beachy curls he whined about shaving off for months. Like all of us.

“You don’t think it’s weird?”

I inhale, set the razor down, clean the area, and grab the stencil.

“My life is weird. He only looks like William at first glance. But Andrew... he’s completely different.”

With Travis, things have always been easy. He looks like a surfer cliché, but he’s thoughtful, quiet, never judges, and carries his own demons in silence.

“True. You’re the one who always makes everything complicated,” he says with a smirk that almost makes me smile.

“Shut up and let me work,” I grin back.

One look tells me he didn’t take offense.

I pick up the tattoo machine and shut out my thoughts. The familiar hum vibrates through my wrist, then spreads through my entire body.

Sometimes I forget how much trust people place in me. Tattooing helps hold my soul together. A tattoo is permanent. It gives something to the person wearing it—something that lasts forever. This one will stay on Travis’s skin until his body eventually rots in the ground.

It’s grotesque, really—choosing to endure pain just to change your own skin. Some people get tattoos to remember. Others to move on. And some just because they like the design. Not every tattoo carries meaning. Sometimes, they mean more to me than to the client—because they carry my work, my mark. My identity as an artist. Artist. I’ve never seen myself that way. It’s just an escape. Another drug. For a little while, I can forget. I can disappear. In those moments, I feel free.

I finish the tattoo and wipe down his skin. He didn’t make a sound the whole time. Either he handles pain well, or he’s got a tight grip on his reactions.

“All done,” I say.

“About time. Another minute and I’d have shoved that needle in your eye,” he grumbles.

I set the machine aside and watch his face. A little pale.

Travis stands and walks to the mirror. He stares at the dove on his thigh in silence.

“It’s a good ending. No more wars. I’ve seen enough pain,” he murmurs to his reflection.

I say nothing. What could I say? He’s right. We’ve seen enough death. We’ve seen hunger, misery, suffering. And we’re not entirely innocent.

“You can pay Andrew. Just let me wrap this up first,” I say, steering the conversation elsewhere.

He walks back over and lets me finish. Once the bandage is on, he leaves the room without another word.

I don’t follow. I start cleaning the table and my tools. Got more appointments today. Always busy in winter.

I hear Andrew laugh. It’s that soft, bright sound that fills the room with warmth. It settles in my chest like something dangerous. Life would be so easy with him. I could imagine a future. But life’s never easy. He doesn’t remember me—doesn’t remember us. I have to keep that in mind. We can’t get close. I can’t afford to slip. Benton is still out there. If I let myself fall again, I might miss something. I have to stay sharp.