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I want to cover up these scars that are arguably the world’s most unhinged and possessive tramp stamp. I want it gone! I want to make it disappear, or at the very least, I want peace of mind knowing that no one other than me will know what hides behind the ink. A ‘mark’ of my choosing.

I shift in the chair by the large windows of the studio as I wait. The anticipation churns in my stomach, mingling with a touch of nervousness as I wrack my brain, trying to figure out why the man from the front desk seems so familiar.

“Shit, I kind of wish Molly was here,” I mumble to myself, trying to ease my sudden anxiety.

She always came with me for moral support, although she is not a big fan of needles, and I doubt she’d want to set foot in a studio with me after I made fun of her for chickening out of our plan to get our tongues pierced together a year ago.

Fiddling with my phone, I glance at the screen periodically, checking the time and hoping they are able to help me before they close for the night. To my surprise, a notification pops up just as I look at the screen, and I see the familiar name of my best friend: Molly .

I fucking hope it is the emails I asked for and not another seemingly empty apology. I do miss her, but I can’t forgive her so easily for what she did.

With a mixture of nervousness and trepidation, I open the email. My heart rate quickens as I read through the contents, each word sending a jolt of adrenaline through my veins.

It’s all here. She gave them everything they could possibly need to find me.

How can I use this to find them?

The emails contain all the correspondence between her and Kinkactors.com , the so-called company she found to perform the staged kidnapping I asked for. Their slogan almost makes me giggle in disbelief. “Act out your fantasies. What the fuck?” I whisper as I read.

My eyes scan over the details, absorbing every piece of information. The times she chose, the consent form on my behalf, the assurances—it’s all here, laid out in black and white.

My vision grows blurry, and I feel faint for a moment but then I spot what I am looking for. A web address. After typing it into the browser on my phone with shaky hands, I sit up, completely focused on the screen.

It does look legit. I can see why Molly felt so giving with my information.

Ah, there it is…

They have a “contact us” section on their page with a phone number.

Looks like my career choice is finally paying off. I can trace the number and possibly find out who it belongs to. Maybe even hack into their device and take a look at what they’ve been up to.

Web design for obnoxious CEOs and clients like Karen from the bakery is not for the faint of heart and it is hands-down the most soul-sucking work I have ever done but it is fun when some clients hire me to hack into competitors’ sites, for a ridiculous price, of course.

In this economy, I can’t really be complaining about the work, boring or illegal, since I can afford to live in my three-bedroom house in one of the better neighborhoods outside the city.

Taking a deep breath, I save the number listed on the site and slip my phone back into my pocket. The man from the front desk approaches, a smile on his face as he confirms availability for my tattoo.

“Good news, miss. We can fit you in before closing. Would you mind if I take a look at what we are covering for you today?” He asks as he grabs a sketch pad and pen from behind the desk and moves toward me looking more relaxed than before.

I remain silent as I take in his features, memorizing every beautiful detail of his face. He clears his throat and continues, the nervousness from earlier barely contained beneath the surface.

“Do you have a design in mind or would you prefer me drawing up something for you?” he asks while rubbing the back of his neck.

“I—um,” I stumble over my words, not knowing how to respond.

Maybe I should have given this some thought instead of looking like a fool.

“Miss? Is everything all right? Do you need some time?”

He seems professional. Well, he would to any normal client wanting a tattoo, but I don’t miss the slightest pitch in his voice as he tries desperately to stay calm.

I know from working with lawyers, rich assholes, and the occasional criminal CEO, that if you have something to hide, silence is the best form of interrogation.

I know this man, I know it. But how? Perhaps staying silent and watching him like a hawk would make him tell me what I want to know.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” I ask, taking an uneasy breath. He scratches his neck again and clears his throat. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. Have I tattooed you before?”

I know I have met him before and I know he feels the same way, but I haven’t been to Clover Ink. You’d have to be blind to miss the glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He is uncomfortable.

He starts shifting from one leg to the other and lets out a sigh as he waits for me to speak. “No, this is my first time,” I mutter, trying not to freak out.

I clear my throat, “I - Um, sorry I guess I need more time to think about it…” I trail off as I straighten off the seat and shoulder my bag.

A look of confused frustration and a strange hint of what looks like sadness masks his features as he nods and steps aside while I meander to the door, trying not to draw attention to myself as I spot another insanely handsome man walking from the back of the studio. Hair as white as snow.

I slip outside as my heart rate kicks up and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.

This feels off.

Hurrying to my car, parked outside the large window, I watch them talk and pace around in the waiting area of the studio.

I shuffle through my bag, searching for my phone and letting the sudden panic take its toll. Hyperventilating, I try my best to keep the device steady as I snap a few photos of the men arguing inside when a sudden idea springs to mind.

With shaking fingers, I tap out of the camera and scroll to find my contacts. Jagged breaths struggle in my lungs, clawing their way out of my throat in slow succession as I tap the number and wait for the dial tone.

There is a chance that the number might be a fake.

Fuck.

There it is—the dreaded ring. My eyes are fixed on the men as I listen to the monotonous tone and brace myself without letting a single breath escape.

A tear rolls down my cheek as I watch the ashen-haired man pull a cellphone from his back pocket. My heart stops for a beat when the ringing gets snuffed out through the line. “Thank you for contacting kinkactors.com, how can we help you act out your fantasies?”

I know that voice. That faint Irish accent.

The breath I have been keeping hostage, finally breaks free and I kill the call. Shifting my car into reverse before swerving into the sun-bare street, I drive home.

As I speed down the familiar roads, my mind races with questions and doubts.

Did I find them? Fintan and Kieran?

The pieces of this strange puzzle refuse to fit together in a coherent picture, leaving me feeling unmoored and anxious.

It couldn’t be that easy; could it? I found them. If this is some cruel fucking joke, I am definitely not laughing.

Pulling into my driveway, I sit in my car for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts.

I grab my bag and head inside, the cool interior of my house offering some respite from the heat of the impending breakdown.

Unfortunately, it’s temporary. Fleeting.

Slipping from my fingers before I have the chance to hold on.

The walls close in on me, their suffocating embrace tightening like a vice around my body.

I struggle for each breath, feeling like the oxygen is being sucked out of the room.

I feel trapped, surrounded by invisible barriers that seem to press in on all sides, crushing me with their overwhelming presence.

My hands tremble as I fumble for the light switch, desperate for some semblance of normalcy in this nightmare.

Shadows caused by the glow of the few lamps in the room, dance eerily on the walls, mocking me with their twisted shapes. I stagger forward, each step feeling like a marathon as I make my way through the house.

Memories of that night assault me at every turn - the photos on the wall, the trinkets on the shelves - all now tainted with a darkness I can’t shake. I collapse onto the floor of my kitchen, tears streaming down my face as I try to process what I have just discovered.

“They were right there,” I scold myself, taking a deep breath to ease my mind but it’s futile. “I found them.”

I start hyperventilating and bring my knees to my chest. “I did nothing,” I cry, tears running down my cheeks as I try to calm myself. Nothing is working. Disbelief, fear, heartache and anger mix together and all I can do is ride out the emotions that threaten to swallow me whole.

“I fucking ran!?”