Page 74 of Pretty Little Trigger

CHAPTER 73

Alana

I stand and look at our Rock & Metal display section inside VYBE.

It’s perfect. Ryan stands beside me, arms crossed, eyes glittering.

“I told you,” he says, mouth curving.

“The second you saw it that you’d get it.”

I nod slowly.

“You were right.”

The moment I walked into VYBE six weeks ago, something just clicked.

Grit and glam. Rock & Metal belonged here.

The brand screamed me and without overthinking it, I extended my stay and we started the integration immediately.

And it felt so good, to root myself in something that wasn’t just healing.

And now, standing here with the final display glowing from every breath of the room, I feel full.

My heart, my hands, my calendar.

Full.

We did it. My flight leaves tomorrow.

I’m ready to go home.

Outside, the chill cuts clean through my coat as I step onto the sidewalk.

My driver waits by the curb, door already open.

“I’ll walk,” I say, smiling as I wave him off.

“It’s only ten blocks. I want to say goodbye to the city.”

He nods, a little surprised, but climbs back into the car and pulls off without a word.

The city pulses around me.

I walk slowly, letting the noise settle into a dull rhythm.

Taxis blur past. Someone’s playing jazz on a corner.

My boots click against the pavement, steady and sure.

Ten blocks of memories.

Ten blocks of becoming someone else.

Of choosing something bigger than heartbreak.

Then I see it. A narrow storefront.

Tattoo parlour. Black glass.

Red neon sign. Walk-ins welcome.

I pause. It reminds me of someone I used to know.

Someone covered in ink.

Hunter .

I miss him.

And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.

Because even if it was a lie, even if the name wasn’t real—he was.

To me.

I used to ache, like missing him meant I was weak.

But maybe it just means I’m human.

He doesn’t have a grave I can visit.

There’s no place to lay flowers.

No marble stone to press my palm to when I need to feel close.

So I decide to carve one myself.

With blood and steel and ink.

My hand drifts to my wrist. Before I can think too hard, I push the door open.

The bell chimes.

Inside is clean.

Warm. Ink buzzes faintly in the back.

A tattoo artist with sleepy eyes and full sleeves looks up from behind the counter.

“You got something in mind?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, voice calm.

Steady. “A bow and arrow. Small. On my wrist.”

He nods, pulling out a sketchpad.

“Any meaning, or just like the look?”

I smile.

But it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“It’s a memorial for someone I used to know.”

He lifts a brow.

“Dead lover?”

I let out a breath.

Half laugh. Half ache.

Not raw anymore. Just…

real. “Something like that.”