Page 60 of Web of Lies

Kyle

The piercing, vibrating hum of the tattoo needle echoes through the studio, blending with the faint buzz of metal music playing in the background.

Riley sits beside me, her attention glued to her phone, while I sit in my trusted tattoo artist's chair as he works on my newest addition of ink—Riley’s name.

After several weeks of exploring my body, Riley finally found a somewhat free spot that is to her liking, where she wants the tattoo.

At first, she suggested my face so that everyone could see it.

But even though I’m covered in ink up to my jaw and into my hair, I'd prefer to stay away from my face.

So instead, she chose a spot on my abdomen, close to my crotch.

My gaze drifts to where the artist's hand guides the tattoo gun down my V-line. He works with careful precision as he traces the blue lines spelling Riley's first and last name between the existing snake and flower tattoos.

The rhythmic touch of the needle piercing my skin feels like an electric pulse running through my body. My hips twitch every so often, but it doesn't sting. Instead, it buzzes under my skin and tickles the edges of my brain, scratching at that restless itch I can never quite reach.

"You know, you should have done that," I say, glancing over at Riley, who takes her eyes off her phone.

"I should," she says, putting her phone down and scooting a little closer to peek at the artist's work, leaving him enough room. "But I've never held a tattoo gun before, and I'm too scared to mess it up."

"I already have enough botched tattoos. One more wouldn't be the end of the world," I scoff. The worst one is the mess Noah gave me when we were seventeen. One day, I came home with all the necessary tools, but instead of telling me it was a stupid idea, he jumped right in. No stencil, no gloves, and no idea what the hell we were doing. The result? A strange mess that was supposed to be a dove but looks more like a melting snail. It’s ugly, but I would never cover it up because every time I see it, I’m reminded of how stupid we were.

"Wonderful, you think like that," Riley says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "But I'd prefer that people can read it without it looking like a font that wasn't made for bold formatting."

I shake my head as a chuckle vibrates in my chest. "Then we should get you practicing."

"For what? It's not like you have much space left," she says and places her hand on my arm, tracing the lines of my old tattoos.

"I can always make room." My lips stretch into a smirk, which prompts her to roll her eyes. "Or you can use light colors and tattoo within my blacked-out spots."

"Absolutely not."

"So," the artist interrupts us, setting the machine aside.

The buzzing dies down, leaving a strange ringing silence in its place.

He then grabs a fresh paper towel dipped in antiseptic and carefully wipes away the excess ink and blood from the tattoo.

The cool sting of the solution spreads across my skin, sharp at first, then dulls into a steady burn.

"What do you think?" Instead of looking at me, his attention shifts to Riley.

She leans over me to look at the fresh ink. The corners of her mouth twitch before curving into a smile. "Yeah," she says, nodding. "I like it."

"Good. Always nice to have approval from the right audience." He pats the skin dry one last time and reaches for a piece of clear plaster.

"So, no one wants my opinion?" I cut in.

"No, man. It’s her name. Her opinion’s the only one that counts." He smirks.

"Figured," I grunt, pushing myself upright. Every muscle in my core tightens as if I've just done a hundred sit-ups. The sting afterward is always worse than the actual process. Still, nothing compares to the time I got my dick tattooed. That had been pure hell, but it was worth it.

I swing my legs off the chair, and my feet hit the floor before I walk up to the mirror on the wall. And there it is, in bold, cursive letters: "Property of Riley Hayes." Perfectly blending with the tattoos already decorating my stomach, it looks like it was always there.

"Pretty sure you’ve got the aftercare routine memorized by now, so I don’t need to give you the entire speech," the artist says, already in the process of cleaning up.

"Yeah, yeah, I've got that covered, " I mutter, pulling my T-shirt over my head and shrugging into my leather jacket.

"Thank you again," Riley says, her lips quirking into a smile as she looks at the artist.

"Anytime," he replies with a grin. "You're always welcome to come back if you ever want to cover up his stupid name. Free of charge, of course."

A laugh bubbles out of Riley as she shakes her head. "I'll keep that in mind in case I ever need it."

"No chance, Freckles." I cut her off before she could say another word while zipping up my jacket and throwing her a smirk. "That name stays inked on your skin for the rest of your life."

"What if I leave you?" Her cheeks flush a subtle shade of pink, and she rolls her eyes.

"Do you think I'd let you?" I raise an eyebrow and step closer to her. My fingers curl around her chin, and I tip her head back. "You can try, Freckles, but if I have to, I'll lock you up."

"You just admitted to planning a crime. Out loud. In front of a witness." She tilts her head toward my artist, who’s wiping his station and pretending not to hear anything.

"You think I care?" My lips curl into a smirk.

"You should."

"But I don't." I lean forward and press my lips against hers. Her eyes flutter shut, and her hands fly to my chest, gripping the smooth leather of my jacket.

Now it's permanent. Her name is carved into me, and mine will forever mark her. Forever. No matter how many lies we stumble over or what secrets may still linger between us, she’s mine. And I’ll never let her go.