CHAPTER 10
ZANE
I GOT MIA OUT OF THERE AS FAST AS I could and threw the rest on Carter. He didn’t even flinch—just flashed that easy grin of his and slid right into the conversation like nothing had happened.
He’s always been good at that. People like him. He knows exactly what to say to keep things smooth.
These workshops I run in L.A.—they’re small, mostly hands-on stuff. I use them to train new artists, give them a space to grow under the brand. It’s low pressure, just art and skin and silence, which is what I like. Most of them show up for the exposure, and I don’t blame them. It’s a tough industry to break into.
But yesterday?
Yesterday was a mess.
I’m fucked. I really thought Mia was doing better after the diner incident, where she was convinced there was a dead body to hide, but no one was there.
I had been following Charlie’s advice, giving her space, letting her figure things out on her own, hoping that it would help her avoid more trouble.
I’d seen how she got all tangled up in her thoughts sometimes, lost in a world I couldn’t quite see.
It was like she was somewhere else, in a place only she could understand, and I... I wasn’t sure if I should try to pull her out or just let her stay there, even if it scared me.
I kept my distance, giving her room to breathe. She needed it, I thought.
I didn’t want to crowd her, didn’t want to make things worse. She’d been handling crowded spaces well enough, so I figured she’d adjust soon. Turns out, the crowd itself isn’t the problem—it’s people touching me.
And that’s fucked up.
I mean, I’m a fucking tattoo artist. Touching people is quite literally how I make a living. But Mia? She’s not a fan of that. At all.
Still, I can do damage control.
I told her she could come with me to the studio, under one condition—she doesn’t try to kill anyone. I really hope that works out.
“What’s this for?” Mia asks, pointing at my folder like it personally offended her.
“For clients to look through tattoo designs.”
She nods like she’s taking mental notes, then immediately moves on, pointing at the small jar of numbing cream on my workstation. Before I can even breathe to explain—
She dips her goddamn finger into it and shoves it in her mouth.
“Mia—fuck!” I snatch the jar from her hand, but the damage is already done. She freezes, eyes going wide in absolute horror, her tongue hanging out as if she just licked a live wire.
“I—I can’t feel my tongue.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing, but a snort escapes anyway. “Yeah, Mia. That’s literally what it’s for.”
She makes a strangled sound—somewhere between a groan and a dramatic gasp—then glares at me like I’m the asshole in this situation.
“You should’ve warned me!” she accuses, her words coming out all muffled.
“I was about to, but you move like a rabid raccoon—”
“Who just leaves numbing poison lying around?”
I roll my eyes, shoving a coloring book into her hands before she can wreak even more havoc. “Here. Why don’t you color while I work?”
She blinks at me. Looks down at the book. Then back up at me, completely bewildered.
“Color?” She says it like I just asked her to defuse a bomb.
“Yes, color,” I deadpan. “You take a pencil, you move it around on the page, and congratulations—you made art.”
She squints, suspicious. “And people do this for fun?”
“Yes, Mia. Millions of children and adults across the world do this for fun.”
She flips through the pages, unimpressed. “Why?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Because it’s relaxing.”
“I don’t get it,” she mutters. “But fine. I’ll try it.” She starts flipping through my intricate designs—skulls, detailed mandalas, mythical creatures—then wrinkles her nose in deep concentration. “No… no… no…”
I arch a brow. “You’re rejecting my designs like a casting director.”
“They’re just so serious.”
I’m about to argue when she gasps—full-volume, as if she just found the meaning of life—then rips a Hello Kitty coloring sheet from a stack I keep for clients’ kids.
“This one!” she declares, holding it up like a prized artifact.
I blink. “Hello Kitty?”
“Yes! Look at her—she’s so happy!” She hugs the page to her chest like it’s the best thing she’s ever been given in her entire life.
I shake my head, suppressing a smirk. “Okay, fine. You can color as many as you want.”
Her eyes light up like I just promised her a pony. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Zane.” She grabs my arm, staring at me with the intensity of someone about to make a life-changing request. "I just searched how to color, and they said glitter pens are the best. Do you have glitter pens?"
I exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling as I try to find patience within my soul. “Mia. I am a tattoo artist. Not a kindergarten teacher.”
“Ugh, fine. I’ll improvise.” She dramatically flops onto the couch with her Hello Kitty sheet and colored pencils, already lost in her task.
I shake my head, chuckling as I go back to work. I don’t know how the hell this girl managed to turn my tattoo studio into an arts-and-crafts daycare, but somehow… I don’t really mind.
By the time my client arrives, Mia is fully occupied with waffles and coloring, which means she’s oddly quiet—a rare win for me.
As I set up, the woman—who I think has been here before—glances at Mia, then back at me. “New employee?”
I shake my head. “No, just a friend.”
“That’s a shame.” She smirks. “I thought we could have fun again.”
I pause. Again?
Shit. Did I fuck this woman?
It wouldn’t be a surprise if I had… or if I just don’t remember. I never remember any of them. Faces blur, names slip away, bodies fade into nothing but distant echoes of things I refuse to acknowledge. Because I can’t. Because I don’t let myself.
I’ve never been able to handle that kind of physical contact sober.
Not without something numbing me first—alcohol, drugs, anything to dull the weight of someone else’s hands on me.
Anything to make it feel like it wasn’t really happening. Like I wasn’t really there.
I'm not saying I have a problem with people touching me—I'm a tattoo artist, after all.
It's part of the job. But the thought of getting close to someone, of being truly intimate? It makes my head feel like it’s going to split open.
It’s like my body knows what I’m supposed to feel, but everything’s numb, and the weight of it all crushes me.
I’m not broken, though. I can still fuck people, lose myself in the chaos, when my mind’s too shattered to hold on to anything real.
But when the high wears off, when the haze lifts, all I’m left with is a hollow space where the memories should be.
Fuck, I must be more fucked up than I thought.
Panic crawls up my spine as I see Mia shift in her chair. Shit. She heard that. She’s going to murder this girl.
Shit, shit, shit.
But then—
“Zane, do you have any more yellow pencils?” she asks, her voice its usual soft, sweet tone.
I exhale in relief. Maybe she didn’t hear.
“Yeah, there’s another box in the closet,” I tell her. She nods and wanders off, completely unbothered.
The woman leans forward. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m not interested,” I say flatly, focusing on the tattoo. It’s a simple design—angel wings on the back of her neck. I’m almost done.
Could I meet her later? Sure. But the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
Something about it feels wrong. Like I’d be betraying Mia’s trust. Like I’d be betraying myself.
And that’s… new.
I’ve never been picky. As long as I was drunk or high, any hole was a hole.
Maybe I just wanted to prove my mother didn’t break me completely. That I’m still whole. Still human. But here I am—unable to fuck someone unless I’m drowning in something strong enough to blur the edges of reality. And when I do? It’s never really me. Just a body, just a reflex. No memory, no meaning.
Like I was never even there.
I finish the tattoo, clean up my station, and she hands me the payment. Then she gives me that look—hopeful, expectant. Like I’m some kind of exotic experience.
An adventure for her trip to LA.
I don’t care what people think of me. But something about that look makes me sick.
She sighs dramatically, hoping it’ll change my mind. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“We could have some fun.”
I meet her eyes, my voice steady. “I’ll pass.”
She rolls her eyes and walks out.
And just like that, I feel like I can breathe again.
I’m usually good at burying the things that haunt me, tucking them away in the deepest corners of my mind where they can’t reach me. I’ve mastered the art of distraction—keeping my hands busy, my body moving, my mind just hazy enough to keep the past at bay.
But some memories don’t stay buried. Some claw their way to the surface, slipping through the cracks when I least expect it. And when they do, it’s like they were never gone at all.
The girl had barely stepped out of the studio when Mia appeared—fast, deliberate, like she’d been waiting.
She jumps onto the stretcher, straddling me with ease, her legs locking around my waist.
My eyes widen at the sight, but unlike everyone else, Mia doesn’t look at me with that familiar, predatory hunger. Instead, her gaze is wide, innocent—like she’s searching for something she doesn’t quite understand, something she believes I can give her.
She looks at me as if I’m the answer to all her problems, her eyes soft but searching, filled with a quiet desperation I can’t ignore.
For some strange reason I can’t fully explain, I don’t really mind when Mia seeks affection from me.
Maybe it’s because, deep down, there’s this part of me—some messed-up part—that wants to be the person she turns to, without expecting anything in return.
I get that feeling, like I’m willing to be the one to give her comfort, even if it means nothing more than just being there for her.
It’s... different.
I’m not used to feeling like this, but somehow, with her, it feels okay.
Her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for me, her touch gentle, almost tentative, like she’s afraid of shattering the fragile connection between us.
I don’t move to pull away. I just stand there, letting her express whatever it is she needs to, the vulnerability in her gaze too pure, too trusting, to deny.
“So,” she purrs, tilting her head, “what’s my prize?”
She’s smiling, but it’s not the light, playful grin she used to wear when she wanted to tease me. No, this one is different—calculated, razor-sharp. Mia is on a mission.
“Your prize?” I echo, my voice coming out lower than I expect. I’m in trouble. Heat coils in my stomach, slow and insidious, tightening with every passing second. The air between us thickens.
Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my touch, smooth like silk and pale like moonlight spilling through an open window.
I have to fight the urge to trace my fingers along every curve, to map out the warmth of her body with my hands. It’s a need I never expected—primal, consuming—like an ache just beneath my skin, demanding to be soothed.
“Yeah.” Her smile doesn’t waver.
“And may I ask what you think you’ve achieved?”
Her grin stretches wider, a slow, knowing smile that sends a shiver down my spine. She leans in, her movements deliberate, her lips hovering just beside my ear. I can feel the heat of her breath, each exhale teasing my skin, sending a pulse of awareness through me. She doesn’t speak right away—she lets the silence hang between us, thick with unspoken intent. My pulse kicks up, my body tensing in anticipation. Then, finally, in a voice so low it feels like a secret.
“For starters.” Her voice is sultry, dangerous, possessive—and fuck, every nerve in my body ignites at the sound. “I didn’t kill that girl when she suggested having fun with something that’s mine.”
I go completely still.
She heard.
Of course, she fucking heard. And what’s worse? She acted like nothing happened, played the game so well that I actually thought she’d missed it. But Mia isn’t some na?ve girl. She can be the sweetest soul or the deadliest one, all in the blink of an eye.
She’s no amateur.
My throat goes dry. “Mia—”
“I was thinking about all the ways I could’ve killed her,” she continues casually, as if she’s discussing what to order for dinner. “But I didn’t. Because I decided to trust you instead.” Her fingers press into my shoulders, her body molding against mine. “Because you know you’re my Zane.”
“We barely know each other.”
“And?” she challenges.
She slides her mouth from my ear to my collarbone, lips barely skimming my skin, and my breathing turns ragged. Her fingers trace my jaw, then move lower, gripping onto me like I’m hers.
And maybe I fucking am.
What the fuck was that thought?
“I like the way you make me feel,” she murmurs, her voice smoky, rich with something raw and unguarded.
This is dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
“How do I make you feel?” I ask, barely recognizing my own voice.
Her lips hover near mine. “Like you were made for me,” she whispers, her vulnerability slicing through me like a blade. Her hands move over me, slow and deliberate, as if she’s memorizing me by touch. “And suddenly, I don’t feel alone anymore.”
Jesus Christ.
I shut my eyes, gripping onto the last shred of logic I have left.
Mia is dangerous.
You put her in a coma.
You don’t trust her.
She tried to kill you once.
She carries more baggage than you know how to handle.
But then she breathes my name—soft, pleading. “Zane.”
And I fucking lose it.
I let her press her mouth against mine, the kiss starting slow, testing, before it shifts—before we shift.
Her hands tangle in my hair, my grip tightens around her hips, and soon, we’re not just kissing, we’re consuming each other.
Every groan, every ragged breath, every desperate movement pulls me deeper, until I’m drowning in her.
And fuck, I don’t even care.
Because for the first time in a long time, I want this.
I’m sober and I still want this.
And that thought? That realization? It fucking terrifies me.
I break away first, chest heaving, hands still gripping her thighs.
“We can’t do this,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “It’s not right.”
Mia stills.
For the first time since she walked in, I see a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. And it guts me, makes me want to take back my words, to erase whatever hurt I just caused.
But then, just like that, she schools her expression and gives me the softest, most understanding smile.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing against my cheek for a fleeting second before she pulls away completely. “I understand. I can wait until you’re ready.”
And with that, she turns and walks out.
Leaving me behind, trying to piece together what the hell just happened.