Ink Me Three Times (Coyote Glen #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Ivy

The wheel of my suitcase gives up its final gasp right as I hit the cracked pavement of Main Street.

"Seriously?" I mutter, staring down at the crooked mess of plastic that's now dragging behind me like a wounded animal.

Pickle, my French bulldog and unwilling travel companion, lets out an indignant snort from his carrier bag, which I’ve rigged like a crossbody backpack. His round bat ears twitch in disgust as he wriggles to get a better view, then sneezes dramatically, like he’s filing a complaint.

I don't blame him.

We've been on three buses, a train, and one terrifying rideshare with a guy named Ace who swore by crystal healing and drove like he wanted to meet God today.

Coyote Glen smells like pine trees, old wood, and the kind of cold that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear.

It’s dusk, and the sky above the mountains is doing its best watercolor impression…

muted purples and oranges bleeding into each other, trying to make this look like a storybook.

It’s not working on me.

I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text to my best friend, Olivia:

Ivy: Made it. Town’s cute in a creepy, Hallmark horror hybrid kind of way. Smells like trees and generational trauma.

Three dots appear. Then:

Olivia: LOL. Don’t get murdered. Send pics.

Ivy: Will do. As soon as I get to my brother’s cabin in the woods… sounds creepy, right?

I reach Jesse’s place and bang on the door with more force than necessary. My brother opens it, grinning, already barefoot and beer in hand like it’s still 2012 and we’re crashing in someone’s off campus rental.

"Ivy! You made it!" he says, pulling me in for a hug that smells like laundry detergent and weed. "You look like shit."

"Thanks. You look like someone who forgot I was coming."

"I cleaned the spare room," he says, like that’s proof of moral excellence.

I step over a pile of clean laundry and drop my suitcase with a thud. The busted wheel gives up entirely, folding under like a sad little knee.

Pickle hops out of the carrier the moment I unzip it and trots a lap around the living room like he owns the place. He barks once at a house plant, then hops onto the couch and stares at Jesse like he’s judging his life choices.

"You hungry? I was just about to heat up some frozen taquitos," Jesse says.

"Tempting," I say flatly, sinking onto the couch next to Pickle, who immediately crawls halfway into my lap with a snort. "But first, I want to lie here and pretend the last four months of my life didn’t happen."

He raises an eyebrow. "That bad?"

"Worse."

He doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Jesse, he knows when to shut up. For five whole minutes, he lets me lie there in peace.

Then: "So. I was thinking we could hit up The Hollow tonight."

I groan. "No."

"Come on. You need a drink. You need, like, five drinks."

"I need a job and a place to live."

"And you’ll figure it out. But first, beer. Burgers. Bad music. Local weirdos. If you’re going to crash my hometown, you need to get to know everyone."

I glare at him.

He smirks. "One drink. If you hate it, we’ll leave."

I should say no. I mean to say no.

Instead, I find myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror fifteen minutes later, running a brush through my wind tangled hair and smudging eyeliner on with the kind of intentional carelessness that says I am very much not okay but I’m going to fake it anyway.

The Hollow is exactly what you’d expect from a bar in a town with one stoplight and a population smaller than my last apartment building. It’s all worn wood and neon signs, with a jukebox that still takes quarters and a bartender who greets Jesse like they survived war together.

What the hell am I doing here?

"First round’s on me," Jesse announces with a smile.

Jesse walks around he owns the place, tossing out nods and finger guns. I trail behind him, trying not to make eye contact. My people skills are running on fumes.

We head to the bar, where a tall, grizzled man is drying a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. He looks up and gives Jesse a once over, then me.

"Well, if it isn’t the town hero, Firefighter Fletcher," the man says. "And you brought a plus one. Interesting..."

"Ivy," I say, holding out a hand. "Unfortunately related."

He snorts but takes it. "Arlo. I pour drinks, offer bad advice, and occasionally kick people out. You’ll figure out which one you need."

"Start with the drink," I say.

Jesse grins. "Two of the usual."

Arlo grabs two beers without asking what "usual" means. I’m halfway through my first sip when Jesse turns me around, already dragging me toward a man in a canvas jacket and scuffed boots, hovering near the jukebox.

"Bill!" Jesse calls. "Got someone I want you to meet."

The man barely glances up from the jukebox. "Not interested in Girl Scout cookies."

"She’s not selling anything," Jesse says. "She’s my sister."

Bill finally looks at me. "Huh. The famous sister we’ve been hearing all about."

I shoot Jesse a what the hell look, but get nothing more than a one shouldered shrug back.

"Didn’t say it was all good," Bill adds, but there’s a glint of amusement under the gruff. "Welcome to Coyote Glen, Ivy."

Before I can ask just how much Jesse’s been running his mouth, the door opens behind us and two men walk in, both in navy Coyote Glen Fire Department hoodies, both shaking off the chill like they own the damn night.

"Speak of the fire demons," Jesse says, raising a hand in greeting. "Hey, Leo! Karl!"

The taller of the two, lean and broad with dark hair and a beard that probably hides secrets, gives a nod as he makes a beeline for the bar. His eyes flick to me, curious but quiet.

The other guy, slightly shorter, curly hair, and a grin that could charm the pants off a priest, throws his arms wide. "This must be the legendary Ivy."

I blink. "Why do people keep saying that?"

He offers his hand, warm and easy. "Because Jesse talks about you like you’re some kind of mythical creature who lives in the city and listens to angry girl bands."

"That’s... not entirely wrong."

He winks. "I knew it. I’m Karl. This broody one over here is Leo. He’s not unfriendly, he’s just got a resting crisis face."

Leo snorts, finally stepping closer. "Hi, Ivy. Welcome."

"You drink beer, or do we need to make Arlo summon up a fancy cocktail?" Karl asks, already leaning on the bar like he’s planning to stay a while.

"Beer is fine," Jesse answers for me. "She also glares and mutters insults under her breath when she’s uncomfortable, so you two should get along great."

"I already like her," Leo says, and I’m not entirely sure if he’s joking.

That’s when a voice like honey dipped dynamite cuts through the low bar chatter behind us.

"Well, well. Look what the wind blew in."

I turn just in time to see her slide into the booth beside Jesse like she’s been doing it all her life. Long, glossy dark hair, leather jacket, that sharp, magnetic smile aimed straight at him. Her thigh brushes his and he doesn’t even flinch.

"Hey, Ness," Jesse says, too casual. His arm stretches out along the back of the booth, like it always happens to land there.

"Didn’t know we were doing family reunions tonight," she says, her gaze drifting toward me. It’s not hostile, if anything, it’s friendly with a hint of curiosity, but there’s something knowing behind her eyes.

"Ivy, this is Vanessa," Jesse says, clearly avoiding eye contact with her mouth. "Ness, my sister."

Vanessa sticks out a hand, her nails painted the kind of dark plum that means business. "Nice to meet you. Jesse’s mentioned you. Less than he mentions himself, but still."

"I’m shocked," I deadpan, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm. Confident. She smells like warm spice and trouble. "You from around here?"

She snorts. "Unfortunately. Tried to leave once. But Coyote Glen has its claws in me."

"She works over at the clinic," Jesse adds. "And also works on my last nerve."

"You love it," Vanessa says, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Besides, you keep inviting me back."

Karl leans toward me, stage whispering behind his pint glass. "That’s Vanessa Cruz. Off and on with Jesse. It’s like a damn whirlwind. Don’t try to keep up."

Vanessa doesn’t even blink. "I heard that, Madden."

"You were supposed to," Karl says with a grin.

Vanessa smirks and leans in closer to Jesse. "But first, you owe me a rematch at pool. Unless you're scared."

"Only scared I’ll win," he shoots back.

They’re already halfway into a flirt fight when Karl mutters to me, "Told you. Weird."

I take another sip of my beer, letting the noise of the bar swell around me, clinking glasses, bad country covers from the jukebox, Vanessa’s laugh, and Jesse’s teasing comeback.

Leo’s watching quietly from the end of the bar, eyes thoughtful.

Pickle’s probably at home licking Jesse’s weird houseplants or peeing on his laundry.

And I’m here. In a bar I never meant to walk into, in a town I never planned to live in, surrounded by strangers who already feel like a sitcom cast waiting for me to deliver a punchline.

This place is loud. Messy. Unapologetic.

And if I’m going to survive Coyote Glen?

I’m going to have to get used to it.