Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Ivy
Jesse disappears somewhere between rounds two and three.
One minute he’s nodding along to some old Eagles song, and the next he’s tucked into a booth with Vanessa, their heads bent together like they’re plotting a heist or trying to remember how not to ruin each other.
Their laughter is low and familiar, and I know that look on his face. Half smirk, half heartache. It means I won’t be seeing him again tonight.
Karl left not long ago with a wink and a promise to "make better bad decisions next time," and Leo ducked out right after, muttering something about an early shift and slipping away before I could even say goodbye.
Now it’s just me, my half empty glass, and a jukebox that’s decided Fleetwood Mac is the mood of the hour.
I think about going home. Then I think about him.
Not Jesse. Not even Vanessa and her dangerously perfect cheekbones. No. I mean him, the walking red flag with a jawline that should be illegal and a name I was stupid enough to let someone ink across my skin like a promise.
Stupid. So stupid.
It’s burned into my shoulder blade in a delicate black script. Luca. God, what a cliché. Who gets a man’s name tattooed after six months and one terrible EDM festival?
Me. I do. Apparently.
I drain the rest of my beer and slip off the barstool, tossing a wave at Arlo, who grunts something that might be "take care" or might just be indigestion. Either way, I’m not in the mood to linger.
Outside, the cold hits me like a reminder. Sharp, unforgiving, and absolutely not waiting for me to get my shit together. I wrap my arms around myself and start down the sidewalk, the soles of my boots scuffing against the uneven pavement.
It’s not a long walk back to Jesse’s cabin. Just a few quiet blocks, a left at the gas station, and then uphill until the pine trees outnumber the streetlights.
My breath fogs the air in front of me as I walk, but I’m not really here.
I’m somewhere else. Somewhere warmer. Louder. Where the music is all bass drops and bad decisions, and Luca is looking at me like I’m the whole damn world.
He lied.
He lied so easily I think he might’ve believed it himself.
The late night promises. The sweet nothings.
The half packed bags hidden under his bed.
When it all came crashing down, he didn’t even try to fix it.
Just left me in the wreckage with a useless key and a name I couldn’t look at in the mirror without wanting to scream.
So I screamed. Then I packed a bag, stuffed Pickle into his carrier, and bought the cheapest ticket I could find to anywhere that wasn’t him.
Which is how I ended up in Coyote Glen, bruised pride, broken bank account, and all.
I pause at the corner of Main Street, rubbing my hands together for warmth, when I catch a flicker of light across the street.
Ink & Iron.
A tattoo shop glows softly behind its front windows, like it’s offering sanctuary. There’s no Open sign, no customers that I can see, but someone’s in there. I can hear faint music, and I catch a glimpse of movement inside, a shadow shifting past the window.
I should keep walking. It’s late. I’m tired. But something tugs at me.
Maybe it’s the ache in my shoulder, or the memory of Luca’s voice in my ear, or maybe it’s just the desperate, bone deep need to start over.
A clean slate. A new town. A chance to be someone who doesn’t carry his name like a curse.
I square my shoulders, cross the street, and push open the door.
If this is the first day of my new life, I might as well start by getting rid of the worst mistake of the last one.
The door swings open with a soft chime, and warmth washes over me. Dry, heady, and laced with the unmistakable scent of ink, antiseptic, and something deeper. Leather. Cedar. A whisper of clove that hits low in my spine.
Ink & Iron is nothing like I expected.
The space is immaculate. Dark wood floors gleam under warm pendant lights, and the walls are covered in framed flash art, custom sketches, and photos of inked skin in every shade.
A single black leather chair sits in the center of the main room, surrounded by a halo of equipment that’s clean, gleaming, and arranged with military precision. There’s music playing softly… bluesy and raw, all slow guitar and gravel throated vocals.
And him.
He’s behind the counter when I step in, flipping through a sketchbook with long, ink stained fingers. He doesn’t look up right away. Just turns one more page, taps his pencil against the edge of the paper, and finally lifts his head.
Green eyes. Sharp as a scalpel. Quietly assessing.
My heart stutters like it’s forgotten how to beat.
He’s tall. Broad shoulders under a fitted black thermal, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the detailed lines of full sleeve tattoos.
Black and gray, clean as hell, wrapping his forearms like armor.
Combat boots. Black jeans. The air shifts around him like he’s gravity and the rest of the room just follows.
"You’re open?" I ask, even though I haven’t moved.
"Door was unlocked," he replies, voice low and smooth. "You can come in."
At 10:45pm?
In a small town?
I guess Coyote Glen is going to be full of surprises…
"I…" My throat dries. "I want something covered up."
He tilts his head slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what’s coming next. His green eyes darken, focused, intense.
"Show me."
The words are a command, not a question.
I hesitate, then slip the strap of my coat off my shoulder and tug the collar of my shirt aside, baring the name etched in delicate script just beneath my shoulder blade.
Luca.
His eyes flick to it. Then to me. He doesn’t ask why. He just nods, steps around the counter, and walks past me toward the back room with the kind of purposeful ease that says he expects me to follow.
I do.
The back space is more intimate, muted lighting, more artwork, a second chair waiting like a confession booth. He gestures for me to sit.
"Do you know what you want?"
I pause. "Something beautiful."
He doesn’t smile, but something in his expression softens. Just a flicker, like he wasn’t expecting that answer, but he respects it. He nods once, then turns to a wide drawer beneath a wall of framed sketches.
He flips through a stack of clear sleeves, each one holding an original design. Some are bold and geometric, others soft and organic. But when he pulls out a sheet with a dark, intricately inked chrysanthemum unfurling over the curve of a snake’s spine, something in me clicks.
"That one," I say, breath catching.
He glances at me. "It’s a cover piece. Dense. Clean. No one will ever see what was underneath."
Perfect.
He sets up in silence. Sterilizing, taping down, prepping ink. I watch the controlled rhythm of his movements, the way his fingers are deliberate, efficient. Like he’s done this a thousand times, but still gives a damn every time.
"You always work this late?" I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
He shrugs and tilts his head toward me. "Nah, but maybe I had a feeling that a stranger needed me tonight."
Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle. "You psychic or just reckless?"
That almost smile again. "Reckless would’ve been letting you touch the machine."
My lips curve. "So you do have a sense of humor."
He doesn’t answer. Just slips on his gloves, the snap of latex somehow obscene in the quiet. Then he steps in close.
Too close.
His touch is cool, deliberate, as he swabs the skin at my shoulder blade, but his fingers linger, just long enough to make my breath catch. The pad of his thumb grazes the base of my neck, barely a brush, but my whole body lights up like a wire’s been tripped.
It’s not just that he’s touching me. It’s how he touches me. Like he knows exactly what he's doing. Like he’s tuned to some secret frequency only my skin can hear.
A shiver climbs my spine. Not from the cold.
I don’t know if it’s nerves or the way he smells, like leather and smoke and some dark, dangerous memory I want to wrap myself in, but suddenly I’m aware of everything.
The thin cotton of my shirt clinging to my spine.
The air between us, heavy with something I don’t have a name for.
The heat rolling off him in quiet, restrained waves.
And the way he’s looking at me… like he sees straight through the bravado and into the crack beneath it.
The machine buzzes to life, and I almost welcome the sound. It’s real. Physical. Loud enough to chase off the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind.
"This’ll hurt more than the original," he says, voice low, his eyes locked on mine.
God, those eyes.
"I’m not scared of pain," I murmur, barely trusting my voice.
That earns me a look. A pause, like he’s deciding something. Then his gaze drops, slow and heated, from my mouth to my collarbone to the tattoo he’s about to erase. Heat flares low in my belly, sharp and sudden.
Then he leans in.
The first sting of the needle should pull me out of it. Should ground me. But all it does is drive me deeper into the strange, liquid haze that’s started to settle under my skin.
Because he’s close. So fucking close. His thigh brushes my knee as he shifts, and every exhale lands warm against my neck. I swear I can feel his heart beat in the space between us, steady and sure, like the rhythm of the machine in his hand.
And the way he works… damn. It’s more than focused. It’s reverent. Like he’s not just covering something up, but rewriting it. Undoing the damage. Offering something better in return.
I try not to look at him. I really do.
But I can’t help it.
He’s beautiful in that maddening, quietly ruinous way. Brow furrowed. Mouth set in a line that says he’s seen some shit and lived to draw about it. There’s something almost holy in his concentration… like if I touched him, I’d burn.
And I want to touch him. That’s the problem. I want to know what he feels like when he’s not holding back.