Chapter 3
THREE
The needle slides through the nostril of the teenage Beta in my chair. She barely even winces as I set the little pink stone stud in place.
The latex gloves snap as I pull them off and toss them in the wastebasket before I grab the small mirror on my counter. “What do you think?”
She takes it from me, turning her face from side to side to see the new jewelry from all angles. Her curly black hair bounces with each movement. When she finally hands me the mirror back, she’s beaming. “I love it!”
Satisfaction rolls through me. I don’t care that it’s just a run-of-the-mill nose stud. Helping people decorate the canvas we’re forced to exist in brings me joy. Knowing that I can help someone feel a little more comfortable in their skin is one of the main reasons I do this.
The teenager waves and heads to the register, where Win cashes her out.
“You got anything on the schedule for the rest of the day?” I look up and see my mentor, Trina, leaning over the side of my booth. We’ve got a cubicle-style setup here, and I don’t mind it, but she always manages to startle me.
“Nah, open, why? Got someone you wanna pawn off?”
She shakes her head. Pink hair flops to the side as her eyes narrow in judgment. “When was the last time you took a day off?”
“I need the money.”
Trina knows this. She plucked me off the street as soon as I was eighteen and had me apprentice under her. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if she hadn’t. I was about to graduate from high school, and my foster parents were gonna kick me out the day I walked. Those three months I got to apprentice before then helped me save up enough to get my shitty apartment.
I’m still there five years later. It’s a point of pride—my first taste of freedom.
But freedom isn’t free, and fuck, it seems like things keep getting more and more expensive in Lunarcrest lately.
“Well, don’t burn out, Gage. I would hate to train a new right hand. I just housebroke you.”
I snort and wave her off. “I’ll be fine.”
The bell over the door dings, and I look up and see my favorite customer walking through the door.
“Crystal!” I say happily. “Is it that time again already?”
She flushes bright pink across her tiny, upturned nose and ducks her head. “Yeah, it is. You got time for me?”
Every three months, almost to the day, for the last four years, Crystal comes in and gets a tattoo. Everyone here knows her, and at this point, she feels like part of the staff.
Like it wouldn’t be the same here without her.
And I’m the only one who’s ever tattooed her. I’m only a little smug about it.
When she first started coming, I was still an apprentice, so I had the cheapest rates. She was flat broke, but it seemed important to her, so she didn’t mind that her lines may not be perfectly crisp as I was learning.
I still charge her that same rate all this time later. Either Trina doesn’t know, or she doesn’t care. I’m betting it’s the latter.
“The usual?” I ask as she slides into my booth.
Her pretty hazel eyes are foggy today as if she’s been crying. I’ve seen several versions of Crystal over the years, but this one is the most common.
I don’t know what life is like for the Omega, but I know pain when I see it.
“Yeah, please.” Her hands begin to fumble with the button of her slacks, and then she slides them down her body. I’m a professional, so here in the shop, her skin is just a canvas.
But if we weren’t here…
“Preference of what?”
She lies out in front of me, stretched on her left side. “No, whichever fits. I trust you.”
“Maybe I could rework one of the older ones,” I say quietly, humming as I run my eyes across the piece.
“No. No reworking. I need a new piece.”
I don’t know why I bother asking. It’s the same answer every quarter. When I first asked her why, she clammed up and wouldn’t answer. I never asked again.
She has her demons, that much is clear, and it’s not my place to force her to exercise them.
After gathering all my equipment, I turn to the haunted Omega and run my eyes over the piece of art four years in the making.
All the way down Crystal’s thigh on her right side is my masterpiece.
Her first tattoo was a small flower on her upper thigh—just a little rose. By the time she had four flowers, I asked if she trusted me and would let me create something cohesive for her.
“All that matters, Gage, is that I can count them. Can you promise me that?” There was so much desperation in her voice that all I could do was nod and swear to her that she’d always be able to count.
Since then, several snakes have joined her flowers. They twist around a blank space in the middle of her thigh, framing the pale flesh for me.
I don’t know why she does this, but I hope one day she won’t feel the need to anymore.
And when she does, I’ll fill in the blank spot. I’ve had it drawn and saved on my tablet for two years.
I print out the stencil of the next snake I’ve drawn. I knew she’d be coming in soon and wanted to be ready. This one wraps around a few of the others before draping slightly over the blank spot.
It’s hard to design around the part of a tattoo that would usually be done first, but it’s a way for me to stretch my creative muscles.
Once everything is set up and I press the needle to her skin, her entire body slacks like she was a balloon I popped.
“How have things been?” I ask softly. Sometimes, she’s okay to talk; for others, it’s like she’s catatonic, the way she stares ahead blankly. Today seems to be in the middle.
“You ever wonder why we do it, Gage?”
“Do what?”
“Life.”
A single word dripping with so much sadness.
I want to know her in more ways than I do now. I want to find out what causes those feelings of hopelessness and destroy it. I would protect her from the dark shadows that haunt her eyes.
But I can’t.
Crystal is an Omega, and I’m a Beta. And as much as I like to think we’ve grown as a society, the fact of the matter is, most Alphas are not going to want to share their Omega with a Beta. I deal with enough Alpha assholes here, I don’t want to go home to one too.
So, my ‘no Omega’ rule holds firm.
Even if I have to spend a few hours every three months convincing myself that it isn’t a stupid fucking rule.
“I figure if I don’t do it, someone else will, and I can do it better than them,” I respond as I wipe away some of the excess ink. “There’s always going to be life until the world explodes, so why shouldn’t I be the one that gets to experience it?”
She hums quietly. “Not all experiences are good.”
I hear Trina snort from the cubicle next to us. “They certainly are not.”
Crystal startles, like she forgot that others could hear us. I watch as she bricks up those walls around her, and I try to slip in before she shuts me out completely. I point to a bowl of cherry candies I keep on my workstation and motion for her to grab one as I speak.
“I got a dog.”
Her eyes brighten, and an honest-to-goodness smile stretches her face. She pops the candy into her mouth and hums around it. “I’ve always wanted a dog! What kind? What’s his name?”
“Oh, he’s a mutt. I found him in a dumpster. His name is Burger.”
She laughs so hard I have to lift my needle so I don’t mess up the scales I’m inking. “Burger? Why did you name him that?”
“He had his head stuck in a fast food bag.” The little dude was thrashing around, unable to get it off, close to whacking his head on the wall of the alley. I freed him, and he followed me home.
So now I have a dog.
“I wanna see a picture when you’re done,” she says happily. I like this tone on her.
Her phone rings, and she glances at the screen before declining the call.
But then it rings again.
She picks up and snarls, “What?” My shoulders hunch, and I focus hard on what I’m doing so I don’t strain to hear the other side of that conversation. “Yes, I know. I’m running an errand, and then I’ll be there.” She exhales heavily and rubs her face with her hand. “I don’t care, Puck, my shift doesn’t start until seven.”
Shift? I thought she was some medical person at the Design Clinic. What’s she doing shift work for?
Crystal shoves the phone back into her pocket, a storm cloud mood over her now.
I finish the tattoo in silence after several unsuccessful attempts to start a conversation. When she stands up and stares blankly at the piece in the mirror, I watch as she touches all her other pieces and counts under her breath.
It’s a ritual she does.
“…fifteen…sixteen….seventeen,” she says quietly. “Seventeen.”
“How many more until you’re done, do you think?” I ask from where I stand behind her in the mirror.
She meets my gaze, the softest, saddest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. “Oh, Gage. I’ll never be done.”
* * *
I’m still thinking about the look of despondency on Crystal’s face as she gazed at her new tattoo. What could be happening to her that made her feel so hopeless? The only time I’ve seen people look as sad as she does during tattoos is those who are grieving.
And what could she be grieving every three months?
I groan as I swing open the door to my shitty apartment and see the new dog bed I got Burger absolutely shredded. He sits in the pile of fluff like a king surveying his kingdom, and if a mangy mutt could look smug, he would.
I don’t have the energy to clean it up today. I was at the parlor from open until close, and my back aches from hunching over bodies all day.
My pantry is bare, and my fridge looks like the fridge at a frat party—a few condiments and alcohol, except that, because I have celiac, instead of beer, I have cider.
I peer into my freezer, hoping for something quick and easy to eat, and my greatest nemesis taunts me.
Cookies. The kind that are sold outside of the grocery store like they’re illicit drugs.
They have a gluten-free option, but that’s not the one I want. I want the chocolate mint one that tastes best in the freezer. I keep them for a rainy day. The type of day that requires a pick me up so necessary that it’s worth the severe cramping and potential to shit myself.
Burger growls behind me, clearly not satisfied after a day of munching on his bed, and I close the freezer with a sigh.
The cookies will live to fight another day, and so will my gut health.
After the dog is fed and I’ve got a bowl of frozen microwavable mush, I settle onto my couch and stare at my quiet television.
This is the life, right?
I have a job, a dog, and my own place. A couple of years ago, I couldn’t have dreamed of this while I was sitting in my room at my third foster home. I wasn’t a bad kid; I wasn’t getting thrown out, but I was an older teen, and many foster parents just weren’t set up to deal with a teenage boy.
Especially not one with a health condition.
But it feels like something is missing, no matter how hard I try to ignore that creeping feeling. I know I’m young, but this can’t be all there is, right?
I scroll mindlessly through social media as I stuff my face and catch myself navigating to my brother Alan’s profile.
He looks so happy that it’s almost hard to be mad at him for leaving me behind after Mom died.
Almost.
I get that he was younger than I am now and couldn’t be saddled with a kid, but I still don’t understand how he could leave me without a look back.
He didn’t even come to my graduation, and I didn’t invite my pseudo big brother or family because I was afraid of rejection after all those years. One brother who ignores me is more than enough for me.
I set the empty plastic bowl on my table, and Burger jumps into my lap, cuddling up with me as I open my favorite time-wasting app. I flick through the videos quickly, barely lingering on any of them long enough to figure out what song has gone viral right now. I never go to the gym, but an ad for one pops up, and I struggle to scroll away.
A beautiful Omega with blonde hair stands next to a buff Alpha with rich brown skin and a broad smile. They talk about the addition of a daycare to the gym, as well as a new pack pass - a single payment for every member of your pack, no matter how many.
Betas included.
I wince. Betas don’t belong in packs. They can’t be bonded in, and when push comes to shove, no Omega will choose a Beta over their Alpha. But the video doesn’t stop my traitorous mind from briefly picturing Crystal standing beside me, her arm around my waist.
I scroll away from the ad and the fantasy.