Chapter Four
~ Levi ~
The first thing you notice about Inked Rebellion is the smell.
Not the bitter, metallic sting you get at a hospital or the musty chemical haze of a high school locker room, but something deeper.
Nostalgic and sharp and clean, like antiseptic on raw skin, overlaid with the woody sweetness of Ransom’s cologne and the heavy, permanent musk of ink.
Even if you closed your eyes and forgot you were in McKenzie River, you’d know exactly where you were: in a place that dealt in pain and memory, etched under the skin in black and scarlet and every shade of gray.
After that fiasco with my stepmother, Vivian, Ransom had taken almost six months off before getting his tattoo business back up and running, but it was only open three days a week and closed by nine, which was when Floyd got off work.
I’d told myself I was just here to watch.
To sketch a new design for my own tattoo, to see if I could handle the buzz of the gun and the anticipation of the needle.
But as soon as I walked into the parlor, it was clear I’d been lying.
I was here to do it. No more half-assing, no more what-ifs.
The bracelet Quiad gave me was everything, but it wasn’t enough.
I wanted something that couldn’t slip off in the night or get hidden under a sleeve.
Something nobody, not even me, could take back.
Ransom was already set up at his station, hunched over a laminated printout of a dragon coiled around a naked woman.
He glanced up when the bell on the door jingled, flicked his gaze up and down my frame, and grinned.
His beard was trimmed down to a stubble today, so you could really see the bite marks at the corner of his mouth and the scar on his chin.
The walls around him were plastered with flash art—some of it his, some of it cribbed from other shops, a whole museum of old-school Americana and the weird shit locals brought in from internet forums. A neon sign above the register blinked INKED REBELLION in red-and-blue, the “N” half-burnt out so it just pulsed INKED REBELLIO_ every five seconds.
“You here for moral support or you actually gonna man up this time?” Ransom said, tapping the dragon printout with a gloved finger. He always put on gloves even before he started, like the ink could seep through the air and stain you without warning.
I pulled my sketchbook out of my hoodie pocket—one of Quiad’s, oversized, sleeves dragged over my hands so the world felt a little smaller. My heart was jackhammering in my chest, but I kept my face as still as I could.
“Appointment’s at three, right?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was about to puke. “Don’t want to cut in line.”
Ransom rolled his eyes. “You’re the only one on the books. Saturday’s dead. Cops got a DUI checkpoint out on the main road, so all my fun clients are still sleeping it off.” He motioned to the chair, which was more dentist’s recliner than anything. “Sit. Or leave. I don’t care.”
The chair looked like it belonged to someone bigger, maybe someone who wouldn’t have their feet swinging two inches off the ground. I climbed in anyway, sketchbook clutched in my lap, and tried not to look at the trays of needles and the glass bottles lined up like shots waiting for a last call.
“So?” Ransom asked, snapping his gloves tight. “You pick something?”
I thumbed to the page in my sketchbook. It took weeks to get it right, the letters curling just so, the line weight thick at the down-strokes and almost invisible at the up. Even now, my hand shook a little as I passed it over.
He took the book, held it up to the light, and snorted. “Quiad’s name. That’s… not subtle.” He stared at it longer, lips twitching, then raised an eyebrow. “You really want to do this? Once it’s on, not even God can take it off.”
I met his gaze, feeling the familiar knot of shame and longing tighten in my stomach. “I’m sure,” I said, and was surprised to find I meant it.
He nodded, then turned and set the sketchbook down, arranging his tools with methodical grace. “Your funeral, Hardesty. But he’s gonna lose his mind when he sees this.”
The next few minutes passed in a blur of prepping. The whirr of the gun. The click and rattle as he loaded a fresh needle. He wiped down my forearm, his hands strong and steady, then lined up a stencil of my design on the thin skin above the bracelet.
“You want it here?” he asked, pressing the transfer on, the outline of Quiad’s name curling just below my wrist bone.
“Yeah.” My voice barely made it out. “Right there.”
He stepped back, head tilted, admiring the placement like a painting. “Nice. That’s where I’d put it. Most guys, they go for the shoulder or the chest, you know? Something easy to hide. You want it on display.”
I shrugged. “No point if he doesn’t see it.”
He gave a little huff, then turned deadly serious. “Okay. You ready?”
I nodded, though every nerve ending in my body screamed that I was not. The gun buzzed to life, high and hungry. Ransom braced my arm with one hand and leaned in, eyes laser-focused on the stencil.
The first contact of the needle was like a hornet dipped in vodka—burning, biting, impossible to ignore. I sucked in a breath through my teeth and felt my whole body tense.
He worked fast, pulling lines with confidence, the ink sinking into my skin in little bursts. The pain was sharp, but not the worst I’d ever felt. Just constant, gnawing, like it wanted to pick a fight with your pain threshold and see who won.
“Doing okay?” Ransom asked, not looking up.
“Yep,” I said, though my vision was swimming and I could taste copper at the back of my throat.
He worked in silence for a while, the buzz of the machine and the scrape of latex on my skin the only sounds in the room. I focused on the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the old paint, then let my mind wander to what Quiad would say. Would he be pissed? Proud? Embarrassed? Maybe all three at once.
I pictured his hands—those massive hands—cradling my wrist, thumb stroking the new tattoo, his voice dropping to that private register he used when it was just us.
Mine now.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek and rode out another wave of pain.
The smell of ink and antiseptic was stronger now, layered with something raw and metallic.
I glanced at Ransom, who was hunched over my arm, tongue poked out in concentration.
There was something almost gentle about the way he moved, each line pulled with the kind of care that said this was more than just a job.
After what felt like hours—but was probably only forty minutes—he set the gun down and wiped the area clean. “Almost done,” he said. “Let me hit it with some shading and we’re golden.”
“Fine by me.” My teeth were chattering a little, but I gripped the armrest and held steady.
He swapped needles, switched bottles, and got back to it. The shading wasn’t as bad as the line work, more like someone scratching an itch you didn’t know you had. I let my eyes drift shut and counted the seconds, thinking of the river, the farm, the exact shade of brown in Quiad’s eyes.
I wondered if I’d ever be able to look at my own wrist again without thinking of this moment—of Ransom’s careful hands, the buzz of the gun, and the heat that spread out from the letters as they settled under my skin.
When he finally finished, Ransom cleaned the area one last time and wrapped my wrist. The whole thing looked red and angry, like it might leap off my arm if given the chance.
He peeled off his gloves and snapped the elastic with a flourish. “There. Done. Want to look?”
I nodded, and he unwound the bandage just enough to show the ink. Quiad’s name was perfect—crisp, black, the curls and flourishes just how I’d drawn them, maybe better. The skin around it was swollen and pink, but the letters were clean as bone.
“It’s great,” I said, and for a second my throat closed up. “Thank you.”
He looked at me sideways, trying to gauge if I was about to lose it. “You’re a weird kid, Hardesty, but you’ve got guts. You ever want another, let me know. First one’s on the house.”
I fished in my pocket for the cash I’d brought, but he waved it away.
“Seriously. Consider it a gift for finally landing my brother. Not that he ever shuts up about you.” Ransom’s eyes softened for a second, then he rolled them.
“Just do me a favor—take a picture of his face when you show him. He’s gonna bust a vessel. ”
“Will do,” I said, pulling my sleeve down gently over the bandage.
I stood, legs a little wobbly, and grabbed my sketchbook.
As I headed for the door, the air outside hit my lungs sharp and new.
I flexed my wrist, feeling the sting of the fresh wound, and imagined the moment when I’d show Quiad.
How he’d grip my hand and maybe scold me, then kiss the tattoo anyway, lips pressed right to the band of his name.
Maybe he’d call me an idiot. Maybe he’d never let go.
Either way, I was ready.
As I walked out of Inked Rebellion, the sign behind me blinked INKED REBELLIO_ one last time, red and blue and pulsing like a heartbeat.
I couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
* * * *
I never really got used to the shop’s smell, no matter how many hours I spent there: sawdust so thick it settled in your nose, glue like stale sugar, and always—no matter how clean he kept the place—the ghost of motor oil from some engine Quiad had rebuilt in another lifetime.
Most days, the doors were propped open and a box fan churned the air, but today was so hot and bright the haze just clung to the workbenches and painted everything with a weird, amber glow.
I brought a paper sack of lunch, heavy with two fat sandwiches and a stack of Ma’s sugar cookies, and carried it in the crook of my right arm like it was a shield.
The other wrist—my left—was wrapped with the Saniderm Ransom had insisted on, though I’d covered it with the sleeve of Quiad’s old hoodie, rolling it twice to keep the bandage hidden.