Chapter 8 - Wolfson
Forcing myself to give Dove space, I head to the tattoo parlor. My pulse quickens at the familiarity of the route, the buildings and signs all etched into my memory from countless days wandering aimlessly.
The shop comes into view, a dark brick-fronted building tucked between a bookstore and café. My designs clutter the window display, sketches I poured myself into when I thought maybe this place could be home.
I step inside, and the door chimes.
Declan looks up, eyes going wide.
This guy.
His mullet has zero fucks to give this morning, and he’s holding his signature coffee mug with the faded quote, DO OR DO NOT, THERE IS NO TRY.
If there were an art school for scarecrows, he would be the mascot. He’s like seven feet tall and a hundred pounds dripping wet with glasses that refuse to stay on his nose. Probably because he never stops moving.
“Dude.” He throws his hands up like I’m holding a gun and glances nervously at the security camera in the corner. “I was given strict instructions. You can’t be here.”
“You gonna call the cops on me?” I stroll in without hesitation.
“Well, no, man, of course not, but like… Jag was super clear, okay?”
He saunters to the coffee machine and refills his mug. He drinks coffee like a tweaker about to launch into space, twitchy and hyper-focused on everything and nothing at the same time.
“What did Jag say?” I rest my forearms on the counter.
“He said if you showed up, I’m supposed to tell you to leave.
Like, no drama, no scene. Just get lost in the friendliest way possible.
But between you and me? You should be running this place.
I’m supposed to be your mentor, but you’re a natural, man.
People come in all the time asking for you.
You got regulars. Your own damn fan club.
I had this chick last week—two face tattoos—asked if you died.
I mean, it was the only day you took off in six months.
I told her no, that you were just being mysterious. ”
“Where’s Jag?”
“Out of town. Left this morning. Honestly, I don’t even know if he has a home.
Sometimes he crashes here, in the back, on that disgusting cot that probably has more DNA samples than a crime lab.
I hear he’s got like a million secret girlfriends or maybe even a few boyfriends.
Did you know that? It wouldn’t surprise me.
He’s so secretive and brooding and honestly kinda terrifying.
Anyway, he’s not here now, said something about going out of town.
Didn’t say where. Typical Jag, right? Sometimes, I don’t see him for weeks.
He just kinda appeared one day about a year ago.
Before that, he was a ghost. Anonymous owner.
Paid the bills. Didn’t exist. Then boom!
He’s here, watching everything, barely talking, just hovering like a hungry gargoyle.
And this morning when I saw him, he had a bandage on his hand. ”
Humans are eighty percent water. But not Declan. He’s one-hundred percent wind.
“Did he tell you what happened?” I ask.
“No. I think he punched a mirror or someone’s face.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “You’d think he’d wear it like a trophy, but he was acting like he wanted to bite me because I noticed.”
“You sure he’s gone?”
“Positive. He packed up and left when I got here at seven. Took that creepy duffel bag he always carries. The one that probably has a murder weapon or a severed head in it. I didn’t ask. I never ask.”
I push off the counter, scanning the space. My chair. My tools. Everything is still there.
“So,” I say, “you hiring?”
He snorts. “Technically, we’re always hiring because we’re the only tattoo shop in Sitka, and we’re always understaffed. I’m running solo here. Could really use the help. But you’re banned. So like… You’re banned but beloved? A legendary outlaw-type deal.”
“That’s fine. I’m not here to beg. I’m here to work.”
“Wolf—”
“Tell the camera I broke in. That way, you’re off the hook. I’ll take the back corner. Won’t touch clients unless they ask.”
He stares at me, torn between excitement and panic. “Jag’s gonna kill me.”
“Not if I kill him first.” I flash a grin. “Worst he can do is fire me again.”
“You’re trouble.”
“You say that like it’s not my entire brand.”
“Fine. Back corner still has your crap in it. But if he finds out I let you in—”
“I’m an outlaw, remember? Just doing outlaw things.”
I settle into my corner, surrounded by the aroma of ink, antiseptic, and fake leather. My little kingdom of creativity.
Everything is where I left it. My chair. My station. The worn stool I kick more times than I sit on. Even my rusty old lamp with the sticker that says DON’T TOUCH ME, I BITE.
Running my fingers along the edge of the workbench, I admire my machines. All lined up like soldiers waiting to be picked for battle. I spend hours here. Days. Nearly every day for the past six months.
Tattooing is the only time my brain shuts up. Dragging ink under someone’s skin feels like a holy ritual. Meditation with needles. Primal and permanent.
But even in my happy place, my mind won’t stop drifting to Dove.
I pull out my phone and start a chat.
Me:
I’m at work. Technically trespassing. Stepbro skipped town.
So did you get the job or what?
I brought snacks.
I’m out of apples. The fruit, not the tech company. Unless you want me to steal you a laptop. I’m flexible.
Ten minutes pass.
Me: Are you ghosting me already? That’s cold, mechanic girl.
Bluebird: Stop
Stop sending messages? Or stop being so damn charming?
I grin.
Me: Rude. But fair.
I set the phone down and crack my knuckles.
Time to sketch a new Disney princess. I’m thinking blue hair, grease-streaked cheekbones, boots too heavy to run in, and gilded eyes that know how to dismantle a man’s heart with a socket wrench.
I pull a sketchpad from under the table and start roughing her out in graphite. Gloves with the fingers cut off. Welding goggles slung around her neck like jewelry. A clockwork dove tattoo on her thigh that she inked herself with stolen parts and a homemade rig.
If she’s gonna haunt my thoughts, I might as well make her immortal.