Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Atlas
Am I really contemplating hiring this .
. . Blythe person?
I don’t need anyone.
Never have. Usually, when I show up at whatever parlor I’m working at, the bookings are already handled, and I do my job.
That’s how it works.
But here? There won’t be any bookings.
I mean, it’s clear that no one in their right mind will take a trip to Birchwood Springs to get a tattoo.
No matter how many followers I have and how my waiting list can be lengthy.
A waiting list that, according to Sanford’s assistant has been taken care of—meaning, they either rebook with somebody at the Ink Art Gallery, the Luna Harbor Tattoo Parlor, or they canceled it.
Which is fine by me.
I already have a spreadsheet with all the money Sanford already owes me because of all those lost clients—asshole.
Here I have . . . well, no schedules to follow, no lists to check off.
So what the hell is she supposed to do all day?
Actually, the better question is, what am I supposed to do all fucking day?
Poke my eyes out just for entertainment?
I should have stayed gone.
Should have ignored Sanford’s baiting.
But did I? No. I let him drag me right back into this town.
And now, here I am.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I glance at the screen.
Sanford’s latest post. My new shop location is tagged.
The new number listed, because I now have a fucking landline.
Who the hell still has a landline?
What’s next? A fax machine, just to go all retro?
Like, I’m going to let him keep dictating what I’m planning on doing here.
This is mine for two years.
I should double up with the post. Maybe even add a sale in there because who in their right mind will take a plane and then the back roads to come and visit me?
Nobody.
A loud knock against the glass storefront pulls my attention away.
It’s not a customer.
Of course, it’s not.
Nobody in this town is getting a tattoo.
Bland, boring people with their beige lives will just snob this shop.
I ignore it, but the knock comes again.
I exhale slow and long, dragging my gaze toward the door.
And there he is. Malerick Timberbridge.
Fucking Malerick. The sheriff.
The golden boy. Oh, and my oldest brother.
The one who never makes mistakes, never strays, never does anything that isn’t perfectly aligned with the damn rules.
The last person I wanted to see today.
Or ever.
“Open the fucking door, Atlas,” he calls through the glass.
I could ignore him. Turn around and head upstairs through the back room.
Let him stand there, stewing in his own self-righteousness.
Of course, I don’t. I know better.
Malerick doesn’t just go away.
Rolling my shoulders, I push up from the counter and unlock the door.
“What do you want?” I mutter, stepping aside just enough to let him in.
The last thing I need is some screaming match out on the street.
His jaw tightens, but he steps inside anyway.
I lock the door behind him.
Not because I’m worried that someone will sneak in and try to steal some body jewelry.
Nope. It’s because I don’t need an audience for whatever bullshit he’s about to throw at me.
People in this town?
They walk into shops just to eavesdrop.
Just to see what’s happening.
Malerick takes his time, scanning the space like he’s cataloging every detail, gathering evidence for some kind of case.
His gaze flicks back to me.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“You need to be more specific, Sheriff.” My tone is all lazy indifference, knowing damn well it’ll piss him off.
His mouth twitches. He hates when I say it like that, like it’s a joke.
“We don’t need a tattoo shop in this town.”
I cross my arms, tilt my head, and smile.
“You don’t? Oh, well, guess I better pack it up and leave because you said so.”
His eyes narrow.
Not a fan of my sarcasm.
Shocking.
“Tell me why the fuck you’re here, Atlas.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He doesn’t take the bait.
“First, Cassian buys that fucking bar, and now you’re setting up shop? That’s the last thing this town needs.”
“Parlor,” I correct because I’m judicious like that.
“You know what the fuck I mean.”
I huff out a laugh.
“You came all the way down here just to tell me I don’t belong? Please, say something new.”
He lets his gaze sweep over the space again like he’s trying to find more reasons to be pissed off.
“This isn’t Seattle,” he says after a moment.
“No shit.”
“And you’re not staying.”
My jaw ticks.
“That right?”
“You don’t settle, Atlas. You pass through. You disappear. And when you do, you leave a mess behind.”
I laugh because he doesn’t know a damn thing about me.
Sure, I don’t have a home base, and I move from shop to shop, but I never leave a fucking mess behind.
I just don’t settle.
“Sounds like a personal problem, Mal.” I cross my arms. “No wonder the FBI kicked you out, and you had to become a rent-a-cop for this town. You’ve got a lot of issues. Thought about getting some therapy?”
His jaw twitches.
I hit a nerve. I expect him to throw a punch or storm out, but instead, he shifts his stance, all business now.
“I don’t know why you’re back, and honestly, I don’t care. But I need you to know one thing.”
I tilt my head, waiting.
“If you bring trouble here, I will personally make sure you regret it.”
“You should be more worried about the trouble already creeping into your town, Sheriff.” My voice stays even.
“Should I remind you of the shit show I had to help you clean up a few months ago? Nysa almost died because . . . the point is that the fucking Hollow Syndicate is still around. You can’t possibly be blaming me for any mess that might happen here.”
Malerick’s brow furrows slightly.
He goes quiet. I hit something.
I know a little about what’s going on with the Syndicate—maybe not everything, but enough.
Being here has nothing to do with them.
If anything, he’s more likely to need my help than for me to cause havoc just because I opened a parlor.
It’s clear the conversation is over.
He needs to get the hell out of here before I stop playing nice.
I walk past him, unlock the door, and hold it open.
“You can show yourself out.”
Malerick hesitates for half a second, then steps through without another word.
I watch him walk back to his patrol truck, his shoulders tense, his movements clipped.
When he pulls away, I lock the door behind him and exhale slowly, rolling out the tension in my own muscles.
Then, I head to the back room to check the security camera feed.
The screen flickers, the feed still showing a black SUV idling two blocks down.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing in Birchwood Springs.
But I know one thing for damn sure—Malerick isn’t running me out of here.
If I leave, it’ll be because I want to.
Not because he decides it’s best if I get the fuck out.