Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Atlas
The next morning, I unlock the shop before ten just for kicks.
Who knows? Maybe some lost soul will come by and ask for a temporary tattoo.
I don’t expect Blythe to be here.
But when I glance up, there she is, standing just outside, arms crossed tightly, gaze flicking toward the street like she might change her mind and walk away.
For a second, I think she will.
I hesitate before pushing the door open wider.
“Thought you might bail.”
She lifts a brow, though I can see she’s trying to keep her expression neutral, but there’s something too controlled about it.
Too fake. What are you hiding, Blythe?
“That would’ve been easier,” she states.
A snort escapes me. I can’t argue with that.
“Yeah. Usually is.” She could’ve saved us both time, but obviously I’m not that lucky.
I lock the door behind her and nod toward the front desk.
“Come on.”
No tour.
No unnecessary conversation.
Just a basic rundown—answering the phone, taking appointments, making sure the schedule doesn’t turn into a complete disaster.
Not that anyone will be booking.
I’m just trying to look the part.
She follows silently, hands clasped in front of her like she’s waiting for something.
I pull up the scheduling software and start showing her the system, but the second the screen loads, my mood shifts.
I freeze.
The entire thing is loaded with appointments.
Tomorrow alone, I have five.
Five fucking appointments.
My jaw tightens.
I didn’t book those.
Fucking Sanford.
Of course, it’s him.
Nobody else has access.
Well, maybe his assistant, but she wouldn’t dare.
A slow exhale pushes through my nose, tight with irritation.
I drag a hand down my face, shaking my head, muttering under my breath.
Are these even real names?
I pull out my phone, texting him right away.
His response is so simple it makes my eye twitch.
It’s too fucking early on the West Coast.
So I call him.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growls.
“Are you making up appointments just to keep things entertaining?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
Seriously, he’s going to play dumb?
“Just tomorrow, I have five. How the fuck did that happen when we cancelled all my clients and I haven’t had anyone reach out to me?”
“Well, we kindly called everyone who had booked you for the next nine months and let them know your new location. Most of them chose to reschedule at your new location—that’s why your weekends are full for the next several months.” His ‘let me dumb this down to your level’ tone is annoying.
“What? You thought you’d be sitting on your ass? Like I’d let you. You have to make me money.”
“You could’ve given me a heads-up,” I growl, maybe a little too loud, because my voice carries through the shop.
My fingers tighten around the phone, pulse kicking up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blythe shift.
Not much. Barely noticeable.
But I catch it.
She stiffens, fingers curling around the hem of her sleeve, knuckles white.
Like she’s bracing for something.
No. It’s more like she’s used to bracing, waiting for someone to hit her.
Unease settles in my chest, heavy and dreading.
Fuck.
I wasn’t even looking at her, wasn’t directing my frustration at her, but it doesn’t matter.
She reacts anyway—instinctive, automatic.
Like muscle memory.
I exhale, forcing my voice to level out.
“Fine. I’ll figure it out and even check on the clients to make sure they’re really showing up. Thanks.” I end the conversation.
I do this for her because if not, I would’ve given him a piece of my mind.
After taking several deep breaths to calm the fuck down, I explain to Blythe how the system works, walking her through the client list, showing her how to confirm appointments for the weekend.
I tell her to call everyone, make sure they’re still coming.
By tomorrow, I’ll have a better system in place—one where she won’t have to make phone calls.
Just texts. I also have her check the shop’s email because, apparently, we have one connected to our website.
News to me.
By noon, I ask her to grab some food from the diner down the street.
“Get something for yourself too.” I pull some cash from my wallet and hold it out.
Blythe hesitates.
For a second, I think she’s going to refuse.
Her fingers twitch, her lips part—then she nods, takes the money, and slips out the door.
I shake off the strange energy from earlier and focus on the list of confirmed appointments.
A few names stand out—ones I wasn’t expecting.
Then the hotel calls.
They’re fully booked.
Obviously, I have to ask, ‘Why the fuck do I care,’ right?
Well, apparently, everyone’s in town for me.
What the fuck?
By the time Blythe comes back, something’s off.
She’s quieter. Not in a normal, I’m-just-tired way.
It’s something else.
Something she’s hiding behind that carefully neutral expression she wears like armor.
I don’t ask because the less we interact the better.
Caring for others is a hazard.
Today we’ll eat, I’ll send her home early, and then I’ll see her tomorrow at eleven-thirty before our first appointment.
Her weekends are booked now—just like mine.
And today, for once, I make an exception.
Instead of heading upstairs to my apartment for lunch, I stay here.
Not because of her, because I don’t care at all.
It’s just easier. This reminds me that I have to make a real schedule and figure out her meal breaks.
Something I never thought I would have to do.
I didn’t expect this place to actually have clients.
Fuck, that frustrates me so much.
It angers me that the non-plan I half-assed is officially out the window, and now I have to come up with something new.
I hate change.
Fucking hate it.
Which, yeah, makes no sense when I don’t even have a place to call home.
When I don’t plan on settling.
But here I am, craving structure and getting upset when it’s all falling apart.
The door swings open, and Blythe steps inside, a brown bag in one hand, a drink carrier in the other.
She sets them on the counter and eyes me cautiously like she’s not sure if I’ll still be here.
I grab the bag and unwrap my food.
A hamburger. Juicy, packed with bacon, exactly the sort of meal that makes this day suck a little less.
Blythe slides onto the stool across from me, pulls her food out, but barely gets settled before she bolts to the back room.
Soon, the bathroom door slams, and then there’s retching.
Two things happen simultaneously.
One, I decided that I have to bring a contractor because we need to soundproof the bathroom.
Second, my appetite vanishes.
I wait a second. Then another.
She doesn’t come out.
The next wave hits, the sound unmistakable.
Well. That’s not normal.
She said yesterday she wasn’t sick.
I push back from the counter and stand.
Then, I wait. Soon enough, she comes from the back of the shop, looking pale, exhausted.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she answers, almost smiling, like she wasn’t just throwing up seconds ago.
This woman is good at faking being fine.
She fakes it too well, and if I don’t watch her, she might lie about a lot more.
I don’t care much about her history, but if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a liar.
She better straighten up her story now or she’ll not only be out of this shop, I’ll have her out of this town.
I cross my arms. “Try again.”
“As I said yesterday, it’s?—-”
“Don’t say motion sickness,” I cut in.
“No one’s gonna believe that.” I study her, waiting.
“Is there anything you’d like to share with me?”
She shifts, uneasy.
“I’m fine.”
Bullshit.
There’s too much about her that doesn’t add up.
And this? The nausea, the way she won’t meet my eyes?
It only makes me more suspicious.
Is she sick? Running from something?
Dying?
I can’t have her in here if she’s got something serious going on.
I think of Therese. How she looked when she got sick.
How she hid it at first, like keeping it to herself, would make it go away.
This feels too similar.
I need answers.
I grab an employment application from the desk and slide it toward her.
“Fill this out.”
She stares at it like it might bite.
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“You don’t want the job anymore?” If she walks away now, it’d be easier.
No complications.
“I do,” she says quickly.
“I just thought—you know—you’d pay me as a contractor.”
“Then fill out your information.”
She hesitates.
“I can just get paid under the table. It’s easier.”
I lean against the counter, studying her.
“Easier for who?”
Blythe tugs at her sleeve.
“For both of us.”
I don’t say anything.
Just watch.
The way her fingers twitch.
The way her shoulders bunch.
Not just uncomfortable.
Reluctant.
And then, for the briefest second—fear.
There it is.
I push the form closer.
“Fill it out, Blythe.”
Her lips part, but no excuse comes.
She swallows hard, eyes darting everywhere but at me.
I don’t know what she’s hiding.
But I do know one thing.
She’s not going to hide in here without me knowing exactly what I’m harboring.