Chapter Seven
Things That Bother Me
Maverick
Sleep hasn’t found me. Every time I close my eyes, I see it again, the damn car seat wedged in the back of Zora’s car, the flash of pink fabric, and the crayon stuck in the holder. And her face, shuddering the second she caught me looking. It gnaws at me, sharp as broken glass.
I tell myself it isn’t my business. She can live however she wants, build whatever life she wants. I have no right to wonder. But the thought digs in deep, every passing hour feeding it like a fire.
By the time I walk into House of Ink, I’m wired and restless, my jaw aching from grinding my teeth all night.
The shop buzzes with the usual chaos. Luke is already holding court in his booth, spinning some wild story to a client who keeps laughing between nervous glances at the needle.
Alistair leans against the counter, all broad shoulders and steady silence, like a wall holding everything in place.
And Skye, seven months pregnant, belly rounding under her loose dress, still buzzes around like she hasn’t heard the phrase “slow down.” Phone in one hand, clipboard in the other, she orders Luke to shift toward the window for better light, then barks at Hailey to stop stealing her ring light.
“Bossy,” Luke mutters.
“Pregnant,” Skye shoots back, smirking. “I get a pass.”
The entire shop laughs, even Alistair’s mouth twitching like he wants to but doesn’t want to hurt his tough guy image.
I should feel steadied by it, pulled into the rhythm of their banter. Instead, my skin prickles like I’m trying to crawl out of it. Because no matter where I stand, I feel her. Zora.
She moves through the shop with her camera, lens flashing, adjusting the light, laughing at some stupid comment Luke tosses her way. She looks normal. Calm. Like she hasn’t upended my whole world just by being in it again.
I sit at my booth, sketching for my first client of the day.
She is a young woman wanting a floral piece on her wrist to honor her grandmother, delicate vines with roses intertwined.
Not my usual work, all softness and curves instead of sharp edges and shadows.
But my hand knows what to do anyway, building the design petal by petal, line by line.
When she sits down, I work steadily, quietly, my machine buzzing low. The roses bloom across her skin, shaded softly instead of my usual stark style, an echo of someone she’d loved. She smiles through the sting of the needle, tears bright in her eyes when she looks down at the finished piece.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. “She loved roses.”
“Good,” I mutter, cleaning the tattoo. “Now she’ll always be with you.”
This is why I became a tattoo artist. Not for the tramp stamps or the skulls but for the pieces that matter, the pieces that have a story, and the people who carry their truth on their skin.
She hugs me when she leaves. Another first. Two days in a row. I don’t know what to do with it, so I just stand there, stiff, until she lets go.
The second she walks out, I catch it.
Skye and Zora are chatting by the window while Zora adjusts a camera setting. Skye’s hand rests on her belly, protective even while she grins.
“You’re lucky Ivy sleeps through the night,” Skye says, voice light but still carrying through the space. “I’m already bracing myself for no sleep once this little one’s here.”
My stomach drops.
Zora freezes. “Skye...” Her voice is sharp, a warning.
But Skye is oblivious, still fussing with the light. “What? It’s true. Six-year-olds are angels compared to newborns.”
The name echoes in my skull, louder than the buzz of the machines, louder than anything else in the room.
Ivy.
My world tilted sideways. I grip the edge of my tattoo chair so hard my knuckles go white. Zora hisses something at Skye, dragging her a few steps away, but it’s too late. The name is already tattooed into my soul.
Ivy.
Luke’s laughter rings out. “Ohhh, Zora, keeping secrets? That explains the mystery mom vibe you’ve got going on.”
Zora shoots him a glare that could cut glass, but it barely registers. Because I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My pulse thunders in my ears, blood roaring in my veins. The pieces slam together in my head—the car seat, her guarded expression, Skye’s slip.
The kid. Her kid. Ivy. My mother’s name.
The shop blurs around me. Voices dull and all I can see is Zora, her camera clutched like a shield, eyes darting toward me for just a second before skittering away.
She knows. She knows I’d heard. And I can’t stop the thought that tears through me like lightning. Is she mine? Or is it just wishful thinking?
I shove away from my booth, my breath ragged as I pace toward the back because I need space or I’d break something. Luke calls after me, some joke I don’t catch, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
In the bathroom, I grip the sink harshly, staring at myself in the cracked mirror. My reflection stares back, pale and wild-eyed, every tattoo etched into my skin like a history I can’t run from even though I give it a hell of a try.
“Ivy,” I mutter, the word foreign on my tongue. Saying it out loud makes it more real.
If she is mine, if Zora has kept her from me for six years ... the thought hollows me out, rage and grief tangling until I can’t tell them apart. I slam my hand against the wall, the sound echoing off the tiles.
For the first time since I walked into House of Ink, I’m not sure I can hold myself together.