Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Salem
The stage lights pulse red and violet as Symbiotic thrashes through another screaming chorus, smoke cannons blowing plumes of fog across the grounds. People are losing their minds, the crowd bobbing up and down like waves crashing to the shore.
The band isn't bad, to be honest. I like their sound—heavy bass drops combined with synth melodies from the keyboardist. Their drummer is badass, too, shrieking into the mic with her ripped and bloodied dress clinging to her body. This kind of vibe should be right up my alley, but… I’m just not feeling it.
Maybe I should be. This was the whole reason we booked the stunt show at a music festival, after all. Not only are Taylor and Christian's favorite bands playing all four days, but so are mine. Big-name headliners equal a massive turnout, which means viral exposure for the Twins of Terror.
Yet I'm skirting along the edge, snapping photos of Tay and Christian in the middle of the pit, slightly jealous of the joy on their faces. They could hardly get through their performance tonight, too excited to see Symbiotic play.
I just feel… numb. All the anger and resentment fizzled out of me after I kicked Devon’s ass.
He's currently pouting in the RV because his concussed head can't take the loud music, and even though I'm definitely satisfied about that, there's a pit of nothingness in my chest when I think about him and Logan.
Blank space. A void. Like my heart built a cage around it and nailed up a "keep-out" sign, refusing to let anything in.
Arya appears beside me, the glitter under her eyes catching like a disco ball as she wraps her glowstick-covered arms around my shoulders. “No more work, Sally Mally. Come sing karaoke with me.”
“Not in the mood,” I mutter, wiping moisture from the back of my neck. She's definitely dressed to party in her neon crop top and gauzy skirt. Meanwhile, I'm sweating my ass off in my usual flannel. I should have borrowed some of her clothes.
She snatches my hand with an eye roll. “Come on, then. Let’s go do weird shit.”
I let her pull me away into a swirling maze of food trucks and art booths. We pass a guy on stilts wearing a birdcage over his head and a woman doing aerial silk above a stand selling tie-dyed condoms. Arya buys a handful of glow in the dark ones, giggling about using them on Christian.
“So, what's up with you two and Dev?” I ask, inspecting a shelf of giant dick-shaped keychains. “You've both been ignoring him.”
She scoffs as we move on to the next booth. “They got into a fight back in Indianapolis, so it’s not really a thing anymore. Christian said we’re done with him.”
“What was the fight about?”
“I think Devon likes the attention,” she answers vaguely, studying a table of flowered paintings that look suspiciously like vaginas. “From both of us. From everyone, honestly. He thrives on it.”
“And you don't?”
Her palm connects with my shoulder playfully. “I do, which is why we were both too much for Christian to handle. But it’s not my fault that I'm the baby of the family and my daddy treated me like a princess. Buy this pussy flower for me?”
She holds up a drawing of a weeping tulip with a pierced petal, and I snort as I hand the artist a twenty-dollar bill. “Am I your sugar momma now?”
“Is sugar bestie a thing?”
“Certainly feels like it.” Glancing back toward the stage in the distance, I can't help but wonder where Logan is right now. Is he hanging with Huck and having a good time? Part of me hopes he's miserable.
“Devon’s messy,” Arya continues quietly. “But so is everyone else lately. You included.”
My lips twist grimly. “Maybe knocking out his back teeth wasn’t the best way to go about things.”
A cackle bursts from her mouth. “You know, he deserved it. You can't trash-talk every person you see and expect no consequences. Someone was bound to put him in his place sooner or later.”
Ain't that the fucking truth.
We round a corner and stumble on a small tattoo booth tucked beside a T-shirt stand. String lights frame a banner overhead reading Jones Ink.
Like a moth to flame, Arya yanks me toward the booth, ignoring my protests.
“Absolutely not.”
Despite all of my friends being covered in ink, I don’t have any.
It's not that I'm scared to get them; it's just a huge commitment.
Unlike Taylor—who got a three-titted alien on his ankle just for fun the day he turned eighteen—I want my first tattoo to actually mean something.
And I sure as shit won't be getting it in the middle of a crowded, dirty music festival. Hell no.
“Salem, come on,” Arya huffs, pulling our bodies flush with her arms around my waist. “When was the last time you did anything in your life that wasn't well planned out and organized?”
“Got married in Vegas,” I snap with a glare.
She grins wide. “It’ll be fun! We can pick each other’s design so that your control-freak ass doesn't have to choose. And then after, we get shitfaced. Please?”
Dammit, there go the puppy dog eyes. She blinks those big, baby blues at me, and I totally get why Christian can’t tell her no.
“Fine,” I sigh, throwing my hands in the air. “One tattoo. Tiny and hidden. No dicks or weird shit.”
She squeals like I just proposed before tugging me over to the booth. A heavily tattooed woman with long dark hair and a corset dress gestures us forward. “You two in or just window shopping?”
“Definitely in,” Arya chirps.
The artist flips open a laminated sheet full of various designs. “These are what I'm inking for the festival. Black and white, or I can do color for fifty bucks extra.”
I study the sheet with pursed lips as Arya asks the artist some questions, not really liking anything on it. There's a pot leaf, a bandaged heart, and some pretty doves. A snake? Christian likes snakes. Arya isn't a fan. The vampire bat is badass but doesn't fit her personality at all. Ummm…
Arya snatches the book from my hands before I can look over the rest. “Time's up! You go first. I already picked for you.”
My stomach drops to my ass. “Wait, what do you mean you already picked? I wasn’t done—”
“Too late,” she sing-songs, shoving me forward.
I glance at the artist nervously, who just smiles and pats the vinyl seat like she’s done this dance a thousand times. “Scared?”
“No,” I lie, taking a seat even though my chest feels like it's closing in on my ribs. Arya bounces on the balls of her feet beside me, absolutely ecstatic.
“Where’s it going?” the artist asks.
Blowing out a breath, I pull my arm out of my flannel and point at the spot above my inner elbow. “That way, if it sucks, I can hide it with a shirt and shame.”
She just grins as she pulls on a pair of gloves, and I close my eyes while she preps the area and stencil.
Arya claps her hands excitedly when the outline is done. “You’re gonna love it. Promise.”
“That’s what you said about that mechanical bull in Kentucky.”
She giggles like I'm joking. “And look how fun that night was, right?”
“I threw up in Cowboy Harper’s boot.”
“God, he was so hot. Too bad he wasn't interested in sharing.”
The artist chuckles at that, but I groan when the buzz of a tattoo gun starts. The needle hits my skin, and I flinch, more from anticipation than pain. But as she begins to trace the outline, the sting feels… manageable. Almost like scratching a sun burn. Irritating, but nothing I can’t handle.
“So what's your name?” I ask if only to distract myself.
The artist glances up briefly. “Cedar.”
“Like the tree?”
“Like the tree,” she confirms with an unbothered smile.
I hum and reach for Arya’s hand to comfort myself. “I'm Salem. Not like the city, unfortunately. My mom was a huge Sabrina the Teenage Witch fan.”
Cedar grins as she dips the tattoo gun in a container of ink. “Black cats are cool.”
“Mine came from Game of Thrones,” Arya huffs. “The books, not the show. Daddy likes to read.”
I squint down at Cedar, keeping my eyes off the tattoo. “By Daddy, she means, like, her father. Not her… Daddy.”
The artist laughs and wipes excess ink from my skin. “Thanks for clarifying. You two here for any of the bands?”
“Technically, we're here for our stunt show,” I say, gazing up at the lights strung along the ceiling. “Twins of Terror. But yeah, we're also here to see some music. As Above and Symbiotic.”
With another smile, she nods. “I hope you enjoy the show. I'm almost finished here.”
Arya presses a kiss to my lips. “You’re never gonna guess what I picked.”
“Swear to God, if it’s a ball sack, I will kill you.”
“Relax,” Cedar snorts, wrapping my arm in plastic. “I wouldn't do that to you. Your girlfriend picked something lovely.”
“Oh, uh,” I frown, nearly correcting her, but then I decide to hell with it because why do I give a shit? “Yeah, totally. That's my girl. The sweetest ever.”
Sweetest pain in my ass.
Arya beams and tosses blonde waves over her shoulder. “I am quite the catch, honestly. Salem is lucky to have me.”
Cedar finishes taping the last corner of the wrap before patting my shoulder. “Alright, ready to see what you’re stuck with for eternity?”
“God, please tell me it’s not 'live, laugh, love' in cursive.”
She stands back to gesture at the floor-length mirror mounted on the side of the tent. “See for yourself.”
Sliding off the seat, my heart thuds in my chest as I step in front of my reflection and lift my arm. When my eyes land on the design, I freeze.
It’s an old-school Polaroid camera.
From its mouth, a photo slides out with a little sketch of the sun peeking above the horizon.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.
Arya watches me closely. “You hate it?”
I catch her stare in the mirror and thrash my head side to side. “No, I just… I wasn’t expecting something so nice. Is it a sunrise or sunset?”
“Up to you.” She wraps her arms around my waist tightly. “Whether it’s an ending or beginning, you get to decide. Your body, your choice.”
Cedar takes her time cleaning for the next tattoo, no doubt to give us some privacy. My eyes burn as I look at the tattoo again, suddenly breathless. For the first time in years, I feel like crying—the ugly kind, where your face turns splotchy and your head throbs from the effort.
I want to throw my fists at the walls, scream into the void, and demand answers from whatever powers that be for taking away my innocence. For forcing children to grow up too fast due to things beyond their control.
Arya gave me this gift, knowing about all the things I went through with my mom, all the piece of shit men that came in and out of our lives…
“You’re annoying,” I murmur, clearing my throat to hide how wrecked I feel inside. “And weirdly sentimental. Where is my bestie and what have you done with her?”
“I contain many layers,” she says cryptically. “You really like it, though?”
Meeting her gaze in the mirror once more, I hold it steady and thread my fingers with hers. “I love it. Really.”
More than I’m willing to admit.
“Alright, next victim,” Cedar calls.
Just like that, my friend is back, snapping out of this odd moment we shared as she skips over to the chair. “Whatever Salem picks, I'm getting it on my tit!”
“Of course you are,” I laugh, quickly wiping away a stray tear. “But I'm not as mushy as you. Next time Christian sucks on it, don't blame me when he gets upset.”
Her eyes narrow into slits. “What did you pick?”
I grin and hand the flash sheet to Cedar after whispering my idea in her ear. “You'll see.”
“Fine,” Arya grumbles dramatically. “As long as it's not a hairy butt crack, I don't care.”
“Maybe next time.”
Cedar pulls on her gloves as she gives me a co-conspirator wink. “Left or right tit?”
“Dealer’s choice!”
As the needle buzzes to life, I settle back into a folding chair and gaze down at my new tattoo, heart still aching. The boys are no doubt looking for us. I'm definitely missing tons of photo ops, but… right now, I don't care.
Drumbeats from the stage barely reach my ears, somehow muffled inside this tent. Arya pulls out her phone and hums off-key while Cedar focuses on the outline, and it feels so safe. Like we’ve stepped out of time. All of the chaos, the grief, the guilt, none of it can get us here.
I trace a finger lightly over my tender flesh, realizing what Arya just gave me.
A mark of survival. A badge of honor.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel like I have to be anyone but me.
I don’t have to be the boss bitch, or the ex-girlfriend with a chip on her shoulder, or the “ungrateful” daughter holding a grudge.
Just Salem.
For once, I'm going to sit back, watch ink settle into skin, and let someone else control what happens next.