Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
ryder
The truck roars when I press the accelerator a little too hard, but the familiar rumble does little to calm my nerves.
I glance in the rearview mirror as Noia’s cottage grows smaller behind me, guilt twisting in my gut. Leaving her home alone feels wrong somehow, like I’m abandoning her.
My chest aches at the memory of the look on her face before I left. I could’ve asked her to come with me, but I know this is something I need to do on my own. Not just for me, but for our story to progress in the right direction.
Taking the road that winds through dense forest, opens up to reveal a small lakeside town. The ‘Welcome to Lakeside’ sign flashes by as I take the exit.
Quaint storefronts and café’s line Main Street, with people strolling the sidewalks enjoying the morning sun. It all looks so normal, so real.
But what if I’m not? What if I walk into my shop and no one recognizes me?
My palms start to sweat.
Fuck, I’ve faced gunfire and IEDs with less anxiety than I’m feeling about what I’m about to do.
“Get it together, Blackwood.”
According to the GPS on my phone—another item that conveniently materialized in my room—Skin & Ink is located just off Main Street, sandwiched between a coffee shop and a vintage record store.
As I drive through town, things start to look vaguely familiar. It’s like having the strangest case of déjà vu.
I approach the address, slowing my truck down to a crawl as a storefront with a black awning and bold red letters that reads “Skin & Ink” in gothic script comes into view. My heart pounds as I back the truck up into a parking spot across the street.
The building looks exactly like I remember. Can I really call these fragmented flashes memories, though? With its red brick facade, the building’s large windows display different styles of artwork and a flashing neon OPEN sign.
I sit, staring in disbelief as my hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. I can see movement inside. People. Real people who supposedly know me.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, killing the engine.
The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, and the familiar scent of antiseptic, ink, and leather hits me smack in the face.
The walls are covered with flash art—skulls, roses, pin-ups, and intricate Celtic knots.
There’s a counter display full of jewelry and aftercare products, and the steady buzz of tattoo machines fills the air.
“Ryder! There you are, man,” a deep male voice calls out.
I turn and see a guy about my age with a full sleeve of tattoos on each arm and gauged ears grinning at me like we’ve known each other for years standing behind the counter. My mind scrambles, and then—like a key freeing a lock—recognition clicks solidly into place.
“Jax.” The name falls from my lips without a thought. “Sorry I’m late.”
Jax Riley is my business partner and best friend. He’s not only the guy who taught me how to clean a tattoo machine, but the one who got my name tattooed on his ass after losing a drunken bet.
“No worries, brother. Your client’s already here. She’s in the back with Lizzy, filling out paperwork.” He tosses me a binder. “Here’s the final design you worked up for her dragon sleeve. Fucking sick, by the way.”
I catch it and flip it open. Detailed sketches of a Japanese-style dragon designed to wind from shoulder to wrist jump out at me from the page.
Not only do I recognize the sketch as mine, but my handwriting with abbreviations about shading and color—notes only I know how to interpret—line the margins.
“Yeah, thanks.”
This is beyond fucking weird.
He cocks his head and studies me. “You don’t look so good. Late night?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, glancing around.
The shop is exactly as I remember.
Leather couches sit in the waiting area, with framed photos displaying our best pieces gracing the wall behind them. A row of stations for the other artists’ are along the wall to the right.
It’s all so familiar, yet I’ve never actually been here before. At least, not in any reality I know of.
Jax claps me on the shoulder. “You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Dude. You have no fucking idea.
“Just... didn’t sleep much,” I manage, which isn’t entirely a lie.
“When do you ever?” He laughs, turning to help a customer looking at display jewelry before he turns back to me. “Let me guess. Another nightmare?”
The casual way he asks tells me he knows about my PTSD and night terrors. The cold sweats that sometimes leave me gasping for air at three a.m.
“Oh, and Claire called. Said she’s bringing lunch for everyone around one.”
Claire. The name hits me like a punch to the gut.
Suddenly, I can see her in my mind—tall, with short purple hair and tattoos sleeved down one arm.
A few years older than me, she’s the one who gave me my first real job after I was discharged from the Marines.
The woman who believed in me when no one else did, now manages my shop.
He brushes off my silence by clearing his throat.
“So… Your station’s all set up. I cleaned your machines this morning since you were running late.” He tosses me a set of keys. “You left these in the back room again.”
Snatching them out of the air, I turn them over in my hand. They’re different than the ones that appeared last night.
“Thanks.”
As I walk toward the back, it feels like I’m in a dream. Muscle memory guides me past the reception area, over to where multiple tattooing stations are set up. Each one is spotless, with different artwork and personal touches, making them unique to the artists that work there.
I pass two other artists working on clients who smile and nod.
The station in the far corner has my name etched on a small plaque.
The walls surrounding it are covered with both dark and colorful, intricate designs—all of them mine.
A framed Marines emblem hangs next to a worn Megadeath poster, and a small desk holds a sketchpad, various pens, and a black coffee mug with Fuck Off printed in blue on the side.
“There he is,” a bright female voice calls out.
When I turn around, a petite woman sporting long black hair with blue tips and colorful tattoos covering almost every visible inch of skin is standing behind me smiling.
“Hey, Lizzy,” I nod as more memories start clicking into place. Lizzy Cade was my first hire and is the best portrait artist in the county. She loves whiskey and has a pet iguana named Slash.
“This is Allie.” She gestures to a woman with long blond hair, who looks nervous, standing beside her. “She’s ready for you. Oh. And I got her paperwork sorted for you, too.”
“Thanks, Liz,” I say as she walks away.
Stepping forward with a shy smile, Allie holds out her hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this for months,” she says, smiling shyly. “Ever since I saw your work at the tattoo convention in Denver.”
Denver? I’ve never been to Denver. Except... Flashes of memories from that weekend suddenly flood my mind.
Jesus. This is starting to get disorienting.
“Good to see you again,” I say, taking her hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “Ready to get started?”
She nods enthusiastically and follows me over to my station, where I signal for her to have a seat.
Everything feels surreal as I adjust the height of my stool. I set up my equipment, prepare the stencil, and mix the ink.
When I remove the stencil from Allie’s arm, she grins in the mirror. “It’s perfect. Exactly how I imagined it.”
“Great. Then let’s get started.”
The moment my needle touches her skin, everything fades away. The buzzing of the machine is like meditation, and I lose myself in the rhythm of doing line work. The outline of the dragon slowly begins to take shape—scales and claws emerging from her skin like they were always meant to be there.
A couple of hours go by, but it feels like minutes. My back aches from hunching over, but I barely notice. Creating art on a living canvas feels right, like it’s a part of me.
“Hey, Ride. Got your favorite.”
Claire’s nickname for me hits me with a case of nostalgia, and I grin up at her.
Her purple hair is streaked with silver at the temples, and she’s holding a paper bag that smells like heaven. She seems older than I remember. Her laugh lines are a little deeper and she has a nose piercing she didn’t have before.
“Hey, Cee Cee.” I sit up straight to stretch my back.
“Lunchtime, folks,” she announces, setting down the bags of food on the break table. “I got those protein wraps you like, Ride.”
I wipe my brow with the back of my arm. “Thanks. Almost finished.”
Claire winks at Allie. “He gets like this—too focused for his own good. You doing okay, honey? He treating you right?”
Allie nods enthusiastically. “It hurts a lot less than I thought it would.”
“That’s because he’s one of the best,” Claire says with unmistakable pride in her voice. “Other than me, of course. I taught him everything he knows.”
“Except humility,” I mutter at Allie’s arm as Claire’s laugh rings through the shop.
“Never claimed to have that,” she retorts, ruffling my hair as she passes. “Food’s getting cold, ya’ll. Wrap it up.”
I finish the last scale I’m working on and sit back to admire my work. The outline of the dragon is complete, with some preliminary shading along the spine. It’s good—better than good. It’s exactly what I envisioned when I designed it.
“We need to stop here for today,” I say, wiping away the excess ink. “How do you feel?”
“Like I could keep going,” she answers. But the slight tremor in her hand tells me she’s reached her limit.
“First session’s always the hardest,” I say, applying some protection cream to the fresh tattoo. “We’ve got three more sessions before it’ll be complete. Just remember, this is a marathon, not a sprint, okay?”
She nods as she examines her arm in the mirror, eyes wide with excitement. “It’s already so bad ass. I can’t wait to see it when it’s finished.”
After she leaves, I pull out my phone to see a text from Noia asking how everything is going. I text her back to give her an update and shove it back into my pocket.
A few minutes later, with my lunch wrap halfway to my mouth, I get an alert.
KITTEN: That’s incredible. How do you feel?
Not ready to talk about it yet, I go with blunt.
ME: Better than expected. Gotta go. TTYL
Finished with lunch, I toss the wrapper in the trash and wipe my hands on my jeans.
“I’m going to head upstairs for a bit,” I tell Jax, who’s sitting at the front counter sketching.
He barely looks up. “Sure, man. Your two o’clock cancelled and your next appointment’s not until four.”
My two o’clock was Noia. I grin and shake my head.
I grab my jacket and head toward the back of the shop where a narrow staircase leads to the second floor, my heart pounding nervously against my ribs as I climb.
Sliding the key into the lock, I open the door, and step inside.
The apartment is completely empty. There’s no furniture, not even a light bulb in the ceiling fixture—just white walls and the afternoon sun streaking through uncovered windows across bare scuffed hardwood floors.
“What the hell?” I mutter, my voice a lonely echo in the vacant space.
I take my time walking through each room. There’s a living area that connects to a small kitchen, a bathroom with a decent-sized shower, toilet and sink, and a bedroom with built-in closets standing open and empty.
Running my hand along the wall, I test the texture of the paint beneath my fingertips. It’s real. The apartment exists, but for some reason it’s not furnished or lived in.
And then it hits me—maybe it’s not time yet. Maybe, like everything else that has been randomly materializing around me, it’ll show up when I need it.
I lean against the window frame and look down at the street below, watching the people going about their normal lives, completely unaware of my existential crisis happening two stories above them.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
KITTEN: Okay, it’s later. How is your day going?
My heart skips.
ME: Checked out my apartment above the shop, but it’s empty.
The dots dance as she types.
KITTEN: Are you okay?
ME: I guess. Seems I’m only getting pieces of this life as I need them.
KITTEN: Makes sense.
I feel another flash of guilt when I remember my promise we’d do something every day to help with inspiration.
Then I have an idea. I wasn’t planning on doing this date yet, but I think it’s the right time.
ME: Hey. I’m gonna need you to be dressed up and ready for our blind date tonight when I get home.
KITTEN: Blind date?
ME: Yup. You got a red dress?
The dots appear and disappear several times before her reply comes through.
KITTEN: I think so… Why red?
I can almost hear the skepticism as I read her words, and it makes me chuckle.
ME: Because I know you’ll look fucking hot in it, that’s why. I’ll text you when I’m on my way home with further instructions.
KITTEN: You’re getting bossier by the day.
“Oh, kitten,” I murmur to myself. “You have no idea.”
With a Cheshire grin, I pocket my phone and take one last look around the empty space. I guess I’ll know when the time is right to check again.
Locking the door behind me, I head back downstairs.
Claire catches my eye as I reach the bottom. “Everything okay up there?”
My voice sounds overly incredulous when I answer, “Of course.”
She studies my face with the same penetrating gaze she’s always used that tells me she sees through my bullshit. “You seem off today. Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not really,” I shrug. “Just got some personal shit that came up I’m trying to figure out. I’m good.”
Seeing the look in her eye, I brace myself for what I suddenly know is coming. She steps forward and wraps her arms around me, giving me a squeeze.
Man, the woman is strong.
“You know I’m always here if you need to talk.”
“I know. Thanks, Cee Cee.”