Chapter Three
Old Ghosts
Damien
There are two kinds of memories. The ones you look back on with a smile and the ones that crawl out of the dark when you least expect it and remind you exactly who you used to be.
Tonight? It’s the second kind.
I pull my truck into the gravel lot behind House of Ink and sit there for a moment longer than necessary, staring through the windshield at the back door of the shop.
The engine ticks as it cools and somewhere down the street a dog barks. And my brain, traitorous bastard that it is, keeps replaying a scene from the Magnolia Room over and over like a broken record.
Quinn sitting at that table. Her shoulders pulled slightly inward. The way she smiled when I waved. The way Emette Black looked at her like she was something mildly annoying he had to tolerate.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I shouldn’t care. It’s none of my business. She’s his girlfriend.
End of story.
Except ...old habits die hard.
And every time I see Emette Black, my brain drags me straight back to a version of myself I spent years trying to bury.
I finally kill the engine and climb out of the truck.
The night air is warm, thick with the scent of asphalt and honeysuckle drifting from somewhere down the block.
Franklinton isn’t exactly a bustling city after dark.
Most of the shops on Main Street closed hours ago, leaving the town wrapped in that quiet Southern stillness.
House of Ink is one of the few places that stays open late.
The front windows glow with warm light, illuminating the graffiti-style mural painted across the brick exterior. Even from the back parking lot I can hear faint music drifting through the walls. Someone’s still working.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans and head inside. The moment I step through the back door, the familiar hum of tattoo machines greets me. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
It’s a sound that used to make me nervous the first time I heard it. Now it’s just background noise.
Luke is in one of the booths finishing up a piece on a client’s forearm, his brow furrowed in concentration. Across the shop, Alistair is cleaning his station while Skye sits on the counter swinging her legs with her hand on her very pregnant belly, like she’s got nowhere better to be.
Which, knowing Skye, is probably true.
“Look who finally decided to join the living,” she says when she spots me.
I lift a hand in greeting. “Had errands.”
“Magnolia Room errands?” she asks innocently.
I stop mid-step. “How did you...”
“Laine went to pick up food earlier,” she says, grinning. “Said he saw you there.”
Of course he did. Nothing happens in this town without at least three people hearing about it within the hour.
“Takeout,” I say simply.
Skye tilts her head, studying me like a suspicious cat. “Mm-hmm.”
I ignore her and head upstairs toward the small office space where I keep my laptop and paperwork. But before I make it two steps, Laine’s voice cuts across the shop.
“You look like you swallowed a cactus.”
I glance over. My older brother leans against the wall near his booth, arms crossed over his tattooed chest. Laine Grey has always had this irritating ability to read people like open books. Especially me.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Sure you are.” He jerks his chin toward the stairway leading to my office. “Walk with me.”
It’s not a suggestion. I sigh internally but follow him anyway.
Laine pushes open the office door and steps inside, flipping on the overhead light. The small room fills with a soft glow that reflects off the stacks of paperwork covering my desk.
He leans against the doorframe while I sit in my usual chair. “Well?” he says.
“Well what?”
“What happened at the Magnolia Room?”
I stare at him. “Are you spying on me now?”
“No,” he says calmly. “But you look like someone ran over your dog.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“And accurate.”
I rub the back of my neck. For a second I consider brushing it off. Pretending everything’s fine. But something about the quiet honesty in Laine’s expression makes the words slip out before I can stop them.
“Quinn was there.”
Laine’s eyebrows lift slightly. “With Emette?”
“Yeah.”
He nods slowly like that confirms something he already suspected. “And?”
“And nothing.”
“Damien.”
I sigh. “He was being an asshole.”
Laine huffs a quiet laugh. “Breaking news.”
“I mean it,” I say, irritation creeping into my voice. “He was criticizing her the whole time. Her hair. Her friends. The shop.”
Laine’s expression darkens slightly. “He say something about us?”
“Not directly.”
“But the implication was there.”
Silence settles between us for a moment before Laine pushes away from the doorframe and walks further into the room.
“You remember sophomore year?” he asks suddenly.
My stomach tightens. Of course I do.
“Which part?” I say dryly.
“The locker room.”
Ah. That part. My jaw clenches. Funny how memories work. Some moments fade into nothing while others stay sharp as broken glass no matter how many years pass.
Sophomore year, Franklinton High. I was sixteen and awkward. The kind of kid teachers loved and everyone else ignored. Or worse.
My brain drags me back there whether I want it to or not. The smell of sweat and cheap deodorant in the locker room. Metal lockers slamming shut. Laughter echoing off tile walls.
I remember kneeling on the floor trying to gather the books that had just been knocked from my hands. My algebra textbook. A notebook. A pencil rolling away across the tile.
And above me ... laughter.
“Watch where you’re going, Grey.” Emette Black. Quarterback and golden boy. King of the damn school.
I didn’t even look up. I just kept picking up my books. That was the trick back then. Don’t react. Don’t engage. Maybe they’ll get bored.
Except Emette never got bored.
A sneaker slammed down on my notebook, pinning it to the floor. “Hey,” he said.
I froze. Slowly ... reluctantly ... I lifted my gaze. He stood there with three of his teammates behind him. All of them smiling. The kind of smiles that promised nothing good.
“Say excuse me,” he said.
My throat felt tight. “I didn’t bump into you.”
His smile widened. “Wrong answer.”
The next thing I knew, someone shoved me from behind. My shoulder slammed into the locker hard enough to rattle my teeth and more laughter followed.
“Man, this kid’s like a scarecrow,” one of them said. “Bet the wind could knock him over.”
“Maybe he just needs a little help.”
Hands grabbed my backpack. My books. Someone tossed my notebook down the hallway like a football. I distinctly remember the heat crawling up my neck. The humiliation. The anger.
But mostly? The helplessness. Because there were four of them and one of me.
Eventually a coach walked in and they scattered like nothing happened, leaving me alone on the floor with my scattered books and my pride in pieces.
Laine’s voice pulls me back to the present. “You were never the same after that,” he says quietly.
I stare at the desk. “High school sucked.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
I shrug. “It’s over.”
But even as I say it, the truth sits heavy in my chest. Because seeing Emette tonight, hearing the way he talked about Quinn, dragged that old feeling right back to the surface.
Laine studies me for a moment longer before speaking again. “You know he avoids you now.”
“I noticed.”
Emette hasn’t looked me in the eye in years. Not since the first time he saw me after I came back from college. Twenty pounds of muscle heavier and definitely not the skinny kid he used to shove into lockers.
“Bullies hate it when their targets stop looking like targets,” Laine says.
“Poetic.”
“True.” He pauses before he adds quietly, “You like her.”
It’s not a question. My heart stutters once in my chest. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I rub my face with both hands. “This is pointless.”
“Why?” He tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to look inside my brain.
“Because she has a boyfriend.”
“That didn’t stop you from noticing.” There is barely constrained laughter in his voice.
I drop my hands and glare at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
I shake my head. “She deserves better than him.”
Laine’s expression softens slightly. “Probably.”
“But that’s not my call to make.”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t stop you from wanting to.”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is ... he’s right. I want to step in. I want to tell her she deserves someone who doesn’t criticize her for baking cupcakes or hanging out with friends. Someone who actually appreciates the way she lights up a room. Someone who sees her.
But I won’t. Because Quinn Thomas isn’t mine.
And no matter how much I might want that to change someday, I’m not the kind of man who steals another guy’s girl.
Even if that guy is Emette Black. Even if part of me still wants to punch him in the face for every locker room humiliation he ever handed out.
Laine pushes off the desk. “Well,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “At least you’ve got cupcakes.”
I snort. “Silver lining.”
He heads toward the door but just before he leaves, he pauses. “Careful, kid.”
I look up. “With what?”
He gives me a knowing smile. “Feelings have a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect them.”
Then he disappears back into the shop, leaving me alone in the quiet office with a head full of numbers. And one very inconvenient thought.
Quinn Thomas deserves better than the man she’s dating. And sooner or later someone’s going to tell her that.
The real question is, will it be me?