Chapter Eight
The Crew
Quinn
There are places in life where you feel like a guest. And then there are places where you somehow belong before you even realize it. House of Ink falls firmly into the second category.
Which is funny when you think about it. Because if you asked half the town about this place, they’d probably say it’s loud, chaotic, and full of troublemakers with needles.
They wouldn’t necessarily be wrong about the loud or chaotic part. But the rest? Not even close.
I sit cross-legged on the black leather couch near the front of the shop while Skye flips through a sketchbook beside me, humming along to whatever country song is playing through the speakers. I have my laptop open as I work on a branding design for a customer.
The shop is busy today. Tattoo machines buzz steadily in the background. Clients chat with artists while designs are drawn and stencils are applied. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, ink, and coffee. It’s weirdly comforting.
“Okay,” Skye says suddenly. “Be honest.”
“That’s always dangerous when you start a sentence like that.”
She ignores me. “Which one do you think is hotter?”
I glance down at the sketchbook she’s holding.
Instead of tattoo designs, it’s filled with random doodles she’s apparently been working on all morning.
On the left page is a cartoon drawing of Luke and on the right page is a cartoon drawing of Laine.
Both are exaggerated versions of the guys, complete with tattoos and overly muscular arms.
“Is this a trick question?” I ask.
“No.”
“Because if they see this, I’m pretty sure I’ll be banned from cupcake deliveries.”
“They’ll survive.”
I study the drawings. “Well,” I say carefully, “Alistair’s hair looks better in real life.”
Skye gasps. “Traitor.”
“I didn’t say Laine wasn’t attractive.”
“You hesitated,” she accuses.
“I was analyzing.”
“Same thing.”
I laugh softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Correct.”
She flips the page dramatically and starts sketching something else.
Across the shop Alistair glances over at us suspiciously. “Why are you two laughing?”
“Girl stuff,” Skye replies immediately.
Alistair makes a face. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is,” I confirm.
He shakes his head and goes back to the tattoo he’s working on.
For a few minutes we sit there quietly while Skye continues drawing before the bell above the door jingles and I glance up automatically.
I immediately feel that little flutter in my stomach again. Damien walks inside carrying a cardboard tray of coffee cups. He pauses just inside the doorway, scanning the shop like he always does when he first arrives and his eyes land on me.
His mouth curves into that small, almost shy smile. God. Why does that smile do that to me?
“Coffee delivery,” he announces.
“Hero!” Skye says, jumping off the couch instantly and she snatches the cup with her name from the tray.
“You’re my favorite Grey today.”
“I’m honored.”
Alistair walks over and grabs one, too. “About time,” he says. “I was about to start drinking tattoo ink.”
“Please don’t,” Damien replies calmly. “That would create a lot of paperwork.”
I laugh. That dry humor of his sneaks up on you every time. Damien hands me the last cup. “Figured you might want one.”
“Thank you.”
Our fingers brush briefly again. It’s a tiny contact, barely noticeable, but it still sends a strange little spark up my arm. Which is ridiculous.
I take a sip of the coffee to hide my reaction. It’s strong. Exactly how I like it.
“You remembered my order,” I say.
“You told me once.”
“That was weeks ago.”
He shrugs slightly. “I’m good with numbers.”
“That’s not a number.”
“It’s information.”
I shake my head, smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He sits down in the chair across from the couch while Skye disappears into the back to bother someone else. For a moment it’s just the two of us and comfortable silence settles between us.
I’ve noticed that happens a lot with Damien. There’s never that awkward pressure to keep talking. He just sits there quietly, sipping his coffee like he’s perfectly content existing in the same space.
It’s oddly relaxing.
“So,” I say eventually. “Busy morning?”
“Accounting emergency.”
“That sounds thrilling.” I pull a face and he chuckles.
“It was spreadsheets.”
“Even better.”
He smirks faintly. “Your sarcasm is noted.”
“I aim to please.”
I glance around the shop. The crew is scattered around their stations working. Clients chat and music plays. Everything feels easy, like the world has slowed down just enough for me to breathe.
“I like it here,” I say without thinking.
Damien glances up. “At the shop?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
I gesture vaguely around the room. “It feels ... real.”
“Real?”
“People laughing. Music playing. No one pretending to be something they’re not.”
His expression softens slightly. “That’s kind of the whole vibe.”
“I can see why.”
He studies me for a moment. “You don’t get that feeling other places?”
The question catches me off guard. “I mean ... sometimes.”
“But not always.”
I hesitate. Because suddenly this conversation feels like it’s drifting somewhere deeper than I intended. But Damien’s watching me with that calm, patient expression that makes it hard to dodge the truth.
“Some places feel like work,” I admit.
“Even when they’re supposed to be fun.”
“Yeah.”
He nods slowly. “That makes sense.”
I swirl my coffee thoughtfully. “You guys are like a family.”
“Most of us are related in some way. But when Laine started House of Ink, that was the goal. Somewhere people can work and just be themselves.”
“Most workplaces don’t feel like that.”
“We’ve also been through a lot together.”
I believe that. You can see it in the way they interact. The teasing. The loyalty. The easy trust between them.
Skye suddenly pops back around the corner. “Lunch break!” she announces.
Alistair groans from his booth. “Already?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been waiting for that moment all morning.”
“I regret nothing.”
She grabs her purse and turns to me. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Sandwiches.”
I glance at Damien and he shrugs. “Food is always a good idea.”
Ten minutes later we’re sitting at one of the picnic tables outside the shop with sandwiches and chips spread across the table. The sun is warm overhead and a light breeze drifts down the street. It’s one of those perfect small-town afternoons where everything feels peaceful.
Skye is in the middle of telling some ridiculous story about a customer who fainted during a tattoo when something she says makes me laugh harder than I expected.
Like really laugh. The kind where you have to lean forward because your stomach hurts. For a moment I forget everything. Emette. The grocery store. The word stupid.
All of it disappears.
I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye and look up. And that’s when I notice Damien watching me. Not in a creepy way.
More like he’s memorizing the moment.
There’s something soft in his expression. Something warm.
“I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a long time,” he says quietly.
The words surprise me. “What?”
He shrugs slightly. “You look happier.”
I blink. Because now that he says it ... he might be right.
Something about sitting here with these people, this strange, wonderful crew of tattoo artists and supposed troublemakers, makes the world feel lighter. Easier. Like I can actually relax.
“You guys are good for my mental health,” I say.
Skye grins. “We have that effect on people.”
Alistair nods solemnly. “It’s the cupcakes.”
“Definitely the cupcakes,” she agrees with a nod.
Damien doesn’t say anything else. But when I glance at him again a few minutes later he’s still smiling, and for some reason that small, quiet smile feels like the safest place in the world.