Chapter 3
KNIGHT
I’ve scrubbed the same spot on the counter five times now.
It’s already clean. Has been since before I started. But my hands need something to do, somewhere to go that isn’t reaching for my phone to check if she’s texted.
She hasn’t. Why would she? I’m the guy who made her cry.
I scrub harder.
“You’re gonna wear a hole through the laminate.”
Carmine appears at my elbow, holding two mugs of coffee. He sets one down next to my cleaning supplies and takes a long sip from his own, watching me closely.
I grunt and keep scrubbing. The motion is almost meditative, if you believe in that shit. Scrub, rinse, wring, repeat. As long as my hands are moving, I don’t have to think about the way her fingers trembled against mine.
She made my heart open, and it hasn’t closed since. I’m terrified of how raw and vulnerable I feel.
“So.” Carmine leans against the counter, settling in like he’s got all day. “The girl tapped out, huh?”
My jaw tightens. “She’ll be back.”
“You sure about that? She looked pretty shook up.” He scratches his beard.
“She’ll be back,” I repeat, throwing the rag into the bucket harder than necessary, making water splash onto the floor. “That design means something to her.”
He takes another sip. “Do you give all your clients your personal number? Because don’t think I didn’t see that.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck, the warning in his voice clear. I grab a fresh rag and start wiping down the chair—my chair, the one she sat in.
“For aftercare questions,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
“Right,” Carmine draws out the word, vowel stretching into something that sounds a lot like bullshit. “Because she couldn’t call and talk to one of us. I’m sure you give all clients your personal number. Especially the pretty ones with big blue eyes who look at you like—”
“Carmine.”
“Just saying.” He holds up his hands. “I’ve known you eight years. Never seen you do that before, including for the hot babes you’ve had in your chair.”
He’s not wrong. I don’t have a good answer for that.
My hands keep moving over the leather, but I’m not really cleaning anymore.
I’m remembering the way her eyes went soft when I told her there was no shame in quitting.
She had been looking at me like she thought I’d be mad at her, but how could I be?
Getting a tattoo can be intense, and some people get scared of the needle or the pain.
There’s no shame in that. The guys and I joke about it, but when it comes down to it, the client is the most important priority, and if the client wants to quit, we quit. Respect is important.
Carmine sighs, and when I glance over, his expression has shifted. The teasing is gone, replaced by something that looks uncomfortably like concern.
“Look, I’m not trying to bust your balls.” His voice is quieter now. Serious. “But you’ve been hiding behind that grumpy bastard act for years. Something happened to you while she was here, and you need to figure that shit out.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Brother.” He laughs. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I stop pretending to clean. Just stand there, rag clenched in my fist, staring at the chair where she sat yesterday. Where she pulled her collar aside and showed me her skin, trusting me to mark her with something permanent.
I’ve never told anyone about the Purrfect Kitten designs—not Clancy, not the other guys here, not my buddy Zane, not a single fucking soul.
Anonymity is the whole point. Behind a screen name and a faceless brand, I can be vulnerable.
I can be the person Grandma Rose saw when she looked at me, not the problematic foster kid everyone else expected to be a disappointment.
In my heart, I know that Carmine’s right. I am hiding.
And yesterday, for the first time in years, someone looked at me and made me want to open up to them.
“I’m fine,” I say finally. The words sound hollow even to me.
Carmine snorts. “Sure you are.” He claps me on the shoulder as he heads toward the front, coffee mug in hand.
I flip him off without turning around.
I should be sleeping. Instead, I’m sketching a new design on a blank canvas.
My apartment would look empty if it weren’t for the canvases.
They’re everywhere. Leaning against walls, stacked three deep in some places, propped on every flat surface. All of them variations on the same theme: cats with paws crossed in front of them, eyes expressing feelings I’ve never been able to say out loud.
The kitten tonight is soft, vulnerable, paws crossed in the familiar heart shape. But something’s different about this one. There are tiny glasses perched on the kitten’s nose.
Like a librarian would wear.
I throw the pencil down.
“Damn it.”
On the mantle, Grandma Rose smiles at me from her silver frame. She’s wearing the cat sweater she wore every Sunday while she made pancakes. I was sixteen when that photo was taken. Angry, scared, certain the universe had given up on me.
You’re just right, she used to say, pressing her weathered hand over her heart. Just exactly right, my Billy.
My throat tightens. I haven’t been Billy in years.
I left that name behind the day I aged out of the system.
I left behind everything that reminded me of being unwanted.
Except for my time with Grandma Rose, Billy was unwanted.
Every soft, scared, hopeful part of my heart that I’ve learned to hide? That all goes into these designs.
And now some stranger is walking around with my heart half-inked on her collarbone.
Daisy.
I shouldn’t be standing here painting kittens that look like her.
My phone buzzes. I freeze mid-brushstroke, heart lurching—then force myself to walk calmly across the room. It’s not her. It won’t be her. No way I could be that damn lucky.
Zane: Hitting up Joe’s tonight. You in? Wingman duties required.
I stare at the message. Joe’s Bar is Zane’s favorite hunting ground—dim lights, good music, plenty of women who don’t mind a charming smile and empty promises.
Most nights, I don’t mind tagging along, nursing a beer in the corner while Zane works his magic.
It’s not like he even needs a wingman, but it gets me out of the house, and sometimes that’s all I need.
But tonight. Tonight, the thought of watching him flirt with strangers while I can’t stop thinking about Daisy and the soft gasp she made when the needle first touched her skin...
Knight: Pass.
Zane: Third time this month. You dying or something?
Knight: Or something.
Zane: Dude. You need to get fucking laid.
Knight: Thanks for the insight.
Zane: I’m serious. You’re wasting away. Come have some fun.
I toss the phone onto the couch without responding. Fun. As if that’s what I want. As if anything about this feeling could be called fun.
The painting stares at me, blue eyes soft behind tiny glasses. I didn’t mean to paint her. But here I am, hooked on a woman I barely met.
A woman who would probably run away screaming if she knew the real me.
But if she knew that the gruff tattoo artist who made her cry was the same person who created the design she loved enough to permanently mark on her skin—what would she think?
If she knew the real you, she’d leave. Everyone always leaves.
I grab my phone again before I can stop myself. Open Instagram. Type her name into the search bar, and there she is. Third result. Daisy Bowles. The profile picture is her laughing, hair windblown, cat earrings catching the light.
Her feed is exactly what I’d expect. Pictures from a local animal shelter, where she volunteers every Tuesday and Saturday.
Her in a volunteer T-shirt, her arms holding several kittens, one shot of her laughing while a tabby perches on her shoulder.
She looks free and joyously happy in the shelter pictures, and my heart yearns for that kind of joy.
There are pictures of her with stacks of children’s books.
And there, a screenshot of my art. She’s captioned it: Finally doing something just for me.
My heart thumps in my chest. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a share of my art on Instagram, but this is different. I’ve never cared about why anyone likes my art, but I care about Daisy.
I open a direct message. I stare at the blinking cursor, not sure what to say.
How’s the tattoo healing?
Four words. That’s all it would take. Four words. Maybe she’d respond. Maybe we’d talk. Maybe I’d find out if she’s been thinking about me too—
I delete the message.
Type it again.
Delete it again.
“Pathetic,” I mutter, throwing the phone onto the couch. I didn’t even follow her.
The kitten on the canvas watches me with Daisy’s eyes. Warm and hopeful.
I wonder if she thinks about me at all.
I should stop painting kittens with librarian glasses, and go to bed, but I’m too wired.
The night stretches on, silent except for the whisper of bristles against canvas. By the time gray light seeps through my windows, I’ve finished three more pieces. Each one has softer eyes than the last. Each has paws crossed in a heart shape, each cat holding on and hoping.
Just like me.