Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Humans are eighty percent water. But not Declan. He’s one-hundred percent wind.
“Did he tell you what happened?” I ask.
“No. I think he punched a mirror or someone’s face.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “You’d think he’d wear it like a trophy, but he was acting like he wanted to bite me because I noticed.”
“You sure he’s gone?”
“Positive. He packed up and left when I got here at seven. Took that creepy duffel bag he always carries. The one that probably has a murder weapon or a severed head in it. I didn’t ask. I never ask.”
I push off the counter, scanning the space. My chair. My tools. Everything is still there.
“So,” I say, “you hiring?”
He snorts. “Technically, we’re always hiring because we’re the only tattoo shop in Sitka, and we’re always understaffed. I’m running solo here. Could really use the help. But you’re banned. So like… You’re banned but beloved? A legendary outlaw-type deal.”
“That’s fine. I’m not here to beg. I’m here to work.”
“Wolf—”
“Tell the camera I broke in. That way, you’re off the hook. I’ll take the back corner. Won’t touch clients unless they ask.”
He stares at me, torn between excitement and panic. “Jag’s gonna kill me.”
“Not if I kill him first.” I flash a grin. “Worst he can do is fire me again.”
“You’re trouble.”
“You say that like it’s not my entire brand.”
“Fine. Back corner still has your crap in it. But if he finds out I let you in—”
“I’m an outlaw, remember? Just doing outlaw things.”
I settle into my corner, surrounded by the aroma of ink, antiseptic, and fake leather. My little kingdom of creativity.
Everything is where I left it. My chair. My station. The worn stool I kick more times than I sit on. Even my rusty old lamp with the sticker that says DON’T TOUCH ME, I BITE.
Running my fingers along the edge of the workbench, I admire my machines. All lined up like soldiers waiting to be picked for battle. I spend hours here. Days. Nearly every day for the past six months.
Tattooing is the only time my brain shuts up. Dragging ink under someone’s skin feels like a holy ritual. Meditation with needles. Primal and permanent.
But even in my happy place, my mind won’t stop drifting to Dove.
I pull out my phone and start a chat.
Me:
I’m at work. Technically trespassing. Stepbro skipped town.
So did you get the job or what?
I brought snacks.
I’m out of apples. The fruit, not the tech company. Unless you want me to steal you a laptop. I’m flexible.
Ten minutes pass.
Me: Are you ghosting me already? That’s cold, mechanic girl.
Bluebird: Stop
Stop sending messages? Or stop being so damn charming?
I grin.
Me: Rude. But fair.
I set the phone down and crack my knuckles.
Time to sketch a new Disney princess. I’m thinking blue hair, grease-streaked cheekbones, boots too heavy to run in, and gilded eyes that know how to dismantle a man’s heart with a socket wrench.
I pull a sketchpad from under the table and start roughing her out in graphite. Gloves with the fingers cut off. Welding goggles slung around her neck like jewelry. A clockwork dove tattoo on her thigh that she inked herself with stolen parts and a homemade rig.
If she’s gonna haunt my thoughts, I might as well make her immortal.
I push open the door to the mechanic shop, the squeak of rusted hinges protesting my arrival.
The familiar scent of motor oil, gasoline, and worn tires fills my senses. Tools scatter across benches. Grease-covered rags drape over car parts. An air compressor hums softly in the corner.
Feels like home.
Two middle-aged men pause their work and stare at me, eyes wide, brows lifted, surprise painted on their sweat-slicked faces.
One leans against the hood of a battered Ford truck, a socket wrench hanging from his hand. If I had to guess, he’s the boss. He’s tall and broad, with thick black hair pulled into a low ponytail, and deep-set dark eyes that don’t miss a thing.
His features are strong and weathered, his expression impassive beneath a smear of engine grease. Inuit, no doubt, and someone used to commanding the room without speaking much.
The other man steps up behind him, wiping his fingers on a rag. He’s younger, maybe mid-forties, with ruddy cheeks, a beer belly under his flannel, and short-cropped sandy blond hair. His eyes narrow with skeptical amusement, like he’s seen enough of me to think he knows everything.
“You lost, sweetheart?” the Inuit man asks, his voice dripping with interest.
Not the kind of interest I’m hoping for.
My jaw hardens, but I keep my face neutral. “Are you the manager? I’m here for a job. Name’s Dove Rath.”
They exchange bewildered glances before the younger man chuckles.
“Honey,” the Inuit man says, attempting patience. “We aren’t hiring. Haven’t hired anyone in years.”
“I see that.” I direct my eyes around the cluttered shop. “Looks like you need a new hand—or two—around here.”