Page 15 of Make Me Dream of You

Soon.

Soon-ish.

I sincerely enjoy talking with him. Hell, half the time we chat—we don’t even touch the topic of sex. Don’t get me wrong, he’s fun to sext with, too. But we talk about so many things, struggles and fears and wishes and dreams that it feels like I know him on a deeper level. I genuinely consider him a friend.

He seems lonely, too.

His profile says he’s twenty-six, but for all I know, he could be a forty-year-old dude living in his mom’s basement.

I don’t really care about that, though. He’s a good person. And it doesn’t really matter.

It’s not like I’m ever going to meet him in real life.

I’ve spent all week at the bar during the day, the “boring hours,” as Bex refers to them, she and Riley switching off training me. And even though I’ve only worked the slow times, it’s still kicking my ass.

Tomorrow night I’ll be on my own with the chaotic Saturday night crowd. But tonight, I have off, and I have other plans.

I put away the list of standard cocktail and bar specialty drink recipes I’m supposed to have memorized and open my sketchbook instead.

I’ve been working on this charcoal drawing of angel wings all week and I finally got the vibe just right. There’s a soft and ethereal quality to it, but the wings are also dynamic, almost like they’re in motion. I hope it’s good enough.

The sky hovers somewhere between blue and black, the lights of downtown Seattle just coming to life. I stand in front of the door, the open sign glowing neon pink in the almost dark. To the right is the bar and to the left is a coffee shop, all the lights off and chairs up on the tables for the night.

You can do this.

I push the door to Black Ink, Inc., except it’s a pull. Shit. Okay, regroup. Hopefully no one saw that.

I pull open the door the Black Ink, Inc., my insides a jittery mess, my sketchbook tucked under my arm.

As soon as I do, a bell attached to the door rattles, the ringing echoing through the space.

The shop is bigger than I expected—not that I have anything to compare it to. The back wall is weathered red and brown brick. The side walls are all black, covered in white chalk drawings and words. There are giant, industrial-sized metal light fixtures hanging from the ceiling and each station is separated with metal and glass hanging screens.

There are people in a few of the stations, the buzzing of tattoo guns drowning out the sound of the music playing overhead.

A woman looks up from behind a counter as I walk in. She has black hair except for two bright blue streaks around her face, a septum piercing, and thick, black winged eyeliner.

I walk past a large black leather couch toward her. “Hi.”

She blinks. “Do you have an appointment?”

Fuck. Did I need an appointment?

“No.”

She sighs. “Take a seat. I’ll see if anyone has time to take a walk-in.”

“Oh, thank you. I was actually wondering if Noah was available.”

“Noah.” She looks at me with half-lidded eyes and pursed lips.

“Yes?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s almost impossible to get an appointment with the owner. He has a year-long waitlist.”

Noah’s the owner?

“Oh.” Something inside me deflates but I try to keep an easygoing smile on my face. “I guess put me on his waitlist, then.”

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