Page 1 of Ink

Chapter One

Lydia

I stare out the display window beside me, looking beyond the painted name, ‘Nichol’s Hardware.’ This hardware store is about as Rugged Mountain as it can get. Owned by most of the figureheads in our town, it needs to be ready to serve its small community. So, we sell everything from paint trays to kitchen gadgets, sunscreen to potting soil, car parts to key chain flashlights.

The chime of a bell on the front door distracts me from watching the foot traffic on the sidewalk. There wasn’t much of it anyway, but I take what entertainment I can get, especially if it gets me away from grading these school papers.

“Welcome in!”

The man grunts a reply and heads to the back toward the fertilizer. I’ve seen him in here a lot lately, but I don’t recognize him around town. He’s on the short side, bald, and has a face covered in weird devil tattoos. Don’t get me wrong, I love tattoos, but devil tattoos… on your face?

I hate being judgmental, but that’s a weird story to tell people. I mean, for the rest of your life, are you telling everyone you meet that you love the devil? Or you are the devil? Either way, I’m confused.

I yawn and stare down at the stack of papers that need correcting. I love being a teacher. The kids are incredible, and the reward far outweighs the fact that I get paid next to nothing. That said, my bank account is crying. I thought part time work at the hardware store would help, but it’s not really making a dent considering all the changes coming up soon.

The devil faced man tosses a bag of fertilizer and a small tank of camping propane up onto the counter without a word.

As a cashier, I’m always interested in the purchases people make. I guess it keeps me entertained. We had this one guy come in last week for a handful of bulk nails and mosquito coils. What the hell was he going to do with nails and mosquito coils? Another lady came in for bleach and trash bags. I, of course, made up a story in my head about how she’d murdered her husband and was cleaning up the crime scene.

I don’t know what story fertilizer and propane tells, but judging by the devil face tattoos, I’m guessing it’s something fucked up. I should really work on not judging people. Maybe this nice man is going to take the bags of fertilizer up to his cabin, grow a garden, and then cook some hot dogs. Who knows?

The man pays in cash, tosses the bag of shit over his shoulder, hooks the propane tank onto his hand, and kicks the front door open with his boot, rattling the bell as he walks away.

Ugh… now everything smells like fertilizer. That, or these pregnancy hormones are doing the super scent thing again. I always thought women were bullshitting when they said they had super senses when they were pregnant, but it’s a real thing. I can smell what kind of pie they’re making at the diner today and we’re at least a thousand feet away from the place.

I grab a freshener spray from under the counter and spritz a few sprays over my workspace, hoping to dissipate the smell, but it’s everywhere, and my gag reflex is fighting me. I scan the area for anything to work with, but there’s nothing. There’s just a few random candy bars and a tiny bottle of liquor.

I don’t think that’s helping me right now.

My mouth waters like I’m about to lose my dinner and I race toward the bathroom in the back, holding my hair up as I heave into the public toilet. I have to say, this has never happened before, and I don’t care for it. I stare into the stained toilet bowl and my stomach turns harder, forcing more vomit. The more I vomit, the more I vomit. It’s a cycle of head pounding awfulness.

“Are you okay?” a deep voice calls from behind me.

“Oh my God! Whoever you are, please go away!”

I heave into the bowl, holding my stomach with one arm, my hair with the other.

The man’s boots click closer and his giant hand lands on my back. He pulls a few paper towels from the dispenser on the wall and wipes my face between heaves.

What the hell is happening? Is this who I am now? The thirty-five-year-old woman who heaves into public toilets while strangers wipe her face? This wasn’t on my bucket list.

“You’re okay.” He rubs my back and takes over holding my hair.

This shock seems to stop my stomach from embarrassing me. I stand up straight and cover my face as I waddle sideways toward the paper towels to wipe my nose and fix my makeup. But when I look in the mirror, I realize quickly a paper towel isn’t the magic wand I was hoping for. Currently, I look like the woman who’s been heaving into a public toilet.

Yay!

I drag in a deep breath and turn, hoping this man with the big hands isn’t who I think it is.

Except… he is.

Ink is a six-foot five monster of a man. He wears jeans, a black t-shirt, and his MC cut. They call him Ink because the man is covered from head to toe. I don’t see any devils, but I’m sure there’s one somewhere. I can’t imagine he doesn’t have one of everything. Symbols line the sides of his face and there’s something over the top of his eyebrow I don’t understand. I think it’s Latin. I never thought I’d be the girl attracted to a bad boy with neck tattoos, but here I am, being attracted to the bad boy with neck tattoos.

“Jesus, Bunny. You gonna be okay?” His tone is low, and his gaze is narrowed as though he’s concerned. He can be concerned, but that sound of him calling me bunny sends all the blood surging in my head down south. He’s referred to me as Bunny the last few times we’ve talked. I should ask him why. I don’t know why I haven’t yet. I think I’m so enamored by the word every time he uses it that I lose sight of all time and space.

That probably makes me pathetic.

“Yeah, I’m good. Feel free to shop now. The show in the back is done for the night.” I clear my throat and head for the register. I think I have gum in my purse, and I need it. “I hope.”

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