Page 14 of Tell Me It’s Right

I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear.

I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.

I close my eyes, trying to remember what he was wearing—I think it was a T-shirt. So, casual. Jeans are probably a safe bet. I fish a baggy pair out of a box and try to remember which one has my shirts.

A horn honks outside.

Shit.

I throw on the first thing I find—a plain black T-shirt. At least if I tuck it in and throw on a belt it’ll look a little more put together.

Another honk.

Hair wet and shoes in my hand, I hurry outside to Liam’s black truck idling against the curb.

“Took you long enough,” he says as I hop in the passenger seat and lean down to slip on my shoes.

“Shut up.”

“That’s no way to talk to your boss,” he muses, then taps the cupholders between us. There’s a hot coffee on his side, and a large iced one for me.

I read the label—cold brew, coconut milk, hazelnut syrup—and slowly look up at him.

He doesn’t look at me, just pulls the car away from the curb and shifts his weight.

“The barista said she remembered your order,” he finally says. “She get it right?”

Something about the way he says it makes me…not believe him.

“Um, yeah. Er—thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

“Gracie, I don’t give a shit about a five-dollar coffee.”

I quietly take a sip and focus out the window. The sky is light pink with the sunrise, and the streets are pretty quiet. I expect him to take a left for the main street, or even the highway, but he circles back toward the coffee shop on the corner and parallel parks in front of it.

My eyebrows inch up my face, but I say nothing and follow him as he climbs out of the truck. Instead of heading for the coffee shop, however, he veers for the shop right beside it. I crane my neck to see the sign.

Brooks Tattoos.

I don’t know how I didn’t notice it yesterday. Maybe I’m just used to seeing the Brooks name on half the businesses in town, though this one looks nothing like their other logos. Not to mention the last kind of place I could imagine getting Mr. Candyman Brooks’s approval.

I’ve never spent much time around Liam’s dad, but I remember Mom and Dad always getting…weird whenever he came up in conversation growing up. Pained smiles, changedsubjects, and always offering to let Liam stay at our house longer.

Keys jangle as Liam fishes them out of his pocket and unlocks the front door.

The lights are off when we step inside, and it doesn’t escape my attention that the sign on the door says it opens at ten. Why the hell is he here at seven in the morning? He flips a switch, and the shop comes to life.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting—something dark and scary and vaguely cave-like—but it’scozy.The shop itself is narrow and long, sectioned off with a sitting area at the front, a desk, and the tattooing stations in the back. Three, from the looks of it. The entire right wall is exposed brick, painted white, and covered in framed art, movie posters, and skateboards with paintings on the bottoms. Sunlight streams in from the wall of windows at the front, making the space seem light and open.

Liam sets his coffee on the front desk then disappears into a closet in the back. I shift my weight and linger in the entryway, looking around. My reflection in the mirror on the far wall stares back at me—probably for people to check out their tattoos once they’re done—and all I can think isWhat am I doing here?

Chapter Six

LIAM

I don’t know if anyone has ever—in the entire history of the world—looked more out of place than Gracie Collins standing in a tattoo shop. She tries to hide it—she really does—but she’s on fucking edge like she’s afraid someone is going to leap out from behind the curtain and forcibly tattoo her face.

It had been impulsive, offering her the job. Especially when the shop is in no shape for it. But God, Keava can be such a bitch sometimes, and after I saw that spark of relief in Gracie’s eyes, there was no way I was going to backtrack.

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