Page 60 of Cold Hard Truth

Sometimes the scales tip too far in one direction. Everything we were is gone. All that’s left are pieces—memories.

Outside the shop, two girls glance in the window, frowning at us. And at my side, Echo groans.

“Who are they?”

“Groupies.” Echo hops off the counter and comes to stand next to me.

“I didn’t know tattoo artists had groupies.”

“Have you seen those guys?” She rolls her eyes. “Plus, we get a lot of celebrities in here. They’ve streamed a couple of specials from the shop. And you know how it is, any bit of limelight and people will flock to it.”

I turn to face her. “Does that ever bother you?”

“With Crew?”

I nod because the man is solid tattooed muscle, and I’ve seen how girls who come into the shop look at him.

“No.” She laughs. “I mean, sure, everyone gets a little jealous. But he wouldn’t entertain anything. He’s…”

“Your destiny.”

Echo smiles, her whole face brightening. “Exactly. I like that.”

Me too, especially since I had a destiny once. Before I went and fucked it all up.

The two girls finally make their way into the shop with their shoulders rolled back. Their designer purses and overpriced sunglasses make them stand out in this part of town, but they hold their chins up like that’s a compliment.

“Do you have an appointment?” I ask, glancing down at their perfectly manicured nails when they plant them on the counter.

“No.” The blonde one laughs, slipping off her sunglasses. Her fake eyelashes darken her already deeply brown eyes. “Is Sage around?”

“I think he’s busy.” Echo plants a hand on the case.

The blonde cuts a glare in Echo’s direction, pursing her lips, before looking back at me. “Can you check?”

“Of course.” I smile so big at her I’m sure she sees I’m mocking her.

“I can do it.” Echo offers when I start to walk around her.

“It’s fine.” If I can handle a clubhouse full of patch bunnies, Twisted Roses groupies are nothing.

Walking into the back, I make my way to Sage’s station. Unlike most tattoo shops I’ve been to where it’s one wide open space, Twisted Roses has individual rooms set up for each of the artists. It’s something that lingered from back when the Twisted Kings used the shop for more than just giving tattoos and piercings. And apparently, some things don’t change.

Knocking once on the door, I push it open, and I hate that everything about this room smells like Sage. How it reminds me of being on the road and feeling the wind on my face. Freedom, when I spent so long living in a cage.

Sage looks up from his drawing.

If walls can hold ghosts, then so can bones. And every time I look into his eyes, I’m reminded that Sage is haunted.

I get it.

So am I.

“You have visitors.” I lean against the doorframe.

He glances at his phone. “My next appointment isn’t for an hour.”

“Not that kind of visitor.” I smile at him, watching realization hit as his throat works in a hard swallow.

---