Page 5 of Ink Me Three Times
Green eyes. Sharp as a scalpel. Quietly assessing.
My heart stutters like it’s forgotten how to beat.
He’s tall. Broad shoulders under a fitted black thermal, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the detailed lines of full sleeve tattoos. Black and gray, clean as hell, wrapping his forearms like armor. Combat boots. Black jeans. The air shifts around him like he’s gravity and the rest of the room just follows.
"You’re open?" I ask, even though I haven’t moved.
"Door was unlocked," he replies, voice low and smooth. "You can come in."
At 10:45pm?
In a small town?
I guess Coyote Glen is going to be full of surprises…
"I…" My throat dries. "I want something covered up."
He tilts his head slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what’s coming next. His green eyes darken, focused, intense.
"Show me."
The words are a command, not a question.
I hesitate, then slip the strap of my coat off my shoulder and tug the collar of my shirt aside, baring the name etched in delicate script just beneath my shoulder blade.
Luca.
His eyes flick to it. Then to me. He doesn’t ask why. He just nods, steps around the counter, and walks past me toward the back room with the kind of purposeful ease that says he expects me to follow.
I do.
The back space is more intimate, muted lighting, more artwork, a second chair waiting like a confession booth. He gestures for me to sit.
"Do you know what you want?"
I pause. "Something beautiful."
He doesn’t smile, but something in his expression softens. Just a flicker, like he wasn’t expecting that answer, but he respects it. He nods once, then turns to a wide drawer beneath a wall of framed sketches.
He flips through a stack of clear sleeves, each one holding an original design. Some are bold and geometric, others soft and organic. But when he pulls out a sheet with a dark, intricately inked chrysanthemum unfurling over the curve of a snake’s spine, something in me clicks.
"That one," I say, breath catching.
He glances at me. "It’s a cover piece. Dense. Clean. No one will ever see what was underneath."
Perfect.
He sets up in silence. Sterilizing, taping down, prepping ink. I watch the controlled rhythm of his movements, the way his fingers are deliberate, efficient. Like he’s done this a thousand times, but still gives a damn every time.
"You always work this late?" I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
He shrugs and tilts his head toward me. "Nah, but maybe I had a feeling that a stranger needed me tonight."
Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle. "You psychic or just reckless?"
That almost smile again. "Reckless would’ve been lettingyoutouch the machine."
My lips curve. "So youdohave a sense of humor."
