Page 65 of Ink Me Three Times
Mitchell’s been avoiding me.
Freddie’s been quiet, too, ever since we all found out the truth.
I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know how to fix it, either.
I land another hit, harder this time. The bag jerks violently, swings back like it’s had enough. I catch it with one hand, steadying it, breathing heavy. The leather is slick with sweat, warm under my finger tips.
Mitchell should have said something sooner…
Freddie shouldn’t be fooling around with his nanny and his best friend’s sister…
And I…
Well, I should have seen right through Mitchell’s facade.
That’s when I hear the gym door creak open.
I glance up, expecting a regular, Boone, maybe, or Jesse if he's feeling masochistic, but it’s not. Three guys walk in together, framed by the flickering entry light. One of them nods at the girl at the front desk and scans in. The other two trail behind.
Wait.
I do know one of them.
Ezra.
He catches my eye and lifts a hand. "Timothy! What’s up, man?"
I straighten, grabbing my water bottle and wiping my face with a towel. My chest still heaves, but I manage to nod.
"Not much," I say, stepping forward. "How’s it going?"
He grins, boyish and tired all at once. "I had cabin fever. Figured I’d see if lifting something heavy clears my head." Ezra nods to the guys beside him. "This is Roman and Creed. They’re up at Meadow Creek with me."
"Timothy," I say, shaking their hands. Roman’s tall and wiry, his sleeve of tattoos blending into the darkness of his hoodie. He’s got an intense stillness to him… one of those guys who doesn’t move more than necessary. Reads the room before he speaks.
Creed’s broader, a little younger maybe, with military short hair and eyes that flicker over every exit. He nods once, no smile, and starts unzipping his gym bag without a word.
"Nice to meet you," Roman says, voice low and smooth.
Ezra’s already peeling off his hoodie. Beneath it, he’s leaner than I expected. Not frail, just stripped down. Like life shaved off everything that wasn’t necessary.
I nod toward his arm. "How’s the ink healing?"
He lifts the sleeve without hesitation. "See for yourself."
The lyrics Mitchell tattooed across his forearm last week are still scabbed at the edges, but the lines are clean. Crisp. My brother’s work always speaks for itself.
"Pretty damn good, actually," Ezra says, rotating his wrist. "Didn’t even peel too bad. Mitch is a machine."
"Yeah," I say. "He is."
Ezra glances at me then, long enough to clock the tightness in my jaw, the not quite there smile. He doesn’t press, just lowers the sleeve again and claps me lightly on the shoulder.
"We’ll be over by the squat racks. Join if you want."
I nod and watch them walk away. Roman moves with quiet confidence, like he’s always one step ahead. Creed stalks more than he walks, like he’s been in rooms that taught him to be ready for impact.
New people in town always catch my attention. Most of the time, they’re passing through. Some stay. Some disappear. Some leave damage.
