Jagged Edge

No, what gives Corey away is the way he’s staring at the new tattoo artist, Ethan. Dead giveaway. Guy is in love.

And that reminds me of Jason.

Like that’s a surprise. These days, everything does. For fuck’s sake. That thing with Jason was just lust, pure and simple. And then it was over.

End of the fucking story.

Anyway, it’s going smoothly—except I feel like shit. I didn’t get a decent night’s sleep all week, torn between staring at the ceiling, counting its cracks, and rolling in nightmares where Livvy is replaced with Jason and he dies, again and again.

A shadow falls over me, startling me.

“Hey, where are the restrooms?” Riot leans against the reception desk, and jeez, the man’s model-pretty, all high cheekbones and icy eyes and broad shoulders. “And is there any coffee shop nearby? My kingdom for some caffeine.”

Nice guy, too. “You can keep your kingdom. We have coffee at the back.” I point at the open door of our kitchenette. “And restrooms are over there.” I point in the other direction.

“Big space you got here. Soul Stain is tiny compared to this. This is a cool place.”

I have to agree. And the event will be great, too. The placement of the new standing banners with the logos of the shops and original designs from their portfolios, the tables with the black covers and white details, the vases with red and black roses, it all looks impressive.

Riot is helping us set everything up, together with his friends, both tattoo artists and cheerleaders. Shane gestur

es at me, and I come around the desk to see what he needs help with. He’s with Ethan, the new Soul Stain tattoo artist, and I head their way, curious.

Ethan’s tall like me, his coloring like Jason’s—dark hair and dark eyes. He’s a handsome guy, but like with Riot, his good looks leave me cold. Sure, I notice. I’m not blind. But it does nothing for me.

Bad sign? You betcha.

I approach the two guys. “What’s up?”

“R.” Shane lifts two T-shirts, one black with the logo of the event—a dragon, a snake and a phoenix in a circle—in white, and a red one with the logo in black. “Which one should we have the artists wear?” At my blank look, he goes on. “I thought you’d better choose. You know… you have a better sense of style.”

I look down at my worn jeans and faded gray T-shirt, my staples. “Seriously? Have you met me?” I shake my head and turn to go. “Find someone else for this. I’m not gay enough.”

Ethan chokes and starts to cough. “Wait.”

Suppressing a sigh, I turn back around. I’ve never been the most sociable of guys, and these days it’s all I can do not to glare at everyone. “Yeah?”

Shane is staring at me. He’s not Mr. Congeniality either, and I wonder now if he called me over because he sincerely believes I have better taste.

Ethan wipes a hand over his mouth, grinning. “You’re a funny guy,” he says, and yeah, sure. I’m the heart of every party.

Whatever.

“It’s just black or red,” Shane grumbles, lifting up the T-shirts. “I’m not asking you for a fucking essay. Pick one, junior.”

God, I hate when they call me that. “Black,” I say. It’s my go-to color when I pick up clothes. Black goes with black, always.

“See? Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

I could punch Shane in the face, but then he’d pummel me into the wall. Or worse, he wouldn’t do anything at all, and I’d be the biggest jerk in history.

“Who did your tattoo?” Ethan asks before I turn away once more, this time determined to go. “The band on your arm. Let me see.”

Punching Ethan isn’t a good bet, either. He’s a guest artist, and Rafe will kick me out faster than you can say idiot. But dammit, my fist is itching to.

“It’s a convict tat,” Shane says.

Ethan’s eyes go wide.