“I’m curious about Goldie’s friend,” Tall, Dark, and Fine AF said to me, with full eye contact and everything.
I was curious, too—how long could he hold me up against a wall?
It was 100 percent my broken heart talking, and I was 100 percent okay with that.
Chapter 1: Big Gun
Sabella
My dad handed me my first tattoo gun when I was fourteen.
“I can’t reach this spot. You do it.”
I laughed. I thought he was kidding. The chicken drumsticks he’d taught me how to season baked in the oven, and the pot of rice and beans he’d also walked me through simmered on the stove. He was supposed to be teaching me how to cook—“Since your mama sure ain’t,” he said.
He took off his shirt and I wrinkled my nose at his hairy armpits. My mom was definitely not the picture of emotional stability, and she’d never teach me how to cook, but she had me shaving at ten and doing my own nails at thirteen. It only highlighted the fact that I lived five out of seven days a week with a very hairy man.
A man who wanted me to ink his latest girlfriend’s name on his ribs, on the opposite side of where my mom’s name had faded into his skin.
“Mira,” he said, putting the tattoo gun in my hand. “You just stretch the skin como esto, and trace.” He demonstrated, stretching the skin on my arm with one hand and drawing a butter knife over it with the other. “It’s easy. Siéntate.”
I scoffed. “No, Papi! What if I mess it up?”
“It’s just some letters. A line here, a line there.”
I gave him a flat look. “That’s cursive.”
“See? You don’t even have to get it straight.” He waved me on. “You can do it. It’s just like all the pictures you draw, except on skin.”
And I’d thought it was exciting when he let me dice the onion for the rice.
“Okay,” I said, drawing out the word while I gave him one last look—to check whether he’d lost his damn mind.
He gave me a nod, wearing the same look of paternal pride and patience he’d rocked while teaching me how to ride a bike. “It don’t matter if you mess it up, because I’m old.”
I grabbed his insulin kit from the top of the fridge.
“I’m not having a hypoglycemic episode,” he said gently.
“I know that.” Unzipping the kit, I sat back down at the table, placing prep pads on a square of table that looked clean. “I’m aiming for a zero infections streak.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and melodious, filling the kitchen as I carefully wrote his flavor-of-the-week’s name on his skin in swooping cursive, pointedly not looking at my mom’s name. He gave me a thumbs up, I pressed my foot down on the pedal, and there was no going back.
I’ve been tattooing ever since.
By the time Goldie found me, I was tattooing in our kitchen but winning big awards. Goldie gave me a chance to really fly, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful. Which is why, when she needed to move back home to Stagwood Falls, I went with her.
Well, that and my thirty-five-year-old, freshly divorced ass needed to get the hell out of the city. Almost divorced. Thanks to Connecticut’s relaxed laws, all I needed was for my ex to sign the papers, and I’d be free. Problem was, he went radio silent the second I left.
Stagwood Falls (population 1,500) was the opposite of the city I grew up in (population 150,000). Main Street looked like the set of a movie—very Instagram-ready. My girls in the city definitely would approve. I was sitting in a bar called The Main Idea—also super cute. It had an arcade in the back and more IPAs than I could ever hope to memorize. Their poor bartender. I’d grown up on blunts and jungle juice, so the novelty of the whole hipster craze hadn’t gotten to me yet.
Goldie, on the other hand, couldn’t roll her eyes far enough in the back of her head.
“Girl,” I said. “Your face is gonna get stuck like that.”
Then I realized she’d just spotted David, her least favorite person at the time.
“You didn’t say he was that hot,” I hissed. David had that olive-skinned, melty-eyed Italian thing going for him, with barber-bladed eyebrows nearly as thick as my thighs, and a hell of a smirk. He only had eyes for Goldie as he neared our table, and I knew my best friend was in trouble.
All that Italian deliciousness quite literally paled in comparison to the guy with him, apparently a close friend if I went by the way they leaned into each other, murmuring something while David ogled Goldie. Tall, dark, handsome, and nameless’s gaze swept from her to me, freezing me in place with dark brown eyes the same deep shade as his skin. They must’ve gone to the same barber, because his brows and beard were just as carefully maintained, all sharp lines to highlight prominent cheekbones that made me want to lick them. Yes, lick. I was that starved. I couldn’t ignore the meal in front of me, not when he walked with ease, carrying broad shoulders that I immediately pictured my hands gripping. He floated to our table effortlessly, as if gliding to me on a trajectory I could neither see nor avoid. While Goldie and David glared at each other, he took my hand in his, and I felt like I’d been electrocuted, nearly missing his name.
“Benton,” he said with a smile that made me forget mine. “Por favor, dime tu nombre.”
My heart nearly stopped. Since pulling up on Goldie’s building a couple weeks earlier, I hadn’t heard a word of Spanish.
“I did a lot of my social worker practice hours in Waterbury,” he explained. “Lots of Puerto Ricans.”
I squinted up at him. “How did you know?” Puerto Ricans tended to spot each other instantly. It was some kind of pheromone. He looked Black, but on the islands, Boricuas came in all shades—even ginger.
“I might’ve looked you up on the ’Gram,” he admitted. “You’ve got a little flag in your bio.”
“Looked me up?” I inquired.
“Caught again.” He chuckled. “I saw you outside while I was working, and I got curious about Goldie’s friend.”
“Curious, hmm?” I sat up straighter. I was curious, too, about very scientific matters like, how long could he hold me up against a wall with those ultra-defined arms?
It was 100 percent the heartbreak talking, and I was 100 percent okay with that.
And Goldie was 100 percent walking to the arcade in the back of the bar—with David. I checked my dark red lipstick in my phone’s camera, then turned to his best friend. “Wanna buy me a drink?”
I hated to waste an outfit.
I looked damn good in my cropped Bitch Craft T-shirt that just read Bitch after I’d gotten my hands on it. Before that night, I was not a one-night-stand kind of girl. That didn’t mean I couldn’t break that rule with Benton. It’d been a good six months since I’d let my ex-husband touch me.
I took a moment to appreciate the view as Benton carried our drinks over. He wore his button-down’s sleeves rolled up, exposing dark muscular forearms wrapped in a swooping cursive tattoo I couldn’t read from that far away. His dress pants hugged his ass, and his beard hugged his jawline. I wanted to koala-hug his body.
I moved over to the same side of the table, making sure to touch his hand as I accepted the drink.
He gave me a knowing, cocky look. “Do you want to actually drink these, or do you want to get out of here?”
We were on the same page. Good. I didn’t need to know about his childhood or what his future plans were. I just needed some dick. Lord knew I’d wasted far too much time on romance.
“So where’s your place?” I asked as we stumbled onto the sidewalk hand in hand. I liked the way our hands fit, how his thick fingers threaded through mine.
He stopped fast and I nearly crashed into him. “I figured yours is closer.”
I laughed. “Sure, if you wanna hang with Goldie’s grandpa.”
My living situation started off a little awkward, but I’d grown up around men. Goldie’s Poppy was a sweet old man, and probably fast asleep for the night, so there was no way I was bringing a guy home. It was way too awkward.
Benton hesitated.
“What, do you live with your mom or something?” I teased. Not that I cared. Until recently, I’d still lived with my dad. For most thirty-somethings, that was probably weird, but not this Boricua.
Benton shook his head.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I live with David’s mom, okay?” Benton said. “So no, we can’t go to my place.”
There we were, in the middle of the sidewalk, debating where to bang like a couple of teenagers. I laughed.
“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” he said, pulling away from me.
“I’m not,” I said through my laughter. “Come on, Benton, it’s funny. We’re like a couple of horny teenagers.”
He scowled. “I’m a grown man.”
I had the giggles so bad. “Come on. Let me buy you another drink.”
He waved me off. “You know what, I’m good.”
I watched as he walked away, his shirt hugging the muscles of his back.
“It’s not a big deal,” I called after him. Either he didn’t hear me, or he didn’t want to, because he kept going until he was out of my sight.
Rolling my eyes, I went in the opposite direction and decided I was already over Stagwood Falls.
One Year Later
I hadn’t meant to stay. I’d planned on getting Goldie settled in and then figuring out my next move. Maybe I’d go back to the city, where I could hopefully avoid my ex. Or maybe I’d get my own place in town, if I liked it enough. So far, I didn’t really like it.
The town was cute, don’t get me wrong, but small, and people stared. It was hard to fade into anonymous heartbreak recovery when everywhere I went, people eyed me. Of course, none of them knew I left New Haven because I got dumped. They were staring at my tattoos, fishnet, and boots. I felt like someone had plucked off all my petals, leaving me stripped of the things I’d once wanted so badly. It felt like everyone could see the grief etched deep into my soul.
So I poured my energy into tattooing, all the while feeling like I needed more. I needed to get back to my roots, to hold a paintbrush in my hand and let everything I felt pour out of me, onto canvas. The problem was, I was booked solid. Since Goldie transplanted her tattoo shop Touch of Gold from the city to Stagwood Falls, my regulars were getting more comfortable with driving out to see me. Plus, we’d been expanding in our new county. Not a bad problem to have, but I wanted time to paint. I needed time to process my pain, but painting didn’t pay the way tattooing did. The only way to squeeze in my hobbies as an adult were to make them part of my work. And I had come up with the perfect solution.
I just needed to get my friends on board.
I needed a win, something that was mine. Goldie had her shop—I was happier than ever tattooing under her roof, and she involved me in more than usual, but it was her shop. I had to tread carefully, balancing friendship with work.
I stood in David’s kitchen, slicing a lemon for my vodka. Or I was supposed to be. It was just us girls for the moment, the guys still in the living room fussing over David’s new gaming setup, and I was using the break from a bloodthirsty game of Cards Against Humanity to work on my magnum opus: a text I’d been drafting for six months. Drafting and dreading. I’d tried being nice. I’d tried giving him space. I’d even tried being stern—using those boundaries that my Instagram therapist was always talking about.
She wasn’t my actual therapist. She was just an account I followed.
“At least AI can’t replace me,” Goldie said. She finished off the faux vodka Collins I’d made us—I used lemonade instead of lemon juice, simple syrup, and club soda—and held her glass in my face.
“Knife,” I reminded her, giving her a sharp look.
“What knife? Less texting, more slicing,” she said, always with the big sister energy.
Goldie and I couldn’t be more different. She was raised by her grandparents, I was raised by my dad. She was all Black, I was half Puerto Rican, half white. She’d left marketing in her mid-twenties to become a tattoo artist, and I’d grown up with a tattoo gun in my hand. Despite our different paths, we were both driven women determined to make it in a male-dominated world, which was why I liked her the moment I met her. Leaving New Haven and coming to Stagwood Falls with her was simple for me: I didn’t want to work at anyone else’s shop, and I definitely didn’t want to stay in a city full of reminders of my biggest failure.
“Until they invent some vending machine thing where you select your piece and it tattoos it on, right then and there, like a 3D printer,” Kinsley—her actual little sister—said.
“Don’t say that.” Goldie fake vomited.
“Oh, it’ll happen,” I said, using the ten-inch knife to twist out the seeds from each slice of lemon.
“Damn, girl, easy with that thing,” Goldie said, “and whose side are you on? Artists or robots?”
“I’m just saying.” Dropping the slices into our glasses, I grabbed ice and the bottles of vodka and lemonade. “It’ll never replace having a real, talented artist design a real, personal piece, though.”
“You say that,” Kinsley said darkly, “but what about all the generative art apps?”
“Hurry with that vodka,” Goldie pleaded. “We need to get past stoned, eerily philosophic Kinsley and bring out drunk, dancing Kinsley.”
“I heard drunk dancing,” Benton said, shimmying into the kitchen. “What’re we dancing to?” Even though I was closer, he took Kinsley’s hand and spun her into a dip.
“We’re dancing?” David pulled Goldie into him, tipping her chin up for a kiss.
Couples. Kill me.
Grabbing my phone, I threw on the last thing I’d been listening to.
“Doja Cat? Really?” Benton complained without even looking at me.
“Whatchu got against Doja Cat?” Antoni backed up on me until his ass almost touched my thigh, then dropped it low, “twerking” in a squat. He was less twerking and more just shaking.
I shoved him away, laughing. “You’re doing it wrong. Let me show you.”
“Please,” he wheezed. “I think I pulled something.” He straightened, dusting his hands on his jeans.
Placing my hands on my hips, I demonstrated. “It’s all in the hips, li’l Ant. Not your back. You were on your way to the ER.”
“Are we learning stripper moves, or are we playing cards?” Benton interrupted, tapping his watch.
“You got something against sex workers? Besides, I was in cheer, not on a pole,” I told him. “Have another drink, or hit that.” I nodded to the blunt Kinsley held a lighter to.
“Some of us have work in the morning,” he said, still not looking at me.
I rolled my eyes. “Tattooing is work. Not my fault the three of you got suckered into the nine-to-five life.”
“We all work hard,” Goldie intervened, “which is why we agreed we need low-key Thursday night game nights, spending quality time together, sans sniping. Right?” She gave me a stern look. I’d never told her about the night Benton and I met, but she was getting more and more curious every time the two of us went at each other.
“Right.” Downing my vodka, I gathered my courage. “Speaking of work, I want to run something past you guys.”
“Running man? I only just got the hang of twerking,” Antoni shouted over the music. He held onto the counter, practicing what I’d shown him and still doing it wrong.
I turned down the music and cleared my throat. “I need all of your help,” I said, looking pointedly at Benton. “Even you.”
“I see we’ve moved on to the drunken dramatics portion of the evening,” he muttered.
I stood taller to show him I wasn’t drunk, wobbling only a little.
“What’s up?” Goldie asked.
My best friend. She’d stood by my side through everything the past six months. Every time I second-guessed myself, thinking I’d made the wrong choice, she reminded me that I’d absolutely chosen right. I’d been more than happy to return the favor by supporting her move to Stagwood Falls, then seeing her through almost losing her building and David. We always had each other’s backs, which is why I had no doubts she’d have mine.
“I want to teach a community art class,” I announced, “and at the end of it, throw an art show.”
All five of them stared at me.
“Like…a festival?” Goldie asked.
“Nothing big, obviously,” I said quickly. “Just something to showcase the pieces my students work on. Our students,” I added. “We could host it at town hall, or even the shop…”
“I’m still on ‘community’ and ‘class,’” Antoni said. “You want this to be a legit town event?”
“Very much,” I said, clasping my hands. “Like for the community. Kind of like an art therapy thing.”
Benton cleared his throat. “You can’t practice without being licensed.”
“I know that,” I told him. “I’m not looking to give anyone therapy. I’m thinking more like in a therapeutic vein.” I struggled for words. Maybe I was drunk.
Antoni scratched his head. “What’s the difference?”
“Therapeutic,” Kinsley repeated. “That too big a word for you?”
“I like big words and I cannot lie.” With a devious grin, he aimed his terrible twerking at her.
“Get your cute li’l white butt outta here,” she said, laughing. I caught the way her gaze lingered on him, though.
“So what do you guys think?” I looked from face to face, already brimming with plans swirling through my head. Ever since I’d first thought of the idea, I practically had the curriculum laid out. I couldn’t wait to get started.
“How will it bring in money?” David asked. “Who’s going to pay for the supplies and stuff?”
“Money?” I repeated. “I was thinking this could be like a free thing. Everyone’s been on such hard times these past few years. I wanted to give back.” I turned to Benton, the town social worker. Surely, he got it. He was always late to drinks at The Main Idea, always staying behind at town hall to finish up “just one more thing” for one of the town residents. As big a baby as he was, he had an even bigger heart.
As much as I didn’t want to admit it.
“We don’t really have any room in the budget for a new program,” was all he said.
“Seriously, guys?”
But someone—probably Antoni—turned the music back up, and a moment later, I heard the slap of cards being shuffled.
I rubbed my temples. I’d thought I had it in the bag.
“Here,” Goldie said, pressing a fresh drink into my hand.
“You really don’t like my idea?” I asked her.
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” she hedged. “It’s just that so much has happened. We’re still getting on our feet here. I just don’t have the bandwidth. Sorry, girl.” Squeezing my shoulder, she left me to my thoughts to join the rest of the group in the living room.
She was probably right. We both had a lot going on. The guys, too—logically I knew Benton wasn’t giving me a hard time for nothing. They had their hands full trying to keep the mayor from selling the lake out from under the town.
“That’s why we need the arts,” I muttered to the empty kitchen.
Almost empty. Kinsley stood at the sink, washing the cutting board and knife I’d used.
“Oh, I got that,” I said, moving to take her place.
“I don’t mind.” She placed them in the drain and dried her hands. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good idea.”
“You’d be the only one,” I said with a sigh.
“Pitch it again, when everyone’s sobered up. Maybe take them one on one, like a strategic conquering.” She laughed. “But don’t give up. You know how stubborn my sister can be. You just have to crack her.”
“She is pretty stubborn,” I agreed. “I don’t know. It’s probably better if I leave it be.”
“Just think about it,” she said. “Now let’s go wreck these motherfuckers in Cards Against Humanity.”
As soon as she left, I pulled my phone out again. My vision blurred, just a little, key phrases jumping out at me.
Six months.
Space.
Please.
Move forward.
Please.
Healthy.
I considered adding one more “please,” then decided I’d already used two too many. Every text I sent always resulted in the same thing: a delivered, then read notification, then no response.
Childishly, he thought if he ignored me and didn’t give me what I needed, I’d change my mind and go back to the city, back to him. The problem with that strategy was, I couldn’t. Not in a million years.
Just like I couldn’t abandon my art program baby. I’d convince my friends that it was a good idea. In a time when everyone was hurting, it was exactly what the town needed.
Goldie was stubborn, but I was stubborn en español.
I held my head and drink high and began plotting my takedown.
