Page 7 of Stalked By Raiden

We sit on the sofa, and Sarah turns to me, brimming with excitement. “So, how do you feel now?”

I pause for a moment, truly thinking about it. Getting a tattoo feels strangely significant. Not because of the design itself. But because of what it represents.

For years, I’ve done exactly what was expected of me. After my parents died, I buried myself in schoolwork, determined to make something of my life. They’d brought me over from Galway when I was sixteen, chasing a job my father swore would change everything. Three years later, a drunk driver crossed the center line, and at nineteen, I stopped being anybody’s daughter. What they left behind covered the rest of my tuition, so I finished the degree they’d have been proud of. While I’d never been particularly rebellious even before the accident, afterward, I’ve become even more careful. More responsible.

Everything I’ve done has served a purpose. College. My career. Building a life for myself. This tattoo is different. It’s something I simply wanted.

I look at Sarah, smiling. “I think I’m good,” I finally answer. Though the realization still feels oddly unsettling.

Sarah grins victoriously. “Thought so.” She crosses one leg over the other and leans toward me conspiratorially. “So?”

I immediately narrow my eyes. With Sarah, it’s hard to predict what she’ll say next.

“The open house. How was it? Meeting all the parents for the first time?” she asks.

I groan. “It was great for the most part. Except for when I met Teddy Krane’s father.” I exhale. “I don’t want to say this about a parent, but that man makes my skin crawl.”

A shiver runs through me despite the warm afternoon as I remember his leery gaze. The memory of Mr. Krane standing far too close to me last night still makes my skin crawl. Sarah’s smile fades.

“He wouldn’t leave me alone,” I admit quietly. “Every time I turned around, he was there asking questions.”

“Questions about Teddy?” Sarah asks.

“Not really.”

Her expression darkens. “What kind of questions?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Personal ones. He kept asking when I moved to Atlanta, what I thought of him, and saying how beautiful I looked.” I inhale softly, still holding Sarah’s worried gaze. “He put his hand on my arm, and I shrugged it off. But a part of me wonders how brazen he’d have been if I’d been alone with him. Or am I reading too much into it?”

Sarah swears under her breath, and I blink in shock. I’ve never seen her look this serious.

“What is it?”

“Just be careful around him. I’ve heard things. Things that have never been proven because he’s too slick. But he’s definitely dangerous, so steer clear of him,” she warns

I want to ask her what she knows, but Nadia enters the lobby, ending the conversation.

“The boys are ready for you. I just need you both to fill out some paperwork,” she says. She heads to her desk, pulls out two documents, and brings them to us. “If you’ll fill these out, we’ll get started.”

Curiosity still burns inside me. Unfortunately, Nadia hands us the waivers. By the time we sign the paperwork and return the forms, the opportunity to ask Sarah more about Mr. Krane has passed.

Nadia goes through the pages before nodding approvingly. “Perfect. Follow me.”

She leads us through a doorway and down a hallway toward the back of the shop. “We have four artists here,” she explains. “Each one has their own private room. Raiden and River will be working on you. You’ll take your designs in with you.”

I nod, though my attention is becoming increasingly occupied by the realization that I’m actually about to do this. No backing out now.

“Given the size you want, it shouldn’t take more than ninety minutes,” Nadia explains as we walk. “There’s some prep work before they start with the ink. They’ll go over everything with you. Then, they’ll bandage it and walk you through the aftercare.” She finishes her spiel just as the hallway opens into a larger area.

A man steps out of one of the rooms.

“This is River. He’ll be working on Sarah,” Nadia says.

River is rough-hewn, I note distractedly. Maybe a little scary.

He is enormous. Broad shoulders stretch the sleeves of his black T-shirt, revealing tattooed forearms that look as though they belong on a professional fighter rather than an artist. His dark hair is buzzed short at the sides, longer on top, while a long, well-trimmed beard frames his face.

Sarah moves closer to him. “I’m hoping you don’t enjoy making people cry,” she says, deadpan.