Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,19

and network notices that I’d worry about later, my eyes caught on a name that I hadn’t seen in years: Ian Grant. My old art professor. My mouse hovered over the email, not clicking just yet.

Memories slammed into me like a sledgehammer. Professor Ian Grant had changed my life in many ways. Not all of them were good. He’d seen talent in me, had worked to help me gain attention in prominent art circles. But I’d also been his lover despite him being much older, at a time when I probably shouldn’t have been so involved with anyone.

His powerful presence had made it impossible for me to discern my own hopes and dreams for far too long. I hadn’t loved him but he’d made me feel… so many things.

My skin itched, hot and too tight. My mouth tasted sour as I recalled how intense and consuming that time in my life had been. I knew I was feeling more vulnerable right now because of Channing, but I hadn’t expected all of these old feelings about Ian to surface. That—he—was ancient history.

Still, I couldn’t help my curiosity about what Ian could want after all this time…

I clicked. The email was brief, thankfully.

Reagan,

I don’t know if you keep up with university news, but I thought you’d appreciate this: You are missed in the art world. I miss seeing the works your brilliant, wild mind created. We’ll be holding an alumni gallery show at the end of the summer and I hope—yes, this is me begging on bended knee—that you’ll participate. You were always meant for more.

In fervent hope,

Ian

Attached was an article from the local university arts program, the program that had held my heart and my tears and hours upon hours of frenzied, creative bursts in my early life. I skimmed it, smiling at familiar names from the program, ones I hadn’t thought about in years. Then I came upon my name, accompanied by an old picture of me grinning next to an enormous canvas:

And just where is Reagan Dallas? Easily one of the program’s stars, Mr. Dallas had made a name in local art circles, as well as having brief national exposure for his raw and visceral studies on the human form and color. His instructor, Professor Ian Grant, said, “Every now and then you come across a talent that is so beautiful in its honesty and intensity that your life is forever changed. Reagan changed my life, both as a teacher and an individual, and the art world has grieved his absence for all of these years.”

While he may no longer be in the art world’s spotlight, Reagan Dallas hasn’t disappeared. You may recognize him as the owner of the tattoo shop in the popular TV show Get Ink’d. His tattoos have won awards, and a few of them even grace the bodies of movie stars and musicians.

There was more, but I wasn’t interested. A myriad of old memories had collected and I sighed, rubbing a hand over my beard. The email felt too well timed, as if destiny were reaching out and reminding me of what I’d been. Back then, I’d been too swept up in the glitz and glamour, flying high on praise and adulation. It had been a period of crazed emotions and overwhelming passions, and I’d gotten swallowed up and chewed out in the process.

Now, though, I was older. Much older. I had a successful business, and I didn’t need the validation of others to get up in the morning. But I could admit that I’d missed fine art, especially when I taught the boys at the detention center. I missed the smell of paints, and the fulfilling act of creating for the sake of creation—my own heart poured out on canvas and paper, not a client’s wishes seen through my eyes.

I hit reply. Ian—I’ll think about it. Reagan. I hit send.

Well, at least the email had done the trick—my boner was nonexistent. Now I simply felt as wrung out as a dish towel. It had been a long time ago, and I wouldn’t be who I was without Ian, for better or for worse. With all our history, if he’d asked fifteen years ago, I’d have ignored the query, still too anxious to be near him. But now...I tapped a pen against the desk, worrying at my lip.

I had been feeling off for the past few years. Like something was missing. The thought of creating something for the show—of filling a room with canvases and