Repeat - Kylie Scott

Chapter One

The shop sits on a busy street in the cool downtown neighborhood of Portland, Maine. Larsen and Sons Tattoo Parlor is written on the window in elegant script. Inside, music plays, two guys lounge on a green velvet chaise flicking through books. It’s all very clean and neat and awesome looking. And there’s a sound like an electric drill in the air.

The girl behind the counter stops, mouth gaping when she sees me. She’s pretty and petite with a shaved head.

“Hi,” I say, attempting a smile. “Can I speak to—”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” a deep voice booms.

I meet the eyes of a tall man covered in tattoos. Shortish, light brown hair, lean but muscular. He wears jeans and designer sneakers, a T-shirt advertising some band. For sure, he’d be handsome if he wasn’t scowling at me. Actually, strike that. He’s handsome period, irrespective of his glare. His angular jaw is covered in stubble and it frames perfect lips. Straight nose, high cheekbones. Unlike me, this man is a work of art.

“No, not happening,” he says, striding over. His large hand wraps around my upper arm, grip firm though not cruel. “You don’t get to come back.”

“Don’t touch me.” My words are ignored as he marches me back toward the door. Panic bubbles up inside and I slap his chest hard. “Hey, buddy. Do. Not. Touch. Me.”

At that, he blinks, a little startled. “Buddy?”

I don’t know what he was expecting, but he lets go. It takes me a full minute to get my breathing back under control. Dammit. Meanwhile, everyone is watching. The girl behind the counter and the two guys waiting on the chaise. The woman with brown skin and big beautiful hair holding a tattoo gun and the older woman she’s working on. We have quite the audience assembled. The man screaming about being back in black over the sound system is the only noise.

“You need to leave,” he says, voice quieter this time, though no less harsh.

“I have a few questions I need to ask you first.”

“No.”

“Did you do this?” I ask, pulling up the sleeve on my T-shirt to display my shoulder. It’s a beautiful piece. A cluster of violets with olive-green stems and leaves. It’s almost like a scientific drawing, but missing the root structure.

His gaze narrows. “Of course I did it.”

“I was your client. Okay.” That’s now a definite. Good. Definites give my world structure and help things make sense. Unknowns just piss me off. “Did I not pay you or something?”

“’the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re angry.”

And it’s obvious the moment he sees my brow. The hostility and confusion in his eyes changes to surprise.

I immediately smooth down my bangs, trying to hide. Stupid to get self-conscious, but I can’t help it.

He gently brushes my hand aside, parting my hair to see. An intimate gesture that sets me on edge. As hands-on as tattooing must be, the way he’s touching me and getting in my space is . . . more. I try to step back, but there’s nowhere to go. Besides, he’s not actually hurting me, just making me nervous. And as much as I abhor being crowded, some part of me doesn’t mind him touching me.

Weird. Maybe I need sex or something. Maybe he’s my type. I don’t know.

Deep lines are embedded in his forehead as he studies me. This is exactly the reason I cut my hair in the first place. The scar starts an inch into my hairline, ending below my right eyebrow. It’s wide and jagged, dark pink.

That’s enough. I put a hand to his chest, pushing him back. Happily, he goes. A small step, at least.

“So you know me?” I ask, trying to clarify things. “Like, as more than a customer.”

The man just stares. I don’t know what his expression means. A mix of unhappy and perplexed, maybe? He really is quite handsome. A new song starts, this time it’s a woman singing.

“Well?”

Finally, he speaks. “What the fuck happened to you?”

A week earlier . . .

“Are you ready?”

I stop kicking my feet and hop down off the hospital bed. “Yeah.”

“Good. The car’s waiting in the drop-off zone and we’ll go straight home. Everything’s organized,” says my sister, a confident smile on her face. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” I lie.

“Did you want to see the photos of my house again?”

“No. It’s fine.”

My sister’s name is Frances (not Fran or Frannie), and she’s a police officer who lives in North Deering. She blames herself for what