But I don’t.

Instead, I shift my stance, keeping my expression neutral. “Because I need a job. And you need help,” I state, and then add, “Listen, I’m a fast learner. I have a degree in fine arts, if that helps at all. I know how to handle a computer if that’s what worries you.”

Atlas watches me for another beat, his stare too precise, too knowing, like he’s already decided what I am to him—an inconvenience or an asset. He just won’t let me know until he believes it’s time. See, controlling. I don’t like that one bit, but what if this is the only job I can get?

Then, with a click of his tongue, he pushes off the counter.

“Come back tomorrow at ten.”

That’s it. No formal offer, no instructions, no expectations laid out. Just a command.

He turns, already moving toward the back room before I can respond.

“Just like that? You don’t want me to fill out an application? I need to fill forms, don’t I?” I ask, because what if I show and he doesn’t even open the place? “What about discussing my salary? Hours? Any benefits?”

“Nope. You’re on a trial basis. I don’t want to fill out paperwork if you’ll be dropping before noon,” he states, and this time, he doesn’t look back or say goodbye.

I should feel relieved.

Instead, all I feel is the unsettling certainty that Atlas Timberbridge is going to make me prove exactly how much I want this.

Chapter Seven

Atlas

Am I really contemplating hiring this . . . Blythe person?

I don’t need anyone. Never have. Usually, when I show up at whatever parlor I’m working at, the bookings are already handled, and I do my job. That’s how it works. But here? There won’t be any bookings. I mean, it’s clear that no one in their right mind will take a trip to Birchwood Springs to get a tattoo. No matter how many followers I have and how my waiting list can be lengthy.

A waiting list that, according to Sanford’s assistant has been taken care of—meaning, they either rebook with somebody at the Ink Art Gallery, the Luna Harbor Tattoo Parlor, or they canceled it. Which is fine by me. I already have a spreadsheet with all the money Sanford already owes me because of all those lost clients—asshole.

Here I have . . . well, no schedules to follow, no lists to check off. So what the hell is she supposed to do all day?

Actually, the better question is, what am I supposed to do all fucking day? Poke my eyes out just for entertainment?

I should have stayed gone. Should have ignored Sanford’s baiting. But did I? No. I let him drag me right back into this town.

And now, here I am.