Malerick, the oldest, is now the sheriff. Who goes from FBI agent to small-town cop? Apparently, my dumbass brother. Then there’s Ledger, whose hockey career went up in flames after an injury. Now, he’s pretending to run the family business.

Hopper is the town vet and, somehow, engaged to my best friend. So even though I’d rather not deal with him, I don’t have a choice. The only way to keep the peace is to stay far away.

And thank fuck Keir is . . . well, I don’t even know what he’s doing, but at least he’s not my problem.

This is why I live out of a duffel bag. A guest in someone else’s tattoo parlor, in someone else’s city. No roots, no expectations, no past clawing at my heels.

Sanford watches me, rolling his glass between his hands. The man is built like a brick wall, sleeves pushed up to reveal ink-covered forearms. He doesn’t just talk—he follows through. I met him years ago, back when I was trying to pay my way through college. The trust fund Therese kindly created for me covered tuition, but I had to figure out the rest. He got me odd jobs and introduced me to Kevin and Anderson Hawkins, the original owners of this tattoo parlor.

Sanford and his friends have this tight-knit crew that operates like a family—some of them are family. They take strays like me and make them their own. I’ve worked for all of them. And I mean all of them. At one point, I was even a roadie for Sanford’s band—Too Far From Grace.

From everything I’ve done, I chose to stick to being a tattoo artist. That’s the closest I can get to publishing comic books. Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever finish something so I can publish it or if I’m just attached to an idea that doesn’t fit into who I am anymore.

“You’ve been floating for too long,” Sanford says. “Drifting from one shop to the next, never staying long enough to put your name on the goddamn door. You’re good, Atlas. One of the best I’ve seen. People fly to other states and countries just to get a tattoo from you. But you’re wasting your talent playing guest artist year after year.”

I huff a laugh. “I like the freedom. Not everyone is like you, wanting stability, a house, and the family.”

He doesn’t flinch. “You like running because you haven’t found your home. I was there once. I might’ve had a place to live, but I was running because I was missing the pieces of my heart.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t argue. He’s right. I don’t have a fucking heart.