There is a strange and unpleasant irony in the fact that I'm worried about Lindsay spilling secrets to a girl I'm angry at for keeping secrets.

I spend a week locked in my own head, pouring it all out into words I put to music. Because I've always been really fucking good at making music.

"Are you going to let me play these?" Scott asks on Monday night when I play through the riff on yet another 'you-broke-my-heart’ anthem.

I shrug and he scrubs a hand through his hair. But he doesn't argue, just retreats with his guitar and listens while I strum on mine, making notes before I lose myself in a six-pack.

The tattoo shop is always quiet on Tuesday, which is why we prefer to head there then. A few guys are talking to Arsenal about a piece that they brought in, and I eye them warily. If I know anything about Arsenal, he'll flag me down in a few minutes.

Scott slides along the counter, careful not to touch it. Rabbit is a good dude, but he hates to have the display case coated in fingerprints.

"She's waiting," he grunts at us, and I nod briskly at him before following Scott towards the back stall.

"Rike. Can I get a minute?"

I slow and glance at Scott who nods subtly before I beak off to flank the tattoo artist. He holds up the sketch and I skim, trying to keep my face blank.

It's such a douchebag tat. A reaper with a scythe and a fucking crow. I glance at the guys. "Who is it for?"

"Me. I drew it up." The dark-haired dude is clean cut, and he flushes, rocking back on his heels nervously. Like he knows it's not good. "It's just an idea."

I stare at the drawing for a minute longer. "What does it mean?"

Twenty minutes later, I retreat as the guys make an appointment and Arsenal gives me a quick, muttered, “Thank you. I duck into the back stall where Scott is already laid out, his head pillowed on his arms while Staci goes to work.

"Did Arsenal need some artistic input?" she asks, and despite the fact that she's bent over my best friend's back, I can hear the gin in her tone.

"Yeah. Dude wants a reaper." She snorts and I nod. "I'm tweaking it. It'll be more Charon and the river Styx than reaper and birds, but he'll love it."

"Make sure Arsenal gives you a cut. That's original artwork so you know he'll charge for that shit."

I nod, but I don't plan on following through. I love the shop, and I love the art that goes into it. But I'm not so talented that I think I should be paid for my shit drawings. If some douchebag wants it tattooed on his back, that's his business, not mine.

"You good, bro?" I ask, and Scott grunts, a strained noise. I glance at what Staci is bent over and make a low noise of sympathy.

It hurts like a bitch to have your spine tattooed. I sit down in the corner of the booth, slumped on the ground, and listen to the rhythmic start and stop of the tattoo machine, the smell of ink and antiseptic filling my senses as all the stress of the week, of the fight with Peyton, slips away.

I fucking love this place. It's probably the only place I can get close to feeling what I do onstage, when there is only the high of the music and the energy of the crowd as they chant along to my songs.

“You know, you’re a good artist," Staci says, her voice quiet as she works. "You'd do good here."

I blink out of my thoughts and stare at her. She's watching me with careful, bright eyes and I laugh, a startled noise. "You aren't serious."

"Why not? It'd be nice to work with a real artist, instead of someone who just copies the shit he finds online. You do good with the clients. And you’re both here enough. Why the fuck not?"

I stare at her for a long moment, and then laugh. Shake my head.

"I think it's a good idea."

Her voice snaps my head up and Scott lifts his lazily, earning a swat from Staci while she barks, "Stay still for fuck’s sake."

I barely hear it. Peyton is standing in front of me, looking faintly sick to her stomach as she clutches her bag like a shield and stares at me with wide, wide eyes.

She's so fucking gorgeous it hurts, and seeing her, something in my gut settles, a shard that was out of place sliding where it belongs with a sick snick that makes my stomach churn and my head spin.

It feels right.

I told her I wanted to know now if this was just a distraction, wanted to know before it was too late to get out without getting hurt.

But staring at her, I know the truth. It's too late already. Maybe it's always been too late where she's concerned.

This girl will break me into a thousand pieces, and I won't even care. I'll shatter with a smile and thank her for the chance to care about her, even from a distance.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, pushing to my feet. She's standing close enough that when I rise, I'm almost pressed against her, and for a moment, all I can smell is sunshine and sugar and her. I sway close to her without meaning to.

“We need to talk,” she says softly. I glance back at Scott. The session has just started and he’ll be under Staci’s machine for the next two hours, while she traces ink up and down his spine in intricate clockwork.

“Go,” he says gritting his teeth when the needle bumps over his spine and I nod once. Grab her hand and pull her out of the stall and onto the sunlit sidewalk outside Dragon’s Head Tattoo. I let her go almost immediately and she shifts, nerves playing over her features.

“Talk,” I say and she lets out the breath she’s been holding. I can hear the frustration in her huff, but I ignore it. I can’t let myself care about that right now.

Even knowing I’m being an ass, I can’t let myself care.

“You want to sit down or something?”

I shrug, and slip my shades on. It’s a dick move, hiding behind the mirrored lenses. I do it anyway. "What are you doing here, Peyton?"

"I'm the daughter of a southern Baptist small town politician," she says, abruptly. "Daddy started out a doctor--had a real nice family practice. But it wasn't enough, and when I was in middle school, he went into politics. It became everything our family was. He was mayor and then our representative in the state legislature, and it just--it never ended. Every election was a new step and it didn't ever stop."

I stare at her, and she shrugs. "Everyone expected me to be a good little southern belle. Perfect Daddy's girl at the political dinners and events and rallies. And I was. I was really good at it. I played my perfect part really well."

There's something in her tone that has me nervous and I shift, reaching for her. She jerks back, out of my reach. "Just. Let me say this," she almost begs, and I nod.

"I hated it. I was good at it, and I did what they expected, but I hated it. I got involved in drugs. Nothing too serious, just shit that I knew would piss off my parents, if they were to find out. Binge drinking and random hookups." She laughs as my stomach churns. "Sometimes I think it's a miracle I made it through high school. I was the epitome of self-destructive. But the part that really fucked me and my parents up was the eating disorder." She takes a deep breath and digs into her bag, pulling out a beat up journal that she extends to me silently. "You want the truth. Want to know what I'm keeping to myself. It's in there."

I'm shaking my head and stepping away from her even while she's still speaking. Because I might want the truth, but I sure as fuck don't want it that way, because she thinks she has to give it to me. "I want it when you’re ready to share," I growl.

"I'm never going to be ready to share this, Jokes. That's the thing. I hate who I was. It's why I left and came here. Why I don't talk about my past and where I came from, why I rarely go home, and have almost nothing to do with my family. Because I don't want to be that girl anymore and the only way I know how to be someone else is to BE someone else. I don't keep you on the outside because I want you there. I keep you on the outside because I'm still trying to figure out who the hell I am."