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The only issue is, she runs from me, and far. Something about my night with Fia felt different. It felt like a soul tie. From the moment we touched, I felt like if I ever touched anyone else, it wouldn’t feel the same.

“You haven’t even gotten a glimpse of the hundreds of models basically on your doorstep? Are you sick?” Duke asks, in shock.

“I have other hobbies besides women, you know?”

“Of course, but that’s always been your favorite.”

He’s not wrong. Who wouldn’t want to have endless options? I got to spend my nights doing exactly what and who I wanted. But I’m tired of the playboy lifestyle. Especially when it’s so damn hard to keep up with the façade.

I huff, still lingering at the patio door as everyone gives me suspicious smirks.

“I’ve really got to get going. Rocky will be at my place in an hour.”

“Are you not going to take any leftovers? Let me make you a plate?” Mom begins to rise from her seat.

I stop her with a gentle wave of my hand. “I’m fine, really. I’ll see you guys soon.”

Rocky’s my tattoo artist. I met him through Royce, our oldest brother, one summer in Miami. He’s the only person I’ve ever let touch my skin. Any time I have the itch to get more ink, I fly him out.

This morning, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer for this one, so I chartered him a plane.

“Do you even have room for anymore ink?” my dad asks, his tone light and fatherly.

I started getting tattoos when I was sixteen. I practically begged my parents, who said no hundreds of times. As the youngest of four brothers, what do you do when one of your parents says no? You consult your oldest brother.

Royce had one condition: I could get whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, I just had to use the artist he picked. Almost seventeen years later, Rocky and I haven’t parted since.

At first, I wanted ink just to fit in. Playing sports in high school and college, there was always an influx of guys who came back after every summer break with fresh ink.

I wanted to be like them, wanted to feel like I was a part of something.

But once I started, I couldn’t stop.

More than that, once I’d acquired a bad boy reputation, it was almost standard to fit the mold.

“I can always find an empty space somewhere,” I joke back, thankful that my father hasn’t pressed me like the rest of the table.

Without a backwards glance, I announce my final goodbye, and slide into my G-wagon. My hands grip tightly on the steering wheel as I replay the evening. On top of my sleazy image, I’m also the clown of every group, but my life is nothing but humorous.

Especially without the noise.

Foot on the brake, I remain idle in my parents’ circle driveway. When I pull up the social media grid I’ve been hyperfixated on, I find the picture I’m looking for.

The sole inspiration behind my newest tattoo.

My ink is all black. Angels, airplanes, and script shadow nearly every surface of my body. This piece, however, will be the only color.

The only color I see.

The color that ignites my soul.

The color that’s changed everything.

The drive from Greenway Grove to Nashville is long, but the open road is the quiet I need to suppress the chaos of my brain.

The battle I’m fighting is one that’s laid dormant for years. One I’ve drowned in booze and women, too scared to face. But for the past two years I’ve forced myself into silence. I’ve removed distractions, redirected every path, and my breaking point is near, I can feel it. The constant pressure to be exactly how everyone views me, while still being confused about who I really am... It’s all exhausting.

An hour later, I pull into the underground parking of Providence Grand, where I keep a penthouse in the city.