Chapter 1: The Prodigal Son Returns
The air in the shop was a permanent cocktail of antiseptic, incense, and the faint, metallic scent of ink. Neon signs cast a sickly, vibrant glow across the framed flash on the walls—skulls, roses, old-school eagles that looked like they’d seen combat themselves. The low hum of the ventilation system was a constant white noise, beneath which, if you listened closely, was the lingering memory of a tattoo machine’s buzz. It was a cave, really. Gunnar’s cave.
He stood before the small sink in the back, hands scrubbed raw, looking at the man in the mirror. The reflection showed a fortress. Broad shoulders strained against the black cotton of his tee. A landscape of faded ink and puckered scars mapped his arms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. The beard, a thing of untamed brown that hid the line of his jaw, made his eyes—a pale, weathered blue—seem like chips of ice in a forest. He sighed, the movement causing a slight, comfortable pull at the waistband of his jeans. The beer belly was new. Civilian issue. He kinda liked it.
The bell above the front door jingled, a sound too cheerful for the dim space.
Footsteps clicked on the polished concrete floor. He didn’t turn around, just watched in the mirror as a shape entered his periphery.
“Holy sweet jumpin’ Jehovah.”
The voice was pure honey and hot gravel, a lifetime of filterless cigarettes and shouting orders over a grill. He knew it instantly.
He turned, a slow, deliberate pivot. Jenny Maeve stood frozen three feet inside the door, a white paper coffee tray trembling in her hand. Her eyes, wide as saucers, travelled from his boots, up the dense forest of his legs, over the solid wall of his chest, and finally locked onto his face. Her own face, still pretty beneath a careful layer of makeup and a halo of bottle-blonde curls, cycled through shock, disbelief, and a dawning, hungry recognition.
“Little Gunny Bjornstad?” she breathed, the words barely audible over the hum of the fridge where he kept the ink.
A slow smile spread beneath his beard. “Jenny. The coffee’s probably cold by now.”
She blinked, looking down at the tray as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. “What in the ever-lovin’ hell did the army feed you, boy? Steroids and warheads?” She set the tray down on his reception counter with a definitive thud, her composure snapping back into place like a rubber band. She smoothed her diner apron over her generous curves, a gesture that was both self-conscious and proprietary. “Heard you was back. Heard you was openin’ this… establishment.” Her gaze swept the room, lingering on the sterile chair, the intimidating machines. “Figured you could use a proper welcome. Coffee. Black, just like you used to drink it before you left and turned into… this.”
“This appreciates it,” Gunnar said, ambling over. He took one of the cups, peeled back the lid. The steam carried the familiar, bitter aroma. A taste of before. “Price?”
“Oh, it’s on the house,” Jenny said, leaning her hip against the counter, invading the space just enough. Her eyes sparkled. “Consider it a down payment.”
“On what?”
“On information, sugar. You’ve been gone fifteen years. The town’s the same, but the people ain’t. I know everything. Who’s mean, who’s clean, who’s carryin’ what kind of drama. You’re gonna need a translator.” She let that hang, then tilted her head. “Also, I get first dibs.”
“Dibs?”
“On whatever I want. Right here.” She tapped a long, manicured nail on her own bicep.
Gunnar took a long sip of the coffee. It was perfect. “You drive a hard bargain, Jenny Maeve.”
“Always have.” She winked, pushed off the counter. “I’ll be by Thursday. Think of something pretty.” She was almost to the door when she turned back. “And Gunny? Welcome home. It’s about damn time.”
The bell jingled again, leaving a cloud of floral perfume and unresolved history in her wake. Gunnar let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Small towns never forgot. They just filed you away until you came back to collect.
The next hour passed in quiet preparation. He organized needles, checked sterilizer cycles, lost himself in the mundane ritual of readiness. The bell chimed a second time, softer this time.
He looked up.
Marla Krawczyk stood in the doorway, backlit by the harsh afternoon sun, looking like a startled dove that had accidentally flown into a garage. She was hugging a stack of library books to her chest like a shield. A sensible cardigan, despite the heat. Her hair was a neat, brown bob. But her eyes… her eyes were doing a rapid assessment of the room, of him, that was anything but sensible.
“Gunnar?” Her voice was softer than Jenny’s, a librarian’s voice.
“Marla. Hey.”
She took a tentative step inside, letting the door swing shut. The dimness seemed to soften her. “I heard you were open. I just… I was walking by.”
“With a month’s worth of books.”
A faint pink blush crept up her neck. “I like to be prepared.” She shifted her weight, put the books down on the chair by the door. Freed, her hands fluttered for a moment before she clasped them in front of her. “You look… different.”
“So do you.” It was true. The mousy, silent girl from the back of chemistry class was gone. In her place was a woman holding herself with a new, if nervous, awareness. The cardigan couldn’t hide the lines of her. Divorce, he’d heard. It had changed her.
She walked further into the room, her eyes grazing the equipment, the art, him. “I want a tattoo.”
“Okay. What were you thinking? Where?”
“I don’t know yet.” The blush deepened. “Something… for me. Not for a husband. Or a town. Just for me.” She met his gaze directly then, and the shyness evaporated, replaced by a startling boldness. “I was thinking… we could trade.”
Gunnar crossed his arms, leaned back against the counter. “Trade.”
“Yes.” She took another step closer. The scent of her was different from Jenny’s—soap and paperbacks and something warmer underneath. “I can’t really afford your rates, I’m sure. But I’m… a quick study. And very… appreciative.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “I could help around the shop. Clean. Sterilize. Answer phones. And you could teach me. About the art. And I could… practice.”
The word hung in the air, thick with implication. Practice. On him? With him?
The image flashed, unbidden: this quiet woman in her librarian clothes, focused, intent, her fingers guiding a buzzing needle over his skin. It was an intimacy far more profound than the casual offer in her eyes.
Before he could formulate a response—a joke, a deflection, an acceptance—the bell jangled again, violently this time.
Both of them turned.
A man filled the doorway, silhouetted against the light. Not as tall as Gunnar, but thick, with a bullish neck and the palpable aura of someone looking for a problem. Grady Hicks. A name and a face from the deep past, preserved in amber of pure, petty spite.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Grady drawled, stepping inside. His eyes, small and piggish, skipped over Marla dismissively and locked onto Gunnar. “Little Gunny. All grown up and playin’ arts and crafts.” He smirked, revealing a missing incisor. “Heard you was back. Figured I’d come see what all the fuss was about.”
Marla took an instinctive step back, towards her books.
Gunnar didn’t move. He uncrossed his arms, let them hang loose at his sides. A neutral position. For now. “Grady. Can I help you with something?”
“Just lookin’.” Grady’s gaze swept the shop with mock appraisal. “Nice place. Expensive. Wonder how a guy on army pay affords a setup like this.” His eyes slid back to Gunnar, sharp and accusing. “Or maybe you brought back some souvenirs to sell. Heard things got a little loose over there towards the end.”
The air in the room changed. The hum of the fridge grew louder. The neon glow seemed to pulse. Marla’s breath caught.
Gunnar felt the old coldness seeping into his veins, a familiar and unwanted guest. He saw, with crystal clarity, the next five seconds. The provocation. The reaction. The way Grady’s nose would explode under his fist. The sirens. The end of his fresh start before it even began.
He took a long, slow breath, filling the vast space of his chest. He felt the slight, soft weight of his belly against his belt. A reminder. This was not then. This was here.
He offered Grady a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The only souvenir I brought back was me, Grady. Shop’s official grand opening is Friday. You should come by. I’ll give you a friends-and-family discount.” He paused, let the word ‘family’ taste like acid on his tongue. “On the house, even.”
Grady’s smirk faltered. He’d expected a fight, not this… immovable object. He chewed the inside of his cheek, glanced at Marla who was now staring at the floor, then back at Gunnar. The calculation was visible in his dull eyes. The odds had shifted.
“Yeah. Maybe I will.” It was a retreat, clumsy and sour. He turned, shoved the door open harder than necessary, and disappeared into the blinding afternoon.
Silence poured back in, heavy and hot.
Marla finally looked up. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear. With something like fascination. “He’s an idiot,” she said quietly.
“Yep.”
She walked over, picked up her books, held them to her chest again. The moment from before was shattered, but a new, sharper understanding lay in its wreckage. “Your offer,” Gunnar said, his voice a low rumble. “I’ll think about it.”
She nodded, a quick, decisive dip of her chin. “Good.” She moved to the door, stopped with her hand on the frame. She didn’t look back. “He’ll be back, you know. With friends.”
“I know.”
She left then, the bell making a gentler sound this time.
Gunnar stood alone in the humming, neon-drenched stillness. The coffee was cold. The ghosts were warm. And the welcome home party was just getting started. He looked at his own rough hands, then at the empty doorway. A small smile touched his lips, hidden deep within his beard.
Let them come.