Never again.
But his nerves would have to fucking suck it. Because he needed the work—not just for the money, but because he needed to help people. Right now, he was all about playing to his strengths, and doing his job had always been one. That much he could definitely give himself credit for.
He shouldn’t have been worried.
To a man, they were nothing but happy to have him back. Even better, the day was a marathon of calls, one after the other, but it was smooth sailing all the way. Clocking out at the end of the shift made him feel ten feet tall. It had been just the confidence booster he needed.
And it gave him a little hope, too.
If he could get back on his feet at work, maybe, just maybe, that meant he could make things right in other parts of his life as well. Above all else, he wanted to make things right with Makenna.
Thinking of her made him ache, but less and less with unworthiness, guilt, and fear. No, this ache stemmed from the hollowness caused by their long separation, by her absence from his life. He missed her so bad that his chest often throbbed with it, like he’d left a part of himself in her hands. And he unquestionably had.
He just needed a little more time. A little more time to get himself right. A little more time to make peace with the past. A little more time to become the man that Makenna deserved and Caden wanted to be.
He just needed a little more time.
*
A few nights later, Caden was sitting at his kitchen table writing out bills and suddenly found himself staring at the dragon tattoo on the back of his right hand and arm.
He saw it every day, of course. But for some reason, he hadn’t actually seen it in a very long time. He hadn’t remembered why it was there.
The tattoo had been a declaration and a promise. A declaration to himself that he’d conquered his fears, and a promise to his brother, Sean, that Caden would be strong, that Caden wouldn’t live his life in fear when Sean couldn’t live his at all.
“I forgot to be the dragon, Sean. But I won’t forget again,” he said out loud.
Which gave him an idea.
He placed a call, got lucky making an appointment, and booked it out of the house. Caden made it to Heroic Ink within twenty minutes.
“Glad you called, man,” Heath said, extending his hand. “Been slow as fucking molasses in here all day.”
Caden returned the handshake. “This is win-win then because I really wanted to get in tonight.”
“Well, come on back and let’s rock and roll,” Heath said. “Flying solo?”
“Yeah,” Caden said, the reference to Makenna not making him sad and regretful—for once, but making him even more confident in what he was about to do. Because clearly, he was in need of a new reminder, a new declaration, a new promise. And ink had always been part of his process for coping and healing.
“So tell me what you’re thinking,” Heath said, gesturing to the chair at his station.
“It’s text. I want it on my left forearm, big as you can make it.” As he sat, he handed Heath a sheet of paper he’d written on in the Jeep.
Heath nodded. “Want any embellishments? Flowers? Ribbon? Flourishes. Have any thoughts on font?”
“I’m open. You know what looks good, and I always like what you come up with. Just so the words are bold and the most prominent thing about the piece, I’ll be happy,” Caden said.
“Gimme ten to pull something together,” Heath said, opening up his laptop. It didn’t even take ten minutes. “What about something like this?”
Caden’s gaze ran over the design on the screen. It was different from anything he’d imagined, so naturally it was perfect. “Do it. Just like that.”
The first dig of the needles into his skin was like a balm to his soul. He’d always loved the feeling of getting a tattoo. He liked the pain because it reminded him he was alive. Enduring it always made him feel stronger. And each new piece always left him feeling like he’d donned a new plate in the suit of armor he’d spent a lifetime creating.
This one was no different.
What Heath had designed was intricate, and good-looking lettering took time, so Caden was there a long while. But he was totally fucking content. For once. Even though tattoos on the forearm hurt like a mofo.
About two and a half hours later, Heath said, “All done.”
Caden hadn’t been watching because he wanted to wait for the full effect when the tat was done. Now, he looked.
Solid black cursive words sat at an angle on his forearm in groups of twos, reading from his wrist to his inner elbow:
One Life One Chance No Regrets