Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 6

I’m dicing scallions when the first sizzle hits the pan, that quiet, satisfying hiss that settles something deep in me. The kitchen smells like garlic, charred onions, and the sauce I’ve spent the last forty minutes perfecting. It’s the only place my head stops spinning, where things make sense. Sharp knives. Measured cuts. A recipe I can control.

I flip the chicken thighs in the pan and tweak the sauce again, scribbling notes into the battered leather notebook I keep on the counter. I’m running out of space on the page, but I jot it down anyway, 'less chili, more ginger next time.'

The kitchen island is covered...every corner, every inch....with ingredients, spices, tiny bowls of prepped garnishes. Organized chaos, but it’s mine. I cover the stupidly expensive heavy-bottomed pot I splurged on last month. Worth every damn cent.

Then my phone rings.

I glance at the screen, it's Adam. Not Xander. Of course it’s not Xander. Still, a sliver of me hopes. Pathetic. Dangerous, that kind of hope.

I press the pad of my thumb against the split in my lip, a sting blooming beneath the touch. It's tender, raw in that way that makes it impossible to forget how it happened.

I’d barely made it through my front door, but my hand had already been working before I even hit the bed. And I hated how desperate I’d felt...how fast I’d come with his name still tangled on my tongue.

It wasn’t even the kiss itself. It was what it left behind. The taste. The pull. The goddamn phantom of his body pressed up against mine, cocky and a little afraid.

I drag my tongue along the cut now, just to feel the burn again.

It’s all I’ve got.

I sigh and pick up.

“What? Flight not land?”

“Landed fine,” Adam says. “I need a favor.”

I already don’t like where this is going.

“Can you check on Layla? She’s not answering my calls. Or texts.”

I lean against the counter, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. “What did you do, Crest?”

A pause. Then, “She might’ve found out about Caleb.”

I whistle low under my breath. “Well, shit.”

“I don't know how, guess the bastard told her. He was at the concert last night—”

“Stop,” I cut him off. “You want me to what? Command her to text you back?”

“She’s at a tattoo convention,” he says quickly, voice tight. “ Inkspire, I’ll send the address. Just… call me when you find her. I'll get her to listen to me.”

I stare at the phone a second after he hangs up.

This is what feelings do to people. Make them reckless. Weak. Adam's out here acting like he’ll combust if Layla doesn’t return his texts.

I check on the pot, still needs time. I want it to be done, fast, suddenly. I want to get in the car, hit the road.

I glance around the kitchen one more time, I know exactly why I want to go.

And it sure as hell has nothing to do with Layla.

********

The moment I step into Inkspire, I regret it.

People are everywhere. Loud. Laughing too hard, talking too much. Skin on display like they’re in some sort of tattoo cult. Mesh tops, ripped denim, corsets, chains. Nipples pierced, lips split with hoops, even a guy with horns embedded into his damn forehead. It’s like walking into a body modification apocalypse. And yet, despite all that noise and flesh and ink, I don’t see Layla.

Not until I hear him.

Xander’s voice cuts through the crowd like a razor...low, teasing, cocky enough to make people laugh even though he’s barely said anything. I follow it, ducking past a woman with green hair and a guy balancing a tray of drinks, and then I see the crowd. Packed tight, all of them circled around a booth with Ziggler Ink hung above it like it’s God’s damn temple.

I don’t have to get close to know I’ve found them.

There’s a beat of static in my chest when my eyes land on him.

He’s standing in front of a tattoo bed, gloved hands moving as he speaks to the crowd, hair a beautiful fucking mess like he’s been running his fingers through it all day. His voice is honey-laced arrogance and pure charisma. People hang on every word like he’s some ink-stained prophet.

And right beside him is Layla.

She’s seated, like she’s been here a while. She turns her head and spots me. Her eyes narrow. Xander doesn’t even notice, too busy entertaining his goddamn audience.

But my eyes are glued to him. And I watch him. The way his hands move. The way he glances up now and then, tossing out comments with that lazy smile that turns strangers into fanatics.

There’s something about him like this....confident, untouchable, magnetic. It makes something inside me uncoil. Makes me want to drag him out of this crowd and press him up against something solid just to feel the way he melts under my hands.

A guy from the crowd calls out, voice full of laughter and challenge. “Petition to have the artist work shirtless!”

The crowd hoots. Cheers ripple out like waves.

My eyes find the voice instantly.

Brown hair. Mid-twenties, maybe. Slim, but not slight. Leather cuff on his wrist, tattoos snaking up both arms...one of them unfinished, like he either ran out of money or commitment. Smile a little too wide, eyes a little too familiar. He knows Xander.

Xander chuckles, of course he does and says, “You miss me Shawn? I can still make time for you after hours.”

My stomach turns to ice. I don’t move. Don’t blink. Just stare.

Shawn.....

Of course he’s the type. Tall enough, smug enough. Xander’s probably fucked him more than once. My jaw tics. I scan him again...decent bone structure, weak chin, fading tattoo of Poseidon on his bicep. Something ironic. No edge, just aesthetic.

I start imagining things I shouldn’t. Like how Shawn would scream if I carved that stupid fish god off his arm. Or how easy it’d be to break every finger that’s ever touched Xander.

He asks Layla where she wants the ink.

She doesn’t answer him. Not right away. She stands instead, turns directly toward me, and in one smooth, petty move, shimmies out of her jeans.

My brows lift.

I take out my phone and record the short clip. Her bare legs, the way she’s eyeing me like she knows exactly what she's doing. This is for Adam. Because she knows I’ll report back.

I send the video to him, followed by a text..

" You must’ve struck her rebellious nerve. She’s about to get tatted. Backside. "

It takes less than ten seconds for the response. He asks me to stop her, so I send back that she’s not a damn child.

I tuck my phone away, then take a step back, leaning into the wall, arms crossed.

Let him flirt, let him perform. He has no idea I’m here. No idea I’m watching.

But he will.

And when he does, I want to see the exact moment his expression changes.