19. Eighteen

The tattoo gun vibrated in my hand as I traced the sacred heart design, its shape materializing on my client's skin. The low buzz blended with the punk rock and the laughter of Cherry and Ketchup at the front counter. For once, the noise in my head had quieted, letting me lose myself in the familiar flow of my craft.

I sat back and surveyed my linework, making sure the edges were crisp and clean. Not too shabby. Setting the gun down, I wiped away the excess ink and blood, the angry red of the fresh tattoo stark against pale flesh. “Okay, take a look,” I said, angling my client towards the full-length mirror. “What do you think?”

The girl twisted to get a better view, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Holy shit, Eli. This is fucking gorgeous!” She turned back, eyes alight. “You're brilliant.”

My mouth crooked up at the praise even as I ducked my head, an old instinct. “Thanks. I'm glad you're happy with it.” I covered the tattoo with ointment and saran wrap, taping down the edges. “Now, you know the drill, but I'm gonna tell you anyway. Keep that wrap on for the next two hours, then you can take it off and gently wash the tattoo with unscented antibacterial soap. Pat it dry and apply a thin layer of the ointment I'm gonna give you. Do that three to four times a day for the first few days.”

I grabbed a small container of Aquaphor and a sheet of aftercare instructions, handing them over to her. “After that, switch to an unscented lotion. Something light. And don't you dare pick at it if it scabs or peels,” I warned, giving her a stern look. “Just let it do its thing. It's gonna itch like a bitch, but you gotta resist.”

“Sir, yes sir,” the girl said with a cheeky salute before breaking into a grin. “Seriously though, thanks Eli. You're a fucking artist.”

I snorted, waving off the compliment even as a pleased flush crept up my neck. “Just doing my job. Besides, you sat like a champ. Ribs are a bitch.”

“What can I say? I'm a badass,” she quipped, shrugging back into her tank top with care.

“Yeah, you’re a regular Xena Warrior Princess, Mandy,” Cherry quipped as I walked her to the counter.

Mandy rolled her eyes but laughed, poking Cherry in the side. “Jealous of my badassery, Cher-Bear?”

“Oh totally. I'm quaking in my boots,” Cherry deadpanned.

Ketchup snickered. “What boots? You mean those ratty-ass Chucks you've had since high school?”

“Excuse you, these are vintage!” Cherry protested, propping her foot up on the counter to show off the faded red canvas, threadbare laces, and peeling soles of her beloved Converse.

“Vintage, my ass,” Mandy giggled. “More like straight outta the Goodwill bargain bin.”

“Hey, one man's trash is another man's treasure,” Cherry said sagely. “Don't be mad 'cause you ain't got style like me.”

“Style? Is that what we're calling it now?” Ketchup asked, arching a pierced brow.

“Damn straight,” Cherry said, preening. “It’s not my fault y'all are too blind to recognize my unique fashion sense.”

I smirked, shaking my head as I rang Mandy up. “More like lack of fashion sense.”

Cherry clutched at her chest. “Et tu, Eli? Betrayed by my own brother in ink!”

“Hey, I call it like I see it,” I said with a shrug, handing Mandy her change.

Mandy's laughter faded into the background as the bell over the door jangled.

I glanced up and froze, my blood running cold as ice water through my veins. A man stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space, the late afternoon light filtering in behind him, casting his chiseled features in stark relief. He wore a black suit, impeccably tailored to his muscular build, a crisp white shirt, and a crimson tie that looked like a splash of blood against his throat. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, military-style, and his steel-gray eyes held a piercing intensity. Everything about him screamed he was some variety of cop.

Fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck.

My heart jackhammered against my ribcage as he approached the counter, each thud of his polished dress shoes against the scuffed linoleum a deafening drumbeat to my ears. He moved with the easy grace of a predator, a wolf among rabbits, and I found myself instinctively shrinking back, shoulders hunching inward. A trickle of cold sweat slid down my spine to pool at the small of my back.

Please don't be here for me , I prayed silently.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and my breath seized in my lungs, trapped behind the lump of dread lodged in my throat. But it wasn't a gun he pulled out. It was a badge. The gold shield glinted under the buzzing fluorescent lights as he flipped it open, holding it up for us to see. “I’m Special Agent Valentine, FBI. I'm looking for an Elias Baker.”

Fuck. I was so fucked. What did he want with me? I didn't have any warrants out for my arrest and I hadn't even jaywalked since escaping the cult, keeping my nose so clean it fucking sparkled. But this was the FBI. They didn't show up on your doorstep for shits and giggles.

“I'm Eli,” I said quietly.

Valentine's piercing gaze locked onto me, pinning me in place like a butterfly specimen. “Mr. Baker, I need to speak with you. In private.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara. Cherry and Ketchup stared at me, a prickle between my shoulders that made me want to hunch in on myself. But they stayed silent, watching the scene unfold.

“I...” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat, trying again. “Can I ask what this is about?”

Valentine's expression remained impassive, his eyes flinty. “I'm not at liberty to discuss the details in public. I must insist we speak somewhere privately. It's a sensitive matter.”

Unease churned in my stomach, a sickening whirlpool of dread. What could be so sensitive that it warranted a personal visit from an FBI agent? My mind raced with possibilities, each more dire than the last. Did they know about my past with the Children of the Light? Had they found out about my escape, the things I'd done to survive on the streets before the cult took me in?

I glanced at Cherry and Ketchup, pleading silently. They stared back, wide-eyed and helpless.

I swallowed hard, my heart racing as I gave a jerky nod. “Okay. We can... we can talk in the back room.”

Valentine inclined his head, a single crisp motion. “Lead the way, Mr. Baker.”

I glanced at Cherry and Ketchup one last time, trying to convey a silent apology, before turning and walking stiffly towards the back of the shop. I could feel Valentine's presence behind me, an oppressive weight bearing down on me, making it hard to breathe. The distance to the back room seemed to stretch on, each step heavy.

I pushed open the door with a trembling hand, the hinges creaking loudly in the tense silence. The room was small and cluttered, filled with boxes of supplies, a battered couch, and a rickety card table. I'd spent countless hours back here, sketching designs and shooting the shit with Cherry and Ketchup during slow shifts. But now the familiar space felt alien, hostile almost.

I stepped inside, Valentine close behind. The door shut with a thud. The overhead light flickered on, casting the room in a yellow glow.

My pulse thrummed in my ears as I turned to face Valentine, my back pressed against the edge of the card table. I gripped the table's edge, my knuckles white. “So,” I began, hating the way my voice wavered. I swallowed and tried again. “What did you want to talk about?”

Valentine regarded me with those piercing gray eyes, his expression inscrutable. He seemed to fill the cramped room with his presence, looming larger than his already impressive stature. “You're quite the talented artist, Mr. Baker,” he said, nodding towards the half-open sketchbook on the table behind me. “That's some impressive work.”

I blinked, thrown by the non sequitur. “I... thanks?”

“How long have you been tattooing?” Valentine asked, clasping his hands in front of him. The overhead light glinted off the polished gold of his FBI badge clipped to his belt.

“Uh, about a year now,” I said slowly, eyeing him warily.

“And you've been at this shop the whole time?”

“Yeah. Why? Is something going on with the shop? Because you should talk to Cherry if—”

“There’s no trouble with the shop, kid,” he said, lifting a hand. “This is about you, Mr. Baker. Specifically, your past involvement with a certain religious group.”

My blood turned to ice in my veins, a cold dread seizing my heart in a vice grip. No. No no no. This couldn't be happening. After everything I'd been through, all the pain and degradation I'd endured to escape that hellish place, my past couldn't come back to haunt me like this. Not now, when I'd finally started to build some semblance of a normal life.

I tried to keep my expression neutral even as panic clawed at my insides, my skin crawling with the phantom sensation of unwanted hands on my flesh. “I'm not sure what you're talking about,” I said, but my voice sounded thin and reedy even to my own ears.

Valentine's expression hardened. “I know you were part of the cult. You're not in trouble, but I have questions about your time there.”

My hands trembled. Valentine's words hung heavy in the air between us, pressing down on me like a physical weight. Each breath was an effort, my lungs constricting painfully in my chest.

“I... I don't...” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat like shards of glass. “I don't want to talk about that time in my life. It's...it's in the past.”

Valentine's steely gaze never wavered, those flinty eyes boring into me like a laser beam. “I understand this is difficult, Mr. Baker. But I need you to answer my questions. Lives could be at stake.”

A bitter laugh rose in my throat. Lives at stake? What about my life after escaping that hell? But I bit back the retort, my jaw aching.

“What do you want to know?” I asked quietly.

“Let's start with how you came to be involved with the Children of the Light,” Valentine said, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Walk me through it.”

I exhaled shakily, dragging a hand over my face. I closed my eyes, memories I'd tried so hard to bury clawing their way to the surface. The stench of the crowded homeless shelter. The gnawing ache of hunger. And the shame of being a failure, a disappointment, a sinner.

“I didn't have a choice,” I said. “After my parents kicked me out for being gay, I had nowhere else to go. I was seventeen, broke, living on the streets. Shelters when I could get in, sleeping in alleyways and abandoned buildings when I couldn't.”

I could still feel the grime in my pores, a visible taint. The metallic taste of fear, a constant companion as I fought to survive.

“I was desperate. Hungry. So when the Children of the Light showed up at the shelter one day, spouting all this rhetoric about salvation and purpose, a chance to be a part of something bigger... I listened. I thought they were another church group, but they promised they could help me. Turn my life around. They promised me something more and, like an idiot, I believed them.”

My vision swam as the memories crashed over me in violent waves, dragging me under. The musty prayer bus, thick with incense. Gnarled hands pinning me to the floor as I choked out pleas for forgiveness, for mercy.

Please God, make me clean. Take away these unnatural desires. I don't want to be an abomination anymore. I'll do anything, I swear. Just fix me, please fix me...

Valentine's voice cut through the memory, anchoring me back to the present. “What happened after they recruited you?”

I shook my head and tried to calm my breathing. “Nothing much at first. It was pretty normal for a week or two. The cult has this…level program. You start at a five and work your way towards zero. The lower the number, the closer you are to the inner circle. I never made it past a four.”

“And what did being a level four entail?”

I licked my lips, my mouth desert-dry. The memories threatened to drown me, phantom hands clawing at my body, my mind. I dug my fingers into my thighs, grounding myself with the dull ache.

“A lot of prayer. Memorizing scripture. And the revival sessions...” I swallowed hard.

Valentine leaned forward, his pen pressed to the tiny little notebook in his palm. “Did they ever sexually abuse you?”

I stared at Valentine, my throat constricting, the words lodged in my chest like jagged shards of glass. “I...” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, my heartbeat a deafening drum in my ears. “They... the elders, they...”

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting against the onslaught of images seared into my brain. Hands pinning me down. The cloying stench of incense and sweat. The flicker of firelight dancing across leering faces. Chapped lips spilling scripture even as they violated my body, my soul.

“They said it would cleanse me of my sin. Purge the unnatural desires from my flesh,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the roaring in my ears. “That through their touch, I could be redeemed.”

Valentine's pen stilled on the page, his sharp gaze fixing on my face with laser focus. “They sexually assaulted you,” he said, more statement than question.

I shook my head, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes until starbursts exploded across the backs of my eyelids. Anything to block out the images, the phantom sensations. “I don't... I can't...” The words caught in my throat, choked and mangled.

Valentine's voice seemed to come from far away, muffled like I was hearing it from underwater. “I need you to tell me when this happened, Elias. How old were you? Were you a minor?”

I shook my head, a sharp, jerky motion. “I don't... it's all a blur. The days all bled together. I was seventeen when I joined, but I don't... I can't...”

My chest constricted, lungs spasming as I fought for air. It felt like a steel band was wrapped around my ribs, squeezing tighter and tighter with each shallow, gasping breath. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision and I swayed on my feet, bile rising in the back of my throat.

Valentine's voice sounded far away, muffled, like I was underwater. “Eli? Eli, I need you to focus. This is important. Do you remember any names? Locations?”

I shook my head again, a tremor running through my body. Sweat beaded on my brow, cold and clammy. “I can't... I don't remember much. It's all fragments, flashes. Like a nightmare I can't fully piece together.”

“Would you be willing to come in and give an official statement?” he asked. “Something we can use to get these bastards and put them away for good before they hurt anyone else.”

I stared at Valentine, his words bouncing around my skull like ricocheting bullets. Give an official statement? Dredge up every sordid, horrific detail of what those monsters did to me and put it on record? The thought made my stomach heave, the coppery taste of fear flooding my mouth.

I opened my mouth to refuse, to tell him to go to hell, but what came out instead was a hoarse, broken whisper. “I... I don't know if I can do that. It's too much, too... raw. I've spent so long trying to bury it all, to move on...”

Valentine's expression softened a fraction, something almost like sympathy flickering in those flinty eyes. “I understand this is incredibly difficult, Eli. And I wouldn't ask if it wasn't crucial. Your testimony could be the key to putting these bastards away for good. To stop them from destroying more lives. But if you’re not ready…” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a crisp white business card, holding it out to me. “This has my direct line at the Bureau. Call me anytime, day or night, if you change your mind or remember anything else that could help the investigation.”

I took the card with numb fingers, the embossed letters seeming to swim before my eyes. Special Agent Ashley Valentine. The name seared itself into my brain. I nodded jerkily, not trusting my voice.

Valentine straightened, adjusting his tie. “I'll be in touch, Mr. Baker. Thank you for your time.”

I stared at the business card in my hand long after Valentine left, the crisp edges digging into my palm. My mind reeled, thoughts fractured. I couldn't seem to catch my breath, lungs burning with each shallow inhale. The walls of the cramped back room seemed to close in around me, suffocating and oppressive.

I needed air. I needed space. I needed...

Before I even realized what I was doing, I had my phone pressed to my ear, the tinny ring echoing in my skull as I waited with bated breath. Please pick up. Please, please pick up.

Shepherd's voice washed over me, soothing my nerves. “Eli? Is everything all right?”

I slumped against the table, exhaling shakily. “I needed to hear your voice.”

“Eli, what's wrong? You sound shaken. Did something happen?”

I closed my eyes, leaning heavily against the table as I focused on the deep, rich timbre of his voice. The knot in my chest loosened slightly, my breathing evening out. “I had a rough client,” I said, the half-truth bitter on my tongue. “Brought up some old memories. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you at work, I just...”

“You could never bother me, Eli,” Shepherd said firmly. “I'm here for you, always. Do you need me to come get you? I can be there in twenty minutes.”

Temptation tugged at me, urging me to say yes. To let Shepherd sweep in and make everything better, shield me from the world and my own treacherous thoughts. But I couldn't do that to him. Couldn't upend his entire day because I was too weak to handle my own demons.

“No, no, you don't have to do that,” I said, shaking my head even though he couldn't see me. “I'm okay.”

Shepherd was quiet for a moment, and I could picture him so clearly in my mind - brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as he weighed my words. Trying to decide if he should push or let it be.

“All right,” Shepherd said finally, his tone still laced with concern. “But I want you to promise me something, Eli. If it gets to be too much, if you need to step away or come home early, you'll call me. No questions asked. I'll be there to pick you up. Okay?”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes and I blinked them back furiously, my throat tightening with emotion. “Okay,” I whispered, my voice cracking slightly. “I promise.”

“Good. I'll have my phone on me all day, so call or text whenever you need to. Even if it's just to tell me about the designs you're working on. I'm here for you, whatever you need.”

“I know. Thank you, Sir. For everything.”

“You never have to thank me for looking after you, Eli,” Shepherd said softly. “I’ll see you in a few hours when your shift is over.”

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat, blinking back the fresh wave of tears that threatened to spill over. “Yeah. See you then.”

After I hung up, I stood there for a minute, clutching the phone like it was a lifeline. Shepherd’s words still echoed in my head, grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected. The knot in my chest had loosened a little more, my breathing steadied. The thought of him coming to rescue me had been tempting—so, so tempting—but I knew I didn’t need it. I could finish this shift. I wanted to finish it.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and took a deep breath. Shepherd believed in me, trusted me to handle things even when I doubted myself. I couldn’t fall apart now.

Pushing away from the table, I straightened my shoulders and headed back toward the front of the shop. The familiar buzz of the tattoo gun filled the air as Cherry worked on her latest client, her eyes flicking up to meet mine as I stepped back into the main room.

“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice low enough that it didn’t carry beyond her station.

“I’m good,” I said, managing a small smile, and I got right back to work.