She lifts a shoulder, eyes shifting away from mine. “I like kids. And Wren is sweet. I feel like maybe she enjoyed herself here with me.”
Shit. I gotta admit that would really help me out.
But I’m already sick of her judgment, and her thinking she knows so much better than me what I should be doing with Wren. Not to mention, she’s got no problem pulling shit without asking me first.
And then, there’s the fact that the longer I’m in the same room with her, the more I notice how the size of her tits would be just a perfect handful. And that when she’s nervous, she licks her bottom lip a little, and it’s distracting as fuck. And that when she looks me directly in the eyes, her pupils get round and dark, like maybe she’s getting as turned on as I am.
But then there’s that way her lips purse when she asks me about Wren. Like she thinks I’m a piece of shit, and she doesn’t care whether I know it.
Fuck that. I don’t need her help. I’ll find someone else.
“Nah. I’m good,” I grunt, turning away. “Thanks anyway.”
6
Cady
The next day is my day off.
And like most Wednesdays, my routine centers around a visit to the person who is my main anchor to the town of Tanner Springs.
“Hello!” I call. “Anybody home?” I rap softly on the half-open door.
“Well, hello there!” Uncle Daniel calls heartily from his chair. “Look who it is!”
It’s a routine that repeats itself every time I come to the Valley View Retirement Home. He always acts surprised to see it’s me, even though I’m here twice a week on the same days, like clockwork.
The temperature is cranked to its normal, tropical seventy-five degrees, as is his preference. Daniel is sitting at his usual spot, in a ratty leather recliner next to the window. He doesn’t get up, but raises his arms wide so I can lean into his hug. “Well, then, how’s my favorite niece?” he greets me as I step inside his room.
“I’m doing just fine,” I tell him, ignoring the pang it always gives me when he says those words. I never tell him, though, because I know he doesn’t mean it that way. It’s not his fault he never met Cassie. Instead, I give him a peck on the cheek.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Oh, you know. I can’t complain, but I will anyway,” he quips. Uncle Daniel always says this, too, but it still makes me laugh every time.
“Your back still hurting you?” I peel off my sweater and lay it over the arm of my chair, then sit down across from him.
“Oh, the back’s fine. It’s this damn arthritis.” He shakes his head and holds out his gnarled hands, as though you could see the pain radiating from them like cartoon lines.
Uncle Daniel is actually my great-uncle. My mother’s uncle, to be exact. He’s the last of the living relatives on my mother’s side — and therefore, the last connection to this part of Ohio, where my mom’s family comes from.
I didn’t see Uncle Daniel often when I was growing up, since he lived so far away. But he always sent me a card with a twenty-dollar bill on every one of my birthdays. In those cards, he would ask me how school was going, and compliment me on the drawings I would send him — telling me I was going to be a “heck of an artist one day” and saying that the birthday money was to be spent on art supplies.
Daniel was the only person in my life who ever really encouraged my creative impulses. Really, he was the only person in my life who encouraged me in any way. And even though I never managed to make anything of myself in that regard, I always appreciated that he believed in me enough to think I could be an artist if I put my mind to it. Which is why, when I had to pack up my life in North Carolina and leave it all behind, Tanner Springs was the first place I thought to come — for no other reason than this was the one place where I wouldn’t be completely alone and without family.
“Speaking of your arthritis, I brought you some Arnica gel,” I tell him now, reaching into my bag and pulling out a toothpaste-sized tube. “They say it helps with aches and pains if you rub it into your joints.”
“I’ve tried everything under the sun,” Uncle Daniel shakes his head. “Nothing works.”
“Have you tried this?” I ask pointedly. When he rolls his eyes, I laugh. “Well, then, you haven’t tried everything, have you?” I pull my chair closer. “Come on. Let me put some on you. At least give it a shot.”
I open the tube and squeeze a line of the gel into my palm, then rub my hands together. Taking my uncle’s right hand, I start to gently massage his fingers, taking care not to hurt them. Uncle Daniel watches me in dubious silence, but after a couple of minutes, I glance up and notice that the creases in his forehead have relaxed.
“Feel good?” I ask.
“It’s a hand massage,” he huffs. “Of course it feels good. Doesn’t mean it has anything to do with whatever that stuff is.”
I laugh and give him a raised brow. “Okay, then, Grumpus. Give me your other hand.”
I get some more gel and start in on his left hand. As I work, his breathing deepens and slows. I note the change with satisfaction. It’s clear the Arnica is doing some good, though he’ll never admit it.
“So, other than your arthritis, what else has been going on?”
“Well, not too much. But Mrs. Tanner down the hall is still after me,” Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. “That woman just can’t seem to take no for an answer.”
“You sure you don’t want to give her more of a chance?” I answer with a wink. “After all, she is a descendent of the illustrious family Tanner Springs is named after. She’s gotta have some serious dough. Maybe you could marry her and become a kept man?”
Daniel snorts. “She married into the family,” he corrects me. “Besides, if she had that much dough, she wouldn’t be living here. She’d still be in her mansion on the hill with staff waiting on her twenty-four hours a day.” He shakes his head. “But money or no money, I’m not interested.”
“Oh, come on. She’s hot property.”
“She’s got a personality like an underripe lemon.” Daniel puckers his lips and gives me a sour look. I laugh.
“How come you never married, Uncle Daniel?” I find myself asking. “Did you ever get close?”
Daniel pauses, and frowns at me for a second. A shadow seems to pass across his features. Finally, he shrugs. “Never met the right person,” he says lightly. “You can’t force it, you know.” I don’t know much about Daniel’s life as a younger man other than what he’s told me, which is spotty at best. “How about you, though?” he asks, shifting in his seat. “You’re the one who ought to be telling me all about your romantic adventures.”
I laugh again, this time with less humor. “There are no romantic adventures on the horizon, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Well, what are you doing with your time, then?”
“Nothing. Work, mostly.” Tank’s face appears in my mind, along with Wren’s. “I did some babysitting yesterday,” I continue. “For a little girl, four years old. Her name is Wren.” I’m careful not to say more, knowing that if Daniel finds out about Tank, he’ll start peppering me with questions. But thankfully, my impromptu babysitting gig doesn’t elicit any interest in my uncle, and we move on to other topics of conversation.
When I’m finished massaging Daniel’s hands, I go over to the small sink and grab a paper towel to wipe off my hands. “I’ll leave this stuff with you,” I tell him. “I’ll give you another massage next time I come. But in the meantime, give it a shot yourself if the pain gets too bad, okay?”
Daniel grunts but doesn’t reply. “How’s the painting going?” he asks instead.
I toss the paper towel in the bin. “Oh, you know, I’ve been pulling a lot of shifts at the diner,” I lie. “So finding time and inspiration has been a little tricky.”
“You need to make time for your dreams, Cady,” he admonishes me. “Otherwise, they’ll stay just that: dreams.”
“I know.” I give him
a bright smile, hoping it will end the conversation. It’s not the first time he’s told me this. The truth is, every time I’ve tried to start a new project — every time I sit down in front of a canvas — an ugly inner voice takes over inside me that I can’t silence. A voice that says, Who are you trying to kid? You’re not Cady Abernathy the big artist. You’re just Cady Abernathy, waitress and failed art school applicant.
“You know,” he continues, waving a hand toward the wall behind him. “I’ve got a blank space back there and nothing to cover it up with. Do me a favor, and paint something nice for an old man to look at, would you?”
I widen my eyes and look at him in mock-astonishment. “Ooh, you’re tricky. You’re going full-on guilt trip. You play dirty, Uncle Daniel.”
“Damn right I do,” he chuckles. “Whatever it takes. Now come on, promise me you’ll paint something for me. And don’t waste too much time. I could kick the bucket at any time.”
“Oh, my God,” I mutter as he cackles at me. “You are the worst.”
“I’m an old man.” He shrugs his shoulders. “You’ll forgive me.”
I try to get him to tell me what he wants me to paint, but he just tells me I’m the artist and refuses to give me any direction. I end up giving him my word, and that seems to satisfy him. From there, the subject changes to the usual nursing home gossip, and Daniel bitching about things he’s heard on the news, and how the world is going to “hell in a handbasket.” Eventually, he starts to look like he’s on the verge of nodding off, and it’s time for me to go. I stand up and tell him I’ll be back in a few days.
“All right then. I’ll try to fit you into my busy schedule,” Daniel jokes, lifting a hand in goodbye. “And don’t forget about that painting you promised me,” he calls as I close the door behind me.
On the drive home, I’m turning a corner a couple blocks from Main Street when I see a motorcycle approaching in the other direction. My stomach does a nauseating flip-flip as I recognize the colors of the Lords of Carnage on the leather jacket the rider is wearing.
Pretend you don’t notice him! My brain yells at me. Or else, just wave and act casual! Or maybe…
But as the Harley passes by me, I realize the driver isn’t Tank.
My emotions flip from freak-out mode, to oddly disappointed.
My God. That man really did a number on me.
I don’t know what it is about Tank. I mean, obviously, he’s fuck hot. Definitely the stuff that female fantasies are made of, with his rough-hewn jaw and his gray bedroom eyes. It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s probably ripped as hell underneath his clothes.
But I don’t even like the guy. He’s arrogant, and a wiseass, and a man whore. How can I be attracted to a guy who didn’t even know he had a kid until she was dumped on his doorstep, for God’s sake? Not for the first time, I find myself wondering whether he has more than one kid out there somewhere. Maybe he has dozens, the asshole. Maybe there are scores of little Tanks, all running around fatherless. All because this guy is hot as sin and doesn’t give a shit that he has women dropping their panties at the mere sight of him all over southern freaking Ohio.
Furious, I crank up the volume on the radio, and continue my silent rant all the way back to my apartment. I stomp up the steps, unlock my door, then fling my keys on the kitchen counter and flop dramatically into my favorite easy chair.
And then finally, in the silence of my little studio, I admit to myself that the real person I’m angry at is myself. For being so attracted to him in the first damn place.
Blowing out an exasperated sigh, I look around the room. I need to find something to distract me from thoughts about Tank. My eyes travel across the row of canvases that line the wall next to me, and land finally on the girl with the origami bird. The painting that so captivated Wren.
Cassie.
The thought of my sister draws me into painful memories of my family back home. The life — lives — I lost. The life I left behind to come here.
I remember teaching Cassie how to make that bird. The magic of folded paper, turning a blank sheet into something so delicate, so seemingly alive. She was fascinated by it.
This painting of Cassie was the first one — and so far, the last one — I ever did in this studio. It was just after I moved to Tanner Springs. I was missing my sister so much those first few weeks — an actual physical ache of longing that was with me all the time. My other, more recent loss — the one that made me flee North Carolina in the first place — had reopened the wound of Cassie’s death, as fresh as if it had just happened.
The reminders of those twin griefs were everywhere in North Carolina. From my mother, who refused to leave my stepfather even though he was responsible for Cassie’s death. To my stepbrother, who always pretended to care about me, as long as I stayed loyal and obedient to the family.
To my stepbrother’s best friend, whose arms he had thrown me into. The man I never would have married at all, if I hadn’t made the mistake of getting pregnant.
The same husband whose blows ended my baby’s life, before she was ever born.
I painted the picture of the origami bird because I couldn’t get Cassie out of my mind after I moved here. There was a part of me that hated that I was now living in a new place — a place my sister would never see. It made her death seem even further in the past, like I was leaving her behind, which felt unbearable to me. I wanted to create something that would make her feel alive again. A painting that revealed her beauty, her innocence, her sense of wonder. Everything she was, and everything she could have been.
So she would still be with me somehow. So I’d never forget.
I painted Cassie holding the bird as a way of putting my other grief into the painting, as well. A secret message, to myself and no one else. A way of remembering the other life that had been taken from me.
The life that my own body had created, but that had never had a chance to fly on its own.
Finishing the painting of the girl with the origami bird drained everything from me.
It used to be that all of my feelings, all of my emotions, wanted to express themselves through the paintbrush or the pencil. The happy ones and the sad ones alike. They all wanted to find their way onto the canvas or the paper, through my fingertips. But not anymore.
All the other paintings I brought with me from North Carolina are standing in line, stacked up against the wall like good little soldiers. The tops of the canvases are gathering dust. At one end of the lineup, propped up against the wall, are a couple of blank ones, pre-stretched and ready to go. I can’t even remember what I was planning to paint on them when I stretched them. It feels like a lifetime ago. Like they were stretched by another person.
Someone with dreams.
Someone who isn’t an impostor.
I haul myself up from my chair and go to stand in front of them now.
Uncle Daniel wants me to paint something for him. I know he’ll keep bugging me about it until I do it. That’s just the way he is. He believes I’m an artist. He has faith in me.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
As the words echo in the empty room, I’m not even sure who I’m saying them to.
My sister, the baby I never met…
Or the faith I wish I still had in myself.
7
Tank
“What’s up your ass, anyway?” Striker asks.
“What do you mean?” My jaw tightens. I’m not in the mood to be grilled right now.
“I mean, you’ve been actin’ like someone took your binky away for days now.” He leans back on the bar stool and crosses his arms expectantly.
“Yeah,” Bullet agrees. “Spill. The fuck is up with you?”
“I’m just stressed,” I growl. I signal to the bartender to grab me another beer, hoping Striker will get wise and change the subject.
We’re at the Lion’s Tap, a bar in downtown Tanner Springs. I wasn’t in the mood to go to the clubhouse, and Angel is still restrictin
g all the Lords’ travel outside of town, so this was kind of the default place to go grab a drink.
The bartender — a stout chick named Pam, with bright blue hair in a crew cut —gives me a nod and pulls down a clean beer glass.
“You thinkin’ about the RICO shit and the Death Devils?” Striker asks, lowering his voice a notch.
“Nah. Not so much.”
“Well, what then?”
“None of your business, okay? Stow it.”
Pam arrives with my beer, and glances at Striker and Bullet. “You two want another?”
“May as well,” Bullet grunts. “Hey, grab us each a shot of whiskey while you’re at it.” He jerks his thumb at me. “This one needs a pick-me-up.”
“Will do,” she smirks, turning away.
“So you ain’t gonna tell us what’s crawled up your ass?” Striker repeats, then adopts a saccharine tone. “Come on, Tank,” he continues with a shit-eating grin, spreading his hands. “You know you can confide in us. This is a judgment-free zone.”
“It’s true,” Bullet simpers, picking up the game. “We’ll be your support system.”
“Fuck off with that noise,” I growl at them, wondering why I thought this shit would be a good idea in the first place. I should just go home and get drunk by myself. But I already got a sitter for Wren for the evening, so it doesn’t make any sense not to take advantage of it.
My fuckin’ life sure is a hell of a lot less goddamn spontaneous with a daughter in the mix. Shit, I even gotta plan to have fun now. I don’t know how my brothers with families do it — even though they all seem pretty happy to be dads.
I don’t know why I still haven’t told any of the Lords about Wren. It’s not like they’re gonna be judging me for having a kid I didn’t know about dropped on my doorstep. Maybe I’ve unconsciously been thinking this shit would go away on its own — like if I just waited it out, Jess would come back to pick up her daughter, and things would go back to normal.
TANK: Lords of Carnage MC Page 5
