“Not good enough. Have lunch with me on Friday. Promise me.”
“I may be busy.”
“You’re not. I’ll see you at White’s.”
“Noon. Don’t be late this time.”
“So pushy. Happy New Year, love.”
“Happy New Year.”
Chuck clicked off the call and dropped his phone to the counter. He braced his hands against the tile and leaned his forehead on the cabinets. The glass in his hand was half-full of ice and filled nearly to the brim with vodka, the alcohol scent invading his nose, burning an expectant trail into his lungs. He picked up the glass, took a long drink and sputtered, fire licking down his throat and warming his belly. His head swam.
He couldn’t do this. Getting drunk definitely wasn’t the answer to getting Jesse out of his head. Chuck dumped the glass into the sink, the cubes clattering down the metal sides and gathering in the drain.
He pulled out the Ziploc bag of day-old pizza from his fridge and crossed the room to his office. He flipped on the light and stared at the darkened computer screen. The office, like most of the condo, was almost empty. The walls were construction-grade white paint and he still hadn’t hung anything. He had his weathered white pine desk, made from reclaimed wood, and the massive screen for his Mac, but not much else. His favorite camera sat on the top of his work bag in the corner.
If nothing else came of never seeing Jesse again, he now had plenty of time to work. To be buried in the thousands of images and videos he’d collected over the last three months while working with Kam’s boxing club.
He took a bite of the cold pizza and collapsed into his ergonomic desk chair. He kicked his shoes off, hit the power switch for his computer and flipped the light on next to him.
Focus on work, he told himself. He had to do something to keep his mind engaged tonight so he didn’t end up a sobbing, undignified mess.
Chuck sighed and started flipping through his pictures. After so many months of working with the kids, he was only now starting to get to know them better. They were a guarded group and it had taken time for him to earn their trust. He could see the change in their attitudes toward him as the pictures slid past on his screen. The first images looked like stock photos of kids in boxing gloves. Tight stances. Narrowed eyes. Bravado in full effect. There was a distance between the kids and the lens that couldn’t be bridged with editing.
But their detachment was all part of their narrative.
As the months went by, Chuck watched the kids’ posture change, and noted how more photos captured smiles, camaraderie, and their unguarded moments. It was beautiful to watch unfold.
He picked through the images, marking the ones that immediately caught his attention, and he began to work—weaving a story of guts, survival, hard work, and dedication. In the background of so many photos, his lens had found Kam, the other coaches, friends, and family observing and influencing the progress. Their unflappable presence likely meaning more to these kids than any of them understood.
When he finally looked up from his work, the clock was ticking closer to twelve. Counting down the minutes to a new year.
This year he would turn thirty-four years old and mark being on his own for nearly half his life—without a home. For a brief time, he’d dared to think that Jesse might be that home or at least the beginning of something that could ground him somewhere for once.
Chuck rested his chin on his hand, fingers tapping at the mouse, the images in front of him cycling forward frame by frame, but he couldn’t focus anymore.
Ben had said that Chuck was doing it to himself by making himself only partially available and choosing men who were distant so that he never really had to put his entire trust into them. There was always passion, uncontrollable urges, tangled limbs, and the taste of sweat on skin. Roughness. Possession. To the point of madness.
But no chance for real love.
And it was him making those choices. His own actions that had driven him, again, to, literally, a no man’s land devoid of everything he said he wanted out of life. Keeping his own heart locked down because he couldn’t allow himself to be that vulnerable. He’d never given Adalric or Jesse a real chance to love him back with the strength and depth he thought he wanted.
Maybe he was incapable of trusting anyone enough to be vulnerable with them. He was saying one thing and living out another. Choosing the unattainable. Falling for the unreachable. He couldn’t trust that anyone would want to love him for who he was at his core.
If his own parents couldn’t do it, why would anyone else?
He’d known Jesse didn’t want to come out and he’d known that he was falling for him. He’d known that his non-relationship with Jesse couldn’t end well and yet he’d kept going. Fighting when the outcome was fixed.
He’d thrown the bout before the first bell even rang.
Shit. Maybe Ben was right.
Chuck pushed back from his desk. He was wired, the peace he’d found in his work was long gone, and the house was silent, too confining in its emptiness. He changed into his running gear—track pants, wicking shirt, and a fleece pullover—then laced up his shoes. He shoved his phone into his armband, tugged on a grey beanie, then settled in his earbuds, leaving the music off for now.
The sound of his breaths echoed in his muffled ears as he locked the front door and jogged onto the sidewalk. He turned right out of his condo complex without consciously planning a destination, just knowing that he needed to move.
He picked up the pace as he hit the sidewalk. The silence was deafening in his ears, ringing in his head, and yet completely welcome. Unlike the silence of his condo, which had strangled him, the focus needed to pound out the asphalt in front of him quieted his mind, unraveling it.
He thought about the Brighton Marathon and wondered if there was any way that Jesse was still thinking about running it. With his upcoming trial and the upheaval of his life and Emily’s, Chuck figured there was no way. It had been a pipe dream anyway. Months into a future that Chuck had known was unstable.
He paused to start his music, then took off faster. He ran until the rhythm of his feet and the drag of oxygen into his lungs pushed every other thought away. Until his playlist started over again. And until his feet skittered to a stop in disbelief at the sight in front of him.
His parents’ house.
Of course his feet had brought him here, because his head never would have. He’d been back in the state for three months and he still hadn’t faced anything to do with them.
Chuck inhaled sharply, then winced at the cramp in his side. He pulled his earbuds out and eyed the house warily, taking in the long driveway packed with cars—valets lining them up neatly in rows off to the side—and the hints of classical music drifting through the frosty air. Every window in the mansion shone in the darkness, internally lit to portray warmth and welcome. It was the perfect front, but a front was all it had ever been.
This house was a temple to a type of masculinity that had reached its apex sixty years ago. A brand of male dominance that had poisoned him as a child and taken him too long to be free from.
His mother had never worked, but that had been an expectation, not a choice. And yet, this house—built when Chuck was four years old—had been designed with only his father’s tastes in mind. Stone, polished wood, and touches of iron. An edifice crafted of the finest materials so it would last well past his death—a legacy that couldn’t be tarnished. The image of strength and unassailable authority Charles Dunnbradley Jr had wanted to portray. Chuck hadn’t been back here since he’d been led out in handcuffs, and he felt an old pain stirring in his gut. Loneliness, uncertainty, unease…. No. Fear.
He leaned against the brick gateposts and caught his breath.
He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He’d made his own way. He had nothing to fear from them anymore.
The whir of an electric golf cart caught his attention, and Chuck eyed the security guards heading his way, but he didn’t move. The front
door to the house had opened and the woman standing on the porch stared out at him—her frown emphasized with the cut of shadows.
“This is a private party, sir,” one of the guards said as they drove up. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
Chuck tipped his chin up at the woman storming down the driveway. “I think she may want to talk to me first.”
The security guards stepped out of the cart, blathering excuses and explanations as Chuck’s mother approached, but Fiona Dunnbradley ignored them, intent on Chuck. Cars slid past them, through the open gate, the occupants’ necks craned to assess the situation. He was drawing unwanted attention—untoward attention—and that was a personal affront to her and his father.
“Now is not the time, Charles,” she snapped out once she was close enough to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard.
Her eyes—greener than he’d remembered—raked over him, her lips thinning in disgust when her gaze landed on his tattoos. Her chestnut hair fell in waves over her bare shoulders and golden bangles clinked on her wrists as she huddled into herself against the cold.
Chuck sniffed in the frigid air and nodded. “Dad didn’t want to come out and say hi?”
“As you can see, we don’t have time to talk to you.”
It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d come in the daytime, or even made an appointment. Time had always been a commodity they’d hoarded for themselves.
He’d never find closure here because closure had happened fifteen years ago. He just hadn’t accepted that until now.
Chuck sighed and slung his earbuds around his neck. “Happy New Year to you too, Mom.”
He didn’t look back as he headed down the street and in the direction of his condo. His steps faltered now, the easy stride he’d found earlier lost in the complete and utter weariness overtaking him.
Her rejection shouldn’t have hurt after all this time, but it did. Just as he was sure it always would. The hush of tires on asphalt, of a car slowing down behind him, had Chuck moving farther off the side of the road, but the sedan slowed even more when it passed him, then pulled off to the side.
Chuck’s throat tightened when he saw the familiar pride sticker in the back window, and he jogged up to the passenger side just as Ben was rolling down the window. “Get in the car.”
Chuck slipped inside and pulled the door shut. He surveyed Ben’s tux and gave a dark chuckle. “You were at their party.”
“And you made quite a scene.”
He’d barely said two sentences, but, apparently, his appearance was more than enough to send his parents into a tizzy. “You’re going to hear it for leaving early.”
“Not from my dad,” Ben said as he pulled the car back onto the road. “And he’s the only one I care about.”
“Thanks for coming after me.”
Ben simply nodded and slipped on his blinker, taking them in the opposite direction of Chuck’s condo.
“I really don’t feel like going out, Ben.”
“We’re not going out. I texted Carole when I was waiting for the valet and she has an opening for tonight.”
“Carole Lacey? The Carole who inked my first tattoo and now has an international fanbase begging to be under her needle?”
Ben nodded, smiling.
Chuck huffed. “She’s probably booked years in advance, and you’re telling me she has a last-minute opening on New Year’s Eve? At eleven p.m.?”
Ben reached across the seat and gripped his hand. “Being semi-famous has its benefits. As soon as she heard your name, she agreed.”
One tattoo for every pain, every ending. The last time he’d had anything inked into his body had been after his breakup with Adalric. Adalric and Ben were the only two people in the world who knew Chuck used tattoos like periods at the end of a sentence.
He eased back in his seat and squeezed Ben’s hand. “Okay.”
They turned the corner into the downtown area, passing the trees still illuminated with Christmas lights, and on to the main drag of shops.
Carole’s tattoo parlor was in an old Victorian across from the city park where he and Ben had smoked cigarettes for the first time—and decided one drag each into it that it wasn’t their thing. He could smell the smoke on his fingers—that cloying bitterness—if he remembered hard enough. Ben’s mark on his life had been just as indelible even though he was one person Chuck had never immortalized on his skin.
Maybe he was indelible because Chuck had never taken that final step to ink him in and write him off.
“What are you thinking?” Ben asked when they were seated in the waiting area, books of pictures and drawings surrounding them.
“You just dragged me in here five minutes ago.”
“And yet, I have no doubt you’ve had something in mind for a long time.”
Chuck slipped off his beanie and ran his fingers through his hair. He had. The one tattoo he’d only considered getting when he was sure there was no reconciling with his parents. “I guess I do.”
Carole greeted them warmly, sweeping into the waiting room in overalls, a tight white crop top, and a red handkerchief secured over her blue hair. Within fifteen minutes she had the simple design hand-sketched into form, the placement and colors—or lack thereof—decided, and was leading Chuck to a chair in one of the private rooms in the back.
He whipped off his shirt as he approached the chair and caught Ben’s apprising study of the tats he’d accumulated since Ben had last seen him without a shirt.
“I have a lot of things I try to forget,” Chuck admitted.
Ben nodded. “I hope this helps. I’ll wait out in front if you don’t mind.” His perfectly groomed eyebrows stitched together as he frowned. “Needles aren’t exactly my thing.”
Chuck laughed and dropped into the chair. “Just come give me a kiss at midnight.”
Ben smiled softly. “I will.”
He settled back in the chair and lifted his arm, securing it behind his head so Carole would have access to his left side. He stared at the blank space that would be filled in soon, a patch of skin just below the star he’d added the day after he’d left Adalric.
“Only one tattoo then?” Carole asked as she snapped on gloves. “My plans changed unexpectedly tonight, so I’ve got a few hours free.”
Chuck sighed. He’d pushed any thought of Jesse as far down as possible tonight, and that one question brought their conversation bubbling to the surface again. “For now.”
“Do you want me to do any touch-ups after I’m done then? You’re my last appointment of this year and the first of next year. Bringing the old and new together feels symbolic somehow.”
Chuck shook his head. “I hope I live to see the day that they’re all a faded, jumbled mess.”
Carole laughed. “That may be one of the healthiest views on tats I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t dig any deeper then,” Chuck retorted.
“I promise not to ask any more questions until you come see me again in what? Another seventeen years or so?”
In seventeen years he’d be fifty years old. He had no idea where he’d be then. Or who he’d be with, if anyone. But the chances were that his roadmap of tats would be taking up more territory on his skin.
“Deal.”
He sat back as the whirl of the needle filled the room, flinching at the rapid vibration thundering against his ribs.
The pain stole his breath and centered him. For the next hour, he’d think about all the things he could’ve done differently to gain his parents’ acceptance. To work towards the reality that somehow he would’ve ended up here anyway. To internalize that he’d made mistakes, but none of those meant he’d deserved their callousness.
Then it was time to let that part of his life go.
Whether he ended up back here next month or next year, going through the same process for Jesse…?
He’d think about that after the wounds from this tattoo began to heal.
15
January
/> A cold, wet nose pressed against Jesse’s cheek, followed by a lapping, warm tongue and really hot, kind-of-meaty smelling breath, ensuring that he was fully awake.
Jesse smirked and reached one arm out of bed to pet Precious behind the ears. He patted the bed, coaxing her to jump up next to him and settle in behind his knees. She groaned and stretched out, her head thumping onto the mattress. Jesse’s throat tightened as he glanced down and realized she’d stuck to Jesse’s side of the bed, exactly where she would have been if Chuck had been in bed with him, not even one paw straying over that invisible line. Jesse ran his hand through the soft hairs at her neck.
“I miss him too.”
He turned over in bed and cuddled up next to her, scratching her belly and remembering what it was like to hold on to Chuck when they were sleeping. Yeah, not even close to the same.
He didn’t have anywhere to be today—he was still technically on vacation—and Emily had told him last night that she was heading out for the day with friends. So it was just him and Precious. For the foreseeable future.
The doctor for the county jail had started him up on an antidepressant with the not-so-subtle suggestion that beginning a treatment plan would be looked upon favorably by the court. His anxiety had ticked up since starting to take the med, cresting fully New Year’s Eve, but instead of downing a beer he’d called his lawyer and asked for a recommendation to a therapist.
His first appointment yesterday hadn’t been comfortable, but he hadn’t expected it to be. Out of those fifty minutes of discomfort, he’d walked away with one instruction before he saw her again in two days—to do something, anything, that built him up instead of tearing him down.
“Come on, Precious. Let’s go on a run.”
Precious jumped up, off the bed, and began to twist, her tail thwapping against the wall as she twirled in place.
Jesse pulled on his knit cap, multiple layers to shield him from the cold, and his running shoes, then added similar layers of protection for Precious. He wasn’t planning a short run as usual. It was time he stepped up his training.
Out of the Shade Page 18
