Zane (Inked Brotherhood Book 3)

by Jo Raven

  “Good morning,” Tessa says from my bedroom door, flashing me a smile. She’s picture-perfect as always, conservative to an iota, in an expensive-looking gray dress and high heels, her blond hair pulled up in a chignon. “Ready?”

  “Almost. Give me a minute.” I pull on my sandals and check my room one more time to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. The furniture belongs to Bella—the apartment is rented by her family—so I’m only taking my clothes. Good for me.

  Tessa sits on my bed and looks around, interest flashing in her gaze. Then she zeroes in to the hickey. “So who’s the lucky guy?”

  Crap. “No one.”

  “A no one who sucks on your neck like a vampire.” She winks and cranes her neck. “Is he also the no one who drew something on your back? Is he…” Her eyes widen. “It’s Zane, isn’t it? That’s his drawing style. Oh hell.”

  ‘Oh hell?’ That doesn’t bode well. “So what if it’s Zane?”

  “Girl…” Tessa shakes her perfectly coiffed head, small golden earrings glinting on her earlobes. “Zane has a reputation, and I say this as his friend. Everyone knows. It’s not a secret.”

  Everyone but me, apparently. “Bad habits, huh?”

  “You can say that.” She tsks. “He’s a serial one-night-stander.”

  I wince, although I sort of expected this. “A manwhore.”

  Tessa frowns. “Yeah. It’s like he uses sex the same way he uses alcohol. He’s never had a girlfriend that I know of. He picks up women in bars and does it with them right there. Never gives his number. Never kisses them. Never takes them home.”

  Ow. “The same way he uses alcohol? What do you mean?”

  Tessa stands up from the bed and sighs. “To get numb.”

  “Numb? Why?”

  But she’s already striding across the room, heading out. “Come on. Let’s go. We can talk more later.”

  ***

  Funny how saying goodbye to Bella is hard, even though we’ll still live in the same town, and I’ll be seeing her. I’ll even go back to get more of my things, boxes and bags.

  Living with someone is different, though. We know each other’s quirks—what we like for breakfast, and how we like to be woken up, what TV programs we like and which we hate, and nobody can whip up a good evening of gossip and fun like a roommate who knows you.

  Tessa drives a white Jeep Cherokee with pristine leather seats and a stereo that makes me feel as if I’m at a concert. I hate to say it, because she’s really nice and hey, luxury isn’t something I dislike, but I feel a bit uneasy. As if I shouldn’t be stepping on the car mats not to dirty them, or something.

  “So… Thanks for putting me up.” I get more nervous as we park outside a modern building with large bay windows and a chrome-and-glass entrance. My voice squeaks a little as I continue, “It’s just for a few days.”

  “It’s no hassle,” Tessa says and opens her door. “Let’s get your things up, then I’ll park properly.”

  “Do you always dress up like that on Saturday mornings?” I ask as we take the elevator to her apartment. “I mean,” I wince, “it’s pretty.”

  Tessa laughs. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? I’m dressed like my mother.” We step out of the elevator, and she unlocks her door. “My parents are in town, and I’m forced to have breakfast with them.”

  “Forced?” I wonder if I misheard as I haul my huge suitcase into a spotless living room that’s bigger than Bella’s apartment. The view of the lake from the bay window is breathtaking. I didn’t realize we’re so close to the water.

  I shiver.

  “At gun point,” Tessa mutters. “Well, almost. Extortion, know what I mean?”

  Not really.

  “If I don’t dress up all clean and proper, they have a hissy fit. And our relationship is bad enough as it is.” She takes off her high heels and sinks onto her enormous sofa.

  A huge flat screen TV is set in the opposite wall, framed by enormous speakers. The carpet looks Persian. I doubt it’s an imitation.

  Holy shit. How much money does she have?

  “Your room is that one, on your right.” She points, and I can’t help noticing her nails are French manicured. God, isn’t there a single drop of rebellion in this girl’s veins?

  “Thanks, Tessa.” I haul my luggage across the room to a gray door. I push it open cautiously and find myself in a small but immaculate bedroom with a large window. “Wow.”

  “My parents don’t like anyone staying here,” Tessa says, coming to stand at the door, barefoot, and still looking like a cover model. “But we won’t tell them.”

  “The apartment belongs to your parents?” I set my suitcase on the bed and open it. Clothes, shoes and notebooks spill out. My tablet and MP3 player are safely tucked in my handbag. Thank God for ebooks, or my luggage would weigh a ton.

  “Yeah. The apartment and everything in it. Including me.” She wanders inside the room. “Well, technically, they rent it, but you know… Same principle.”

  Right… Her parents sure sound like a bunch of laughs. I can’t imagine their reaction if they find out a punk rock chick is staying at their daughter’s perfect apartment. They’ll probably call a cleaning and disinfection service.

  I wince and sit on the bed. “Tell me about Zane. You’ve known him a long time, right?”

  “Went to school with him.” She sits next to me, then flops on her back, and I like the fact she doesn’t seem to care about spoiling her perfect hairdo. “We were never very close, but yeah, I know him quite well. He and Asher are besties, and Asher used to be besties with Audrey, who is my bestie.”

  I try to work this out. “Asher stopped being besties with Audrey?”

  “Yeah, because he was in love with her. So he stopped talking to her.”

  “This makes no sense.”

  “Boys make no sense, girl.” Tessa sighs and closes her eyes. “Attraction makes no sense. Don’t you know that?”

  No, but I can imagine. I mean, my limited experience with boys almost got me killed.

  “So Zane doesn’t give his phone number. And he doesn’t kiss.” I picture his mouth, his full upper lip and the way he grins, and my body tightens. “Like, ever?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. I’m not interested in Zane that way, so I never paid much attention.”

  “Who are you interested in?” I try to recall our meetings with the guys. “It’s Dylan, isn’t it? That guy with the big shoulders.”

  She doesn’t speak, and I wonder if she’s fallen asleep. Then, without opening her eyes, she says, “He used to be a quarterback at school.”

  Makes sense. With that body… “Does he still play?”

  “No.” She sits up suddenly. “He stopped.”

  I sense a sad story there, but Tessa stands up, making it clear that this conversation is over.

  “Make yourself at home. I’ll make a few phone calls, see if I can find you a more permanent roommate.”

  But I want Zane. God, what’s wrong with me? Haven’t I made up my mind that’s a bad and in any case impossible idea?

  “Hey, Tessa.” I wait until she turns. “If I asked you for Zane’s phone number, would you give it to me?”

  The curiosity in her gaze turns into pity. “You have a crush on him, don’t you?”

  I can’t deny it. Hi, my name is Dakota, and I have a crush on Zane Madden, the Manwhore. Someone please shoot me.

  “He’s a great guy,” she says. “But be careful with your heart.”

  “Never mind,” I say, bowing my head, and listen to her leave.

  Part II

  Zane

  Some memories are hazy.

  And some are too damn clear. I do my best to bury them deep, where they won’t intrude on my everyday life. Just looking at me, you probably can’t tell how close to the surface the nightmares live. But throw in a random trigger, and I’m drowning in the past. It’s like flicking a switch, opening the gate and letting the horror in.

  Icy water. Hands l
ike vises digging into my arms and legs. No air. Suffocation. Panic. The certainty I’m gonna die. That no matter how hard I struggle, I won’t make it.

  Yet I still try. I always try to escape.

  And I always fail.

  Chapter Five

  Zane

  Driving to my sister’s has never felt like a trip to hell before. She’s been sick for a while, but I held out hope—until now.

  Now… I don’t know what to do. Visiting her at home or the hospital, babysitting the kids, doing her shopping or even cooking for her won’t cut it. She needs a miracle, and neither she nor I believe in those.

  The landscape streaks by. I have a headache I can’t shake, and my body feels leaden. I don’t want to see her, face the inevitable, give up my last thread of hope. I don’t want to hear the verdict. I’m good at avoiding what I hate, but now, it seems, I don’t have a fucking choice.

  Emma and her husband and kids live in Bolinbrook, but right now she’s at the Midwestern Cancer Treatment Center, in Zion. Driving time is around two hours, and I make it in one and a half. If I can’t hide, then I’ll face reality head-on, like a frontal crash you don’t see coming.

  Christ, aren’t I a ray of sunshine? I’d better put my poker face on before Emma and her family see me. They don’t need my dark mood.

  The hospital parking lot is packed. When I finally find an empty spot, I park, turn off the engine and sit in the quiet for a few minutes, trying to clear my head and steel my resolve. My shoulders ache, and I roll them, doing my best to calm myself.

  Unable to put off the inevitable any longer, I get out and slam the door. I still don’t feel ready. I guess I never will.

  I enter the hospital and glance around, getting my bearings. The maze of corridors always confounds me, but I’ve more or less learned the way by now. At least I know I’m heading in the right direction.

  The center doesn’t specialize in cancer patients, but it has affiliated doctors from the area who visit.

  Because that’s what Emma has. Cancer. Breast cancer. We thought she beat it, but it came back, worse than before, spreading in her body. It’s terminal. Which means she’s dying. And there’s nothing I can do to save her.

  I head toward her room, and I see Matt coming my way. We bump fists and shake hands. He says nothing as he leads me away, and I can find no words to break the silence. Antiseptic and chlorine permeate the air, clogging my airways, and the beeping of machines echoes, like a thousand racing hearts.

  I fucking hate this place. Dread this moment.

  Matt opens a door, and my feet keep going, taking me inside, where I don’t wanna be. My eyes search for her, although I don’t wanna see. And despair fills me, even though I don’t wanna feel. I wish I couldn’t feel anything anymore.

  Emma looks tiny in the hospital bed, so pale she’s barely visible under the sheets. She smiles when she sees me, and it looks like a grimace on her gaunt face. It makes me want to howl and throw the furniture against the wall.

  Instead, I sit in the chair by her side and force myself to smile. I take her bony little hand, the hand that held mine after everyone else had left me and pretend this stinking life is worth living.

  ***

  I spend the weekend driving back and forth between Bolingbrook and Zion. I take over from the nanny and babysit the little ones, as I usually do when I’m there, to give Matt some breathing space. He looks like a ghost, thin and pale and devastated.

  Emma sleeps a lot, and when she’s awake she doesn’t have much energy to talk. I don’t know what to talk about, either, but I try, telling her funny stories from the tattoo shop and the other guys.

  At home, the kids are restless. They’re used to me, but they’re little—Mary is two, and Cole is not even a year old—and they want their mom, not a tattooed guy with a Mohawk and a temper. Reading picture books and changing diapers isn’t my forte on a good day, much less now.

  Between taking shifts watching over the children and alternating with Matt, so we can both be with Emma for a few hours at a time, the weekend passes in fits and starts. By Sunday afternoon, when I say goodbye to Emma and climb into my truck, I feel like roadkill.

  I sit behind the wheel and stare without seeing out into the dark. Emma’s face haunts me. She barely had the strength to squeeze my hand when I was leaving. She looked so small like that. I’m her adopted brother. I’m supposed to protect her. Give back some of what she gave to me.

  A wail is building up in my throat. I knock my elbow into the window and smash my fist into the wheel. The pain feels good. Too good.

  I need to drink, smoke and fuck, not necessarily in that order. Anything to blank out my mind.

  Dakota’s image suddenly fills my head, and I want to punch it out of my memory. She deserves so much better than me. If I fuck her, I won’t keep her and… damn, I want to keep her.

  Shit. I’m going fucking crazy.

  I rev up the truck and hightail it out of the hospital, out of Zion, racing for the open highway. I’m tempted to stop at a bar on the way, but I find myself driving past town after town and not stopping.

  When I realize why, I groan out loud. I want to see Dakota. My heart beats faster at the thought, and my dick hardens.

  Down, Dick. She’s not interested in a quick grope and fuck. Nice girls like her want more—deserve more—and I can’t deliver.

  I crank up the music, some punk rock shit Rafe gave me, and punch the wheel to the rhythm. Caught up in the beat, it takes me a while to realize it’s music from their group, Deathmoth, and that the powerful voice blasting out of the speakers is Dakota’s.

  I turn off the stereo and grip the wheel so hard it creaks. I need to get drunk off my ass. Need to get so wasted I stop thinking of Dakota.

  Problem is, even if I drink enough to forget my own name, I don’t think I’ll manage to forget her.

  ***

  “Gimme another.”

  Without batting an eye, Joe, the bartender of Bent, pours me another whiskey. It must be my fourth. Or fifth? Maybe sixth. I really have no fucking clue. I’ve been here for a while, and I’m still working on forgetting—Dakota, Emma, who I am and what I’m supposed to do.

  Maybe I should get the bottle of whiskey and get out of here. A few girls have wandered over to chat me up, but I couldn’t bother. Not interesting. Not pretty. Not… Not Dakota, dammit.

  Get your head out of your ass and pick one.

  It’s just sex. Pick a chick, choose a quiet corner and just fuck the pain out of your system. Say goodbye, finish your drink and go home.

  It’s worked for many years. It will work again.

  I scan the thickening crowd. Music is blasting from the speakers, old rock, and voices rise over the din. It makes my already aching head feel like a time bomb about to explode. At the back of the room, I can see couples getting down and dirty against the wall, not concerned about being seen.

  Perfect.

  Grab a chick, bang her, then go home to finish getting wasted. That’s the plan.

  My cell beeps. A message from Ash, asking where the hell I am, and if I want to go out for a beer. I already have text messages and missed calls from him, Tyler, Dylan, Erin, Audrey and Rafe with variations in the theme. They want to know if I returned safely. If I’m okay.

  Fuck no, I’m not okay. I shove the cell back into my pocket and focus on the plan.

  A blonde with an impressive rack smiles at me. I check her out. Good ass. Nice hips. She has the bold curves I usually go for, but…

  Slight curves, wild dark hair, large blue eyes…

  No, dammit! Why do I keep seeing Dakota in front of me?

  I push off my stool, stumble a little and nod at the blonde. Her smile grows wider, and she sidles up to me. She’s wearing a micro skirt that shows off her long legs, made longer by dangerously high heels.

  Yeah, she’ll do nicely. I grab her hand and drag her through the crowd. She squeals, then laughs, and I grit my teeth. Too high-pitched. Fake. No chimes and bel
ls.

  Oh, fuck’s sake, Zane.

  I pull the blonde into the twilight zone behind the last tables and into the dimness. That’s my territory, my domain: the dark. I slow down to let her catch up and then swing her around, pushing her back to the wall. She yelps, teetering on those ridiculous heels.

  “I have some rules,” I tell her. “Non-negotiable.”

  She nods, her eyes wide.

  “You don’t touch me. Only I touch you. You don’t put your arms around me, don’t even fucking think about touching my back, and no kissing.”

  “Okay, babe. Whatever gets you off.”

  For some reason, her eager submissiveness—and the pet name—pisses me off. Which is sick, since submissiveness is what I want from her.

  “What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Linda.”

  I don’t reply. Not interested in her name, or in conversation of any kind. I grab her wrist with my other hand and slap it into the wall. She yelps again, giving me a wounded puppy look.

  “You like it rough, huh?” She licks her red lips. “I don’t mind.”

  “Shut up.” I brace one hand on the wall and look down at her cleavage. Familiar motions. Only problem is, my body isn’t acting very interested, and I don’t feel like touching her breasts, or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.

  Dammit. This isn’t working. I release her and start to pull back.

  “What’s your hurry?” She slips her arms around my neck, pressing up to me.

  Fuck. My heart jolts in my chest, and I jerk. I shove her off, slam her to the wall. “I said, rule number one: don’t fucking touch my back!”

  “But I thought—”

  “You thought wrong.”

  And so did I.

  I thought life would continue as before. Same places, same actions, same results. But nothing is the same anymore. This world I’ve built around me is made of glass, and it’s already cracking.

  ***

  It’s morning. Late morning, perhaps. Something stupid is playing on TV, a talk show, people dressed in fancy clothes. I’ve turned off the sound.