* * *
She was still staring at it when the phone rang ten minutes later.
“Hello?” She answered her cellphone woodenly, without even looking at the display. She knew who it was by the ringtone and if she’d thought it through for even a split second, she wouldn’t have answered at all.
“Keelie?”
She closed her eyes at the sound of Zane’s voice. “Hi.”
He was quiet for a few seconds and then asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, her voice brusque. “I’m just not in the mood to talk right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Then she hung up, and went back to staring at the picture.
* * *
Zane lowered the phone, stared at it.
The weird, hollow ache in his chest—he tried, for a minute, to pretend it wasn’t hurt.
But then he wondered what was the point?
Nobody had the ability to hurt him the way she did.
He’d known, going in, that this wasn’t going to be an easy relationship. Here was just the first hurdle.
Okay.
So he’d wait until tomorrow.
But he sure as hell wasn’t going to stay inside all night, either. The longer he did that, the longer he was going to brood. And think about calling her.
Grabbing one of his camera bags, he checked inside, got an extra battery, his tripod. He was halfway to the door when he stopped and headed back toward his equipment, and took the old Leoto his grandfather had given him years ago. It had been his first camera and it was still his baby, even if it was a dinosaur compared to some of his equipment.
Right then, he was in the mood for the old, the familiar.
It was too late in the day to do any hiking, but he could head out of town. Do some shots out in the desert.
Empty his head for a while.
Convince himself he wasn’t thinking about her.
Yeah.
That wasn’t going to work.
Because he knew he would be thinking about her . . . thinking, and wondering just why he’d heard that underlying thread of pain in her voice.
Just what had happened between this morning and now?
Chapter Thirteen
Keelie woke up on the couch, sometime near nine.
She hadn’t gone asleep until nearly three and the table was littered with notes.
Links to various articles, dates, names.
She had no doubt that Paul would dig up all of this information if she asked—he probably already knew, but she had to see it for herself.
Boys will be boys . . .
That voice echoed in the back of her mind, a mockery. “Fuck you,” she whispered, rolling her stiff, aching body into a sitting position. She rubbed at her tired eyes and made herself look around at the small, tired little apartment.
Abruptly, a surge of anger burned inside her and she swiped her hand out, sending the notebook, her notes, the laptop, all of it flying off the table.
Rising, she started to pace the small square of her apartment, feeling like the walls were closing in around her.
“Why am I here?” she muttered, shoving her hands through her hair, fisting them.
Paying a penance, when he’d been the one to commit the crime.
More than a decade later, and she still carried that guilt.
But she knew why.
Eyes closed, she lifted her face to the ceiling while the memories slammed into her.
She was still fighting with them when the phone rang a few minutes later.
She didn’t even consider ignoring it. She couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in her head if she didn’t have to.
“Keelie!” Zach’s voice was a rush in her ear. “Look, I’m desperate. Javi is sick—some bad chicken—that’s what he says, I bet he’s hung over, but he has an appointment today and I need your help.”
She opened her eyes, something that might have been relief slipping through the knots that bound her heart, her throat. “Zach . . .”
“It’s somebody from the base. They ship out to Iraq at the end of the week. He wanted to finish the tattoo first. I can’t even come close to Javi’s style. You can. It’s important to the guy, Keelie. I tried to explain, but . . .”
Slowly, she turned to look back at the mess she’d sent flying to the floor. “I’ll be there. What time?”
“You’re my favorite person right now. Thank you. Appointment is in an hour and a half,” Zach said, his voice heavy with relief. “We have the pics, the coloring they’d wanted to go with. This was the last visit. Thanks. Thanks a lot. You’re the—”
She disconnected and stood up, walking away from the memories that seemed to mock her.
* * *
The sight of Keelie had Zach wincing.
Okay, Javi had sounded rough.
Keelie looked worse.
She was pale, her eyes glinting like chips of glass in her face and she pushed past all of them without saying a word. If he was a smart man, he would have gotten out of her way.
Like Anais did—she clearly was smart.
She’d given Keelie a wide-eyed look and then turned away. Clearly, she wanted no part of this.
The new artist he’d hired recently, Rusty—a giant of a man with dark red hair and a bass grumble instead of a voice, beat a fast retreat.
But Zach wasn’t smart. Slowly, he made his way down the hall and peeked into Keelie’s work area. She was leaning against her counter, staring at the wall.
Her gaze whipped to him.
“What’s wrong?”
Keelie looked everywhere but at him.
“Nothing.” Her shrug was jerky, erratic. And her voice was thin, almost ghost-like.
“Yeah. You really look like nothing is wrong.” He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. She looked . . . dangerous. Sharp. Edged, like if somebody got too close, they’d find themselves bleeding and might not even understand why. “You didn’t have a fight with Zane, did you?”
She cut him a look, the pale blue of her left eye turning to ice. “If we did, you’d have a reason to celebrate, right?”
“No, I . . . shit.” He clamped his jaw shut on the words that automatically jumped to his lips. He probably deserved that. Waiting a few more seconds until he knew he could be level before he answered, he said softly, “Both of you matter to me. He’s my brother. I love him. You’re like a sister to me and you know I love you. So if you’re happy, that’s all that matters. Keelie, something is wrong. I just want to . . .”
She sighed and turned, resting her hands on the counter. The muscles in her narrow back, her shoulders went tense, tight, so tight they started to tremble.
A harsh gasp left her and for one awful, terrible moment, Zach thought she might cry.
No. No crying, he thought desperately. Everything in him told him to flee.
But he couldn’t.
His movements awkward and stiff, he crossed to her. Reaching up, he touched her shoulder. She jerked away—or tried.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice harsh. “I just need to be alone right now.”
He sighed and tugged harder, pulling her into his arms. It bothered him to realize she felt fragile. Completely fragile. “No,” he said quietly, tucking her head under his chin. “You don’t. You spend too much time alone anyway.”
“Zach—”
“Stop. If you don’t want to talk, don’t talk. But something is tearing you up and we both know it. You don’t have to be alone with it.” He’d spent too many years around Abby not to know what he was dealing with.
A broken sound escaped her and then abruptly, her arms clamped around him.
Zach held her tighter as she started to tremble. “It’s going to be okay.”
He didn’t know what else to say.
Something moved outside the corner of his eye and he looked up, saw Anais. Because it felt like the only answer, he mouthed, Call Zane.
She stared at him blankly for a mo
ment and then she nodded.
Sighing, he held on to Keelie as she refused to let herself fall apart.
* * *
The morning dawned too early, and too bright.
Zane shoved his head under the pillow and tried to ignore it.
He could have done that happily except his phone started to ring.
After staying out too late, grabbing some night shots that turned out to suck, he’d put in a good three hours on the website he was building for Zach and Keelie.
Now, the last thing he wanted to do was answer his phone.
But it might be Keelie.
So, without taking his head out from under the pillow, he grabbed the phone, answered with a tired, “Hello?”
“Um, you might wanna come in. Like now. Keelie is here and she’s all weird and quiet and I think she’s crying and Zach thinks you should come in.”
He frowned, tried to place the voice. Pushing the pillow aside, he pulled the phone away, squinted at the display. Steel Ink. “Who is this?”
“Anais.” She paused, and then added, “From Steel Ink.”
“I know who you are,” he said, sighing as he sat up. “I just didn’t recognize your voice. What’s going on . . . you said Keelie?”
“She’s crying. Zach wants you here, like now.”
Crying—
“I’m there.”
He was already heading to the bathroom, the exhaustion gone, chased away by something he couldn’t even name.
He barely remembered showering, dressing, or the drive. It was a blur, but one that inched by. All he could think about was getting to the shop. It was Saturday and the drive should have been fast, but it seemed to take eons.
Finally, the narrow lane of Fourth Street opened up and he sped it, hoping against hope for a decent spot to park.
For once, fate or God was smiling on him because he was right there near the store when somebody was pulling out. A miracle.
Arrowing into it, he climbed out and managed to not run into the store.
Zach looked up as he came through the door and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a look in his eyes that might have been relief.
He opened his mouth but Zach held up a hand and looked at the customer who was flipping through a design book. “Why don’t you keep looking? Remember, if you see something you sort of like, we can work with you to make it your own. That’s just part of the service.”
Then Zach came striding toward him, his face grim.
“Did you two fight?” he asked, his voice so low Zane barely heard him.
“What? No. What’s going—”
“Not here.” Zach closed his eyes, covered them with one hand and then jerked the other to the area behind the desk where the employees usually loitered between customers. “Can you wait for her? She came to cover for Javi and she’s working on somebody now. Something is . . . shit. She was practically crying, Z. That’s not her. That’s not ever her.”
Instinct told him to go find her. Now.
But he just studied his brother for a long minute. “What’s going on?”
“If I knew that, I’d . . .” Zach’s voice trailed off and he stared at nothing for the longest moment. When he finally looked at Zane, he said quietly, “Something’s wrong. She came in pissed—I’m used to her being mad, but not like this.”
Not like this.
If he didn’t know that Keelie would hate for him to barge in while she was working, he’d have gone to her then. So he took a seat where Javi would have normally been. Sitting down, he stretched out his legs and folded his arms over his chest.
I’m not in the mood to talk right now—
That edge of pain, brittle, encased in ice, had cut into him.
He should have said fuck it and just gone to her.
Closing his eyes, he dropped his head back against the wall.
Nothing to do now, though. Not really.
Except wait.
* * *
It was a beautiful design.
There were names, nearly two dozen. And between those names, the design she was going to finish coloring in, there was the soldier’s cross, the weapon, with a pair of boots and a helmet. She didn’t have to ask what the names were for. She hated that there was so little room left on him.
“You ain’t asked who they are.”
His name was Myke. He was a few years older than her and he stretched out on her chair, all hard muscle and scars.
She glanced down at his face, managed to smile. The work had distracted her enough and he was quiet, so she didn’t have to force herself to talk when she didn’t want to.
But with that blunt statement, she couldn’t ignore it.
“Considering the work Javi started on you,” she said, choosing her words with care. “I don’t think I need to ask.”
He grunted and closed his eyes. “Some people are dumbasses. They still ask.”
“Yeah. Well, like you said, some people are dumbasses.”
It seemed he’d had enough time to reflect or think or brood or whatever he did when he was quiet. She hadn’t had more than thirty seconds of silence when he spoke again. “How did you get into doing this?”
“Tattoos?” she asked, even though she knew damn well what he meant. She paused, cleaning up the blood from his skin. “I’m good at it. When I was a kid, the few times I ever had a Barbie doll, I’d spend more time drawing on her and giving her bad tattoos than playing with her. Got older, had some of my own done but never thought about doing it for a living.” The only thing she’d thought about doing was anything and everything that would keep people from noticing her. “I did some waitressing, worked retail, other shit. Hated all of it. I was having this big design done on my back and while I was getting it done, I thought maybe this would be a good job.”
She didn’t tell him why.
The first time she’d actually considered it was when she thought about how much her mother would hate it. But then she’d started to see the beauty in it. She’d found her own healing, her own form of . . . penance, even.
In ink and blood, images and words on the skin.
It seemed like an act of rebellion to some, or a trend of the times.
Keelie had thought maybe some of the poison she had in her soul had wept out of her with each small bit of blood. Maybe that was why she’d gotten so many the first few years. Purging herself of the poison.
She’d purged herself of some of the poison, found a way to sleep at night. Maybe she could help others. That was when she knew.
Clearing her throat, she continued. “I asked the guy who was doing mine about how to get started in it, what all was involved.
“Anyway, it turned out I had a knack for it. I learn fast, I can come up with my own designs. I’d been working at another shop in Texas for about a year, then started with Zach a few years ago. And let me tell you, it’s a lot better than waiting tables.”
Before he could ask anything more, she asked a question of her own. “So why’d you join the army?”
He was still talking twenty minutes later when she finished up his piece.
She heard every word, but she doubted she could recall any of it.
If the aftercare wasn’t so drilled into her head, she might have forgotten what to tell him. Walking him out front, she made sure to give him the information she knew he’d heard a dozen times, easy.
Now, she could get out of—
“Zane.”
He sat behind the counter, eyes half-closed, but at the sound of her voice, he came to his feet in a smooth, liquid movement.
“Ahhh . . .” She looked from him to the client and then shot Zane a look. Hopefully he could figure out what it meant: Not right now.
Even though instead of the alone time she’d been hoping for just seconds ago, she had a different plan in mind now. One that involved him, her, and lots of hard, sweaty sex. That would give her something to think about—something besides memories she didn’t want inside of her.
“Oka
y, Myke, if you don’t have any questions, that’s it. Be sure to keep up with the aftercare, okay?” She stared at the man in front of her, instead of the one who watched her from behind the counter.
Myke nodded and held out a few bills. She went to pull out the change and he waved it back. “Keep it.”
It was too big of a tip, but she wasn’t going to argue. It ought to go to Javi anyway. “Take care of yourself in Iraq.”
He was gone a moment later and she clung to the counter for a long moment before turning to look at Zane.
It was oddly quiet in the front area.
Looking around, she didn’t see Anais or Zach or Rusty.
Just Zane. Watching her with those calm eyes. It was like staring into the endless waves of the ocean, she thought. He could outwait her and was fully prepared to do it. There was a patience to his gaze, like he knew something was wrong, like he knew she hid something—
Something lodged in her throat. That caged, bubbly tension inside her tried to break out. Spinning away, she went to edge out from behind the counter.
“Hey. Ah, I’m sorry about last night.”
He didn’t say anything, just moved closer, with that eerie, easy grace.
Her heart hitched a little.
“Okay. So. What brings you here?” she asked, keeping her voice calm, light. Casual, even. She could do this. She could fake it. Fake it until you make it.
He stopped in front of her, rested his hands on her waist.
She tensed.
“What’s happened?” he asked quietly.
Closing her eyes, Keelie tensed her jaw. Then she had to relax it before she could even force the words out. Force the lie out. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, angel,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder. “Something’s hurt you. What is it?”
Curling her hands into fists, she tried not to break. There was a trembling that had started deep, deep inside and if it reached the surface . . . “Let me go,” she whispered, and her voice shook. “I can’t . . . I can’t do this here.”
“Then we’ll leave.”
So simple, so easy.
She pulled, half-heartedly, against him as he closed one hand over hers and went to lead her away.
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