Love Is More Than Skin Deep (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 4)

by Mary Crawford

  “I hope I don’t regret this decision,” Jade remarks as she pushes her plate away. “Do you ever wonder if you are destined to do something with your life that’s completely different from what you’re doing right now? I mean, the whole world thinks that I’m wickedly talented at being a tattoo artist. I suppose I probably am, but I don’t know anything else. I’ve done this since before I could write my name. You know my dad had me practicing on old ham hocks when I was in preschool? I don’t remember a time in my life that I didn’t know how to handle tattoo equipment properly. I see objects in life as if they are tattoos. It’s the way I was taught to evaluate things. I know how to shade and layer designs instinctively. I’m grateful to my parents for that knowledge. I can never thank my parents enough for what they’ve taught me. I know so much about art because of what my dad taught me and so much about literature and books from my mom.”

  “Your parents are great, so what’s the problem?” I prompt.

  “My parents want to retire and travel. My dad really wanted my brother to take over the business, but now that’s not possible, so it’s all on my shoulders.”

  “Maybe you could talk to your brother and ask him to share more of the burden,” I suggest.

  Jade looks stricken for a moment before tears start to gather in her eyes. “I wish I could. I can’t. I forgot you were touring in Mexico when it happened, so you probably don’t know. My brother committed suicide during his third week of his freshman year of college. My parents never talk about him”

  “God, I swear I don’t try to be a jerk,” I exclaim. “When I came back into town everything with the shop had changed and I thought something must’ve gone wrong with the remodel or something — they had your street shut down for weeks and I figured business was just slow. I didn’t ask any questions because I didn’t want to stress anybody out. I’m so sorry Jade, that must’ve been awful.”

  “It’s the worst pain I’ve ever been through in my life. Even though he was older than me, we were sort of like twins. We lived out of each other’s pockets. People said we were like two sides of a coin. I don’t know that I’ll ever be whole again. It’s like part of my heart is missing — the syncopation is off in my life.”

  “I can only imagine. But how would stepping away from Ink’d Deep help with that?” I ask. “That place is as close to a family as I’ve ever seen, even if you take your dad out of the equation.”

  “Onyx was going to be my path out of the business. We had it all planned out. He knew what I wanted to do, and he was totally supportive. He was going to go to college to show my dad that it was safe for me to go away to school. The plan was that Onyx was going to go to school and major in art so that he could come back and work at the tattoo shop. He was the one who was supposed to take over for Dad. After he finished school, I was going to go to college and become a teacher. I wanted to be able to teach kids about the power of learning about arts and English and being creative. More importantly, I wanted to teach about being true to yourself in setting up for who you are and the power of believing in yourself and your dreams.”

  “That sounds like an amazing plan, I’m sorry that it never had a chance to come true. The world needs more teachers with your kind of passion,” I reply.

  “You have no idea,” Jade responds tearfully. “Onyx, my beautiful, talented, creative brother, probably killed himself because some strange kids that he barely even knew convinced him that he wasn’t worth anything because he was different from them. What if more people had been in his life to teach him to stand strong and believe in himself when others didn’t? Would he still be here today? What if my role in life isn’t to draw pretty pictures on people’s bodies, but to be that one voice in someone’s head that reminds them that they are worth it when they feel like they are out of choices?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Jade, but teachers make crap pay. Although I don’t know exactly how much you make at Ink’d Deep, I know it’s a solidly successful shop and your pieces go for a premium amount of bank. I also know that you’re booked up for months in advance. You are more booked up than any other tattoo artist in the shop; believe me I know. I’ve tried to make an appointment with you — I know personally how hard it is.”

  “Yeah, so?” Jade snaps at me.

  “All I’m saying is that you have an incredible, God-given talent as an artist and it would be a shame to lock that away in the classroom somewhere so that they could pay you pennies. You could be making tons of money that you could give to some charity somewhere where they could put qualified professionals in the classroom to help teach those skills that you want students to have,” I argue.

  “Hey, Declan? Does your family think you’re pretty good at the art of the sale?” Jade asks me in the ultimate non sequitur.

  “Yeah, they call me a natural, why?” I inquire, puzzled by the change in topic.

  She throws her napkin on the table as she remarks, “Finish your lunch, Declan; suddenly I’m not hungry anymore. I’m going home.”

  To everyone who’s hearts

  have been stolen by your perfect

  match of a different sort— this book is to honor them.

  I write it in loving memory of my service dogs:

  Molly, Boris and Caleigh.

  THE LADDER SHAKES PRECARIOUSLY under my feet as I reach up to fill the hummingbird feeder. For the life of me, I don’t understand why Mrs. Bathwell decided that the hummingbirds need to be fed on the highest peak of the rafters. It makes absolutely no sense. As a big drop of the bright red syrup splashes on my cheek, the silent cursing that I’ve been doing under my breath becomes not so silent. Immediately, I apologize even though there isn’t anyone outside within blocks. Every other sane person on the planet is asleep at five-thirty on a Sunday morning in this sleepy suburban enclave. I can’t seem to outgrow my Midwestern farm work ethic nor my pastor’s granddaughter morals no matter how long I’ve been attending college in sunny Florida.

  As I screw on the last feeding spout to the hummingbird feeder, something catches my eye. I’ve seen that souped-up car before. It was the same one that was racing from the scene where the senior citizen couple was spray-painted with a swastika the other day in front of the local market. Unfortunately, the license plate is partially obscured and they are driving too fast for me to see what it says. It looks like it’s not a Florida license plate though or if it is, it’s not the traditional plate. The only thing distinguishable about the car is that it looks like a Mustang, but it’s just grey. Grey and loud — very loud. It is so loud that at first, I don’t realize that there is another sound disturbing the early morning quiet in my neighborhood.

  I can’t identify the odd sound so I take the risk and stand on my tiptoes on the wobbly ladder to try to see over the tall privacy fence. Did I mention that heights aren’t really my thing? I really wish that Ivy were here. She was once a cheerleader and she’s used to being tossed in the air. I’ll keep my five-foot-nothing-self firmly on the ground, thank you very much. From this vantage point, I can just barely see over the fence, but unfortunately I don’t really see much. Still, I can hear a rustling sound in the bushes and an odd sound, almost like moaning.

  I scramble off the ladder as quickly as I can and start running toward the sound. It is then that it occurs to me that A.) I’m wearing old ratty cutoffs that no self-respecting woman should be wearing in public. B.) My feet are bare. C.) I don’t have the lick of sense that God gave me — as my grandfather, Walter would say. I don’t know what’s in those bushes, and I don’t even have my cell phone with me. My grandfather and I don’t always see eye to eye. But in this case, he would really have a point. I don’t even know what I’m doing out here at this ungodly hour in the morning. I should really have more common sense. I always make fun of Ivy for not having very many street smarts. Really, I think her bad habits have rubbed off on me. I know better than to do what I’m just about to do.

  I start to turn on my heel and head back home when a flash o
f brown and black catches my eye. What’s even more alarming is that there is some red and silver mixed in with that. “Oh hell no!” I mutter to myself. As I sprint back to my house, I say a silent prayer of thanks to my grandmother who thought it was important for me to be well-rounded and made me pick a sport. If it hadn’t been for my introduction to running on the track team, I would’ve never made it. If left to my own devices, I would happily be a confirmed couch potato.

  I open my back door and I’m confronted by the mess that is my kitchen. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to try to teach myself to cook vegetarian food. I was born and raised on a farm. Maybe I should just accept my roots and move on. I don’t think vegetarian cooking is my thing — as is evidenced by the fact that I used every bowl and pan in my entire kitchen. Right now, the most critical question on my mind is how to quickly locate my phone. I’m not really sure where I left it. It could be anywhere in this colossal mess. Then I remember that I stuck it in my school backpack for safekeeping. I run to my bedroom to grab it. I snag my tennis shoes from in front of the front door as I go by and slide them on, but in the process, I practically knock myself out on the stairway banister. Let’s just say grace isn’t exactly my middle name.

  Backpack in hand, I run back toward the scene. I punch Rogue’s number into the phone. When she answers the phone, it’s clear that I’ve roused her from a deep sleep.

  “I’m so sorry Rogue. I forgot that you guys are on vacation. How is the Grand Canyon? If it’s the crack of dawn here in Florida, it must be the middle of the night there.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. I’m not really sleeping all that well anyway. Tristan and Isaac are working on a big case so he’s clacking away on the computer and it keeps me awake. What’s up?”

  Her question immediately brings me back to the crisis at hand. “Rogue, I think this could be really bad. There’s a hurt dog in my neighborhood. It looks pretty serious. This isn’t like back home where we just called the big animal vet or even when I lived in New York City where there was a clinic for every single need open twenty-four hours a day. I don’t know what I can do. I’m by myself. I don’t even know if anything is open on the weekends. Everybody I know in this state is out of town right now. I don’t have any medical knowledge about this stuff. What if I can’t help the poor thing? I know if I called my grandpa, he would just tell me to shoot it. He would say that it’s all the big part of the cycle of life and God intended it to be that way. I don’t really even know what to think — besides, I can’t shoot a gun in the middle of town. I mean, I know how to shoot a gun; I was raised on a farm. That’s not really the issue here…” I ramble. “Can you ask Tristan if he knows anybody? Maybe I should call Ivy. Marcus knows everyone—”

  I’m only half paying attention to my own blathering as I try to find the dog. He’s not in the same spot that I left him. My panic levels start to rise. What if I can’t find him and he’s walking around injured? The injuries looked really bad when I saw him before. He was actively losing blood. Blood. That’s the secret. I’ll just look for a blood trail; he must be leaving a pretty substantial one. His injuries looked pretty serious.

  I start to feel pretty light headed. Rogue’s voice on the other end of the phone is like a splash of cold water. “Jessica, take a deep breath. You survived the streets of New York when you were eighteen. You can deal with this. Just take it step-by-step.”

  “You’re right, I’ve survived tougher stuff than this. I need to pull it together.” I hear a sound off to my left and I whisper, “Gotta go!” before ripping the earbuds out of my ears and stuffing the phone back in the backpack. As I do, my hand brushes across the snack I had thrown in to my backpack for my last late-night study session. Perfect. It’s almost as if fate has intervened. I quickly unwrap the pepperoni stick and jam it into my pocket. I don’t suppose the puppy is going care much if it’s a little stale and from a discount store.

  My heart is pounding. It’s been a while since I’ve been around any animals, let alone one that’s been injured. I haven’t gotten a really good look at this one — other than to know that I saw blood. I don’t even know if this dog is feral or aggressive. The outright insane nature of my mission hits me again. I watch all of those rescue shows on Animal Planet. I know better than to try to do this by myself. But, I don’t have anywhere else to turn. It’s a choice between letting this dog suffer some more or having backup. That’s no choice at all. Consequently, I forge forward. I crouch down and duck into a hole in the hedge.

  This is one situation where being the size of a small third-grader is going to help me. I curse my lack of foresight, as I have to dig out my cell phone from my backpack again to use the flashlight. After I start the flashlight app, I can see that the poor dog has wedged himself up against a cement foundation and a wood fence. He has nowhere else to go. He is shaking violently. As I adjust the flashlight so that I can see where I’m going, I make a horrifying discovery. That is duct tape! Lots and lots of duct tape. I’m surprised that he can even breathe. No wonder I had a hard time recognizing the sounds coming from this pathetic creature. It’s amazing that he was able to vocalize anything at all.

  I edge toward him with a little less trepidation than I had before because obviously he can’t bite me — actually, he might be a she. I haven’t actually checked, come to think of it. He just looks so scruffy that he reminds me of that character from the movie I saw as a kid, Benji. Obviously, my plan to bribe the dog with treats won’t work since the poor puppy can’t open his mouth. I walk up beside him and quietly sit down. Well, walking is a bit of an overstatement. Unless you count duck walking, which is essentially what I had to do to get next to him. It’s really cramped quarters in this little hiding spot. It’s a good thing that one of my favorite hobbies as a kid was to cram myself into the smallest possible spaces in my grandparents’ old farmhouse and see how long it took people to find me. It drove my grandparents crazy, but I often would spend hours curled up with a good book or an old chunk of charcoal and a pad of paper before anybody managed to locate me.

  Slowly, I ease my hand over to him and start to stroke the scuff of his neck. Much to my shock, he rolls over and looks up at me with pleading eyes. Scratch that, she looks up at me with pleading eyes as if asking me to scratch her tummy. As I pulled my hand back to scratch a different area, I notice that it’s covered in blood. I can’t believe that she’s still so trusting after suffering such egregious maltreatment. I unclip my student ID from my backpack, remove the lanyard and hook it to her collar. Of course, her collar doesn’t have any ID on it. I suppose it’s too much to hope that she actually has a microchip. This dog seems to have run out of hopes and prayers an awfully long time ago, I decide as I glance at her concave rib cage and thinning coat. I wonder how long she’s been roaming around without any place to call home. It just makes me so sad and angry that I can’t even form the thoughts or words to describe my outrage. Why do people even bother to get dogs if they’re not going to take care of them? It boggles the mind.

  When I try to stand up, she tries to brace me. The ludicrousness of that situation is not lost on me. This dog is injured enough that she should have difficulty standing up on her own. Yet, she’s willing to try to help me. There is something hauntingly beautiful about that simple gesture.

  I carefully maneuver us under the hedge so that I don’t injure her any more. Intellectually, I thought I was prepared for what I was going to see — but, there. Just. Aren’t. Words.

  The sight of her juxtaposed against the bright sunny Florida morning is enough to make me retch. If I thought it was horrifying to witness when we were plastered up against the side of the building underneath the hedge, when it’s exposed under the bright sunlight, it’s the makings of a Stephen King novel. They must have used a half a roll of duct tape on this dog. As I look closer, I can see that at one point, her paws were taped together, but she somehow managed to chew them apart. Yet, even more appalling, it appears that at some point in her young
life, probably pretty recently, someone has set fire to this dog’s tail. She has raw, open wounds on what should be a thick, bushy German Shepherd tail.

  I don’t even bother to hide the tears that are streaming down my face. Who in their right mind would do this to any creature — let alone in this quiet, good-natured German Shepherd who is looking up at me with hope filled eyes? I look into her deep, chocolate brown eyes and stroke her ear as I say, “For the time being I’m going to name you Hope.”

  Instantly, I regret that I said anything to her because she starts to wag her tail and thump it painfully on the ground. I coax her into a standing position and start to lead her back to my house. Hopefully, this won’t be an ordeal. She’s not a very substantial German Shepherd; she’s mostly gangly legs and paws at this point. However, if she wanted to make my life difficult, she definitely could. Surprisingly she doesn’t seem to be fearful at all. She falls in right behind me as if she’s been heeling for her whole life. As we walk the few blocks to my house, I contemplate what I’m going to do once I get there. I’m not forbidden under the terms of my lease to have a dog, but it’s definitely not encouraged and my cat, Midnight, might have a big issue with Hope. He has been the king of my castle since I rescued him. I don’t think he’ll take too kindly to sharing — especially cross species. Those wounds look deep and somewhat infected. I don’t have any way to treat them. I’m a History major, minoring in Theater Arts, I don’t have any knowledge about this kind of stuff. I know how to put on Band-Aids when I cut myself with a box cutter when I’m building scenery, but that’s about all I know.

  The enormity of the challenge ahead of me hits me as I unlock my front gate. My cute little Jeep convertible is parked in the driveway. It’s a daunting reminder that I am far over my head. After my Chevy Chevelle died in the middle of the interstate, Tristan and Rogue surprised me for my birthday and got me a vehicle. Neither of them thought that it was extraordinary to buy someone a car for their birthday — which at that was bizarre, especially since Rogue used to object every time Tristan spent any money on her, but I guess having an engagement ring on your finger changes everything. Still, it’s hard to be cynical when I’m the beneficiary of their generosity. I look down at Hope. Her wounds are still seeping and even if they weren’t, I’m not sure she has the agility to climb all the way up into my vehicle because I’m not sure how much she hurts right now. Even if I can get her into the Jeep, I’m not sure where I would take her.