by Kate Stacy
Surrounded by countless cats and kittens in need of a home, she stood out.
She stood apart from the rest in a way I only wish I could.
“Maybe if there were something unique about me,” I mutter.
The quiet rumble of Luna’s purring is the only response I get.
I love my sisters, but sometimes being triplets sucks. How can I stand out when there are two other identical versions of me walking around town? I’ve kept my hair colored but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough to set me apart from them.
I continue flipping through the images, remembering how intense the experience was for me. I’ve never felt so...in my element before. Once I let myself relax, it felt natural, freeing. I’ve never felt anything like it, and I want more of that feeling.
Closing the gallery, I open a search on the Internet. Ways to cover or remove scars.
Because if I’m going to do this—and let’s be honest, deep down, I really, really want to do this—I need to do something about my scars. If I’m going to post pictures, if I’m going to actually try to become some type of model, I don’t want my scars to be seen. If I’m going to take this chance, I don’t want to do it anonymously. I want my name out there beside my face. I want people to know who I am.
Isn’t that the whole point of this? To be seen?
I scroll through the search results, nothing looking very promising.
Make-up to cover scars. Too temporary.
Creams, ointments and gels to reduce scarring. A little late for that.
Surgery. The words skin grafts, excision, dermabrasion, and laser surgery make me cringe.
Injections. Not really wanting my body pumped with steroids.
Anything medical is basically out of the question. It’s expensive and would raise way too many questions. There’s no way I could have any type of surgery without my family knowing. They can never know about my scars. My secret, my shame. No, surgery isn’t an option.
I change up my search to something more specific. How to permanently cover self-harm scars.
My eyes lock on a single result. Tattoo studio offers free services to cover self-harm scars.
Tapping the screen, I read about a tattoo artist who replaces scars with beautiful works of art. I work through the article and watch the video accompanying the story. Tears spring to life when I see the countless people he’s helped. I listen as they tell their stories, sharing their struggles with self-harm, showing the before and after pictures of the work the artist has done for them.
It’s impossible to push back my emotions. Some of their stories are strikingly similar to my own.
Image after image flash on the screen of my phone.
A lump forms in my throat.
Before. After. Before. After.
My heart skips a beat.
Scars. Ink. Scars. Ink. Scars. Ink.
Something deep inside me settles and I smile.
This.
This is my solution.
My salvation.
A breath later, I’m calling my brother’s number.
He answers quickly, “What’s up?”
“I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Your tattoo artist. What’s his name?”
“His name’s Jimmy, but if you’re lookin’ to get ink you’ll have to find someone else. He left a while back. Moved out to Vegas before the shop changed hands.”
“Damn.”
He chuckles. “Go down there and talk to someone, Presley. I know a couple of the original guys are still there. Not sure who else Adam has in there now, but I can’t imagine any of them do shitty work.”
Ugh. How the hell did I forget that Adam owns the only fucking tattoo shop in town?
Literal facepalm.
Holden doesn’t miss the way I grumble under my breath and he’s not one to let anything go.
“What’s that about?”
“Nothing. I know you’re right. I’ll make a trip down there. I just thought it’d be easier to go with someone you were familiar with.”
“Sorry, sis. I can go down there with you if you want. Need to scope out the talent and find someone new for myself.”
“I’ll let you know,” I tell him.
I won’t.
I love my brother more than any other male in existence, but I can’t let him be involved.
Not in this.
“Sounds good. Gotta run though. I’m needed at the bar.”
“Thanks, Holden. Love you.”
“Love you too, sis. Later.”
I drop my phone and sigh.
Looks like my solution has become a problem.
I can either take my chances and hope like hell I don’t run into Adam at his own shop, or I can look for one in another town. Out of town is probably the better option. It almost guarantees I won’t see anyone I know. On the other hand, it doesn’t make much sense to drive so far when I have an option right here in Blackwood.
So what if Adam can’t stand me?
He doesn’t have to be the one to give me a tattoo.
In fact, I’d prefer he didn’t.
The thought of his hands anywhere on my body…
No. Not going there.
I’ll go down to the shop and talk to one of the other guys.
Anyone but him.
TEN
Adam
Flipping through applications from the shop, I lift my glasses to rub my eyes. Readjusting them on my face, I silently curse the damn things. Hate fucking wearing them, but I couldn’t take the irritation from my contacts anymore today. I flip through the last few applications, discarding the ones that don’t include a portfolio. I require applicants to submit samples of their work. If they can’t be bothered, they won’t be considered for employment.
I won’t hire someone without seeing their talent.
And if someone can’t provide me with what I ask for when they apply, I’m not going to waste my time looking at their application.
I have high standards and I give zero fucks what anyone else thinks.
Tossing the applications I won’t consider, I set the others aside and start looking through the portfolios one by one. The art is more important than the information. Always.
As I look through tattoo images, my mind wanders to Noah.
I still can’t get over the fact that he’s my brother.
I’ve been sitting on this information for a week now and I still haven’t a fucking clue what to do with it.
Noah is a mystery to me. I’ve talked to him a few times since I moved to Blackwood and he seems like a nice guy, but I wouldn’t say I truly know him. I want to. I want to get to know him and have a relationship with him. No matter the circumstances, he’s blood, and that’s something I don’t have much of in my life. Hannah is all I have left. Well...she was. Now I have a brother that I want in my life.
But it’s a complicated situation.
How the hell do you confront someone you barely know and tell them they’re family?
I don’t know how he’ll react, if he’ll even believe me.
I don’t know if he’ll be open to having a relationship. He might not want a damn thing to do with me. There’s too many unanswered questions and I haven’t decided if I’m ready for the answers.
I hear the front door shut and Cannon’s voice carry through the house.
“Adam, where you at, bro?”
“Back yard! Grab me a beer on your way out,” I call out loud enough for him to hear me.
He joins me on the patio, dropping into a chair across from me.
“Ryan’s headed over,” he says, handing me a bottle. “Whatcha workin’ on?”
“Applications.”
“Any prospects?”
“A few,” I tell him, tossing a stack of portfolios his way before I focus back on the pictures in front of me.
A low whistle draws my attention a few mi
nutes later.
“This one for sure,” he says, sliding the file over to me.
“Hell yeah, already decided to call that one in and I haven’t even looked at the application.”
Cannon chuckles. “Should’ve known.”
He finishes looking through the ones I gave him and sets them aside. We work in silence for a while, me passing him portfolios that catch my attention, and him separating them into stacks. By the time we finish, we narrow it down to three. I only need one or two more artists, but I’ll bring them all in and see what happens.
Kicking back and putting my feet up, I thank him for his help.
He always tells me it’s unnecessary, but I like to make sure he knows he’s appreciated. Cannon’s always been my right hand when it comes to the business. Involved since day one, he’s been there every step of the way, helping me become a success. I owe him more than gratitude.
After we take my “work” back inside, we kick back with another beer before Ryan finally shows up.
“Took you fuckin’ long enough,” Cannon jokes.
Ryan laughs, shaking his head. “I’m not even sorry, man. Hannah’s at a friend’s house and the twins both took a nap at the same time.” He lifts a shoulder, smiling like the cat who got the cream. Guess in this case, he is.
Cannon and I groan, but mine turns to a chuckle when Cannon mutters, “lucky fucker” under his breath. He’s met Camille briefly, and like any other red-blooded male, he thinks she’s hot as fuck. Not sure how he’ll react the first time he sees all three sisters together. His head might explode.
Thoughts of the triplets cause my mind to sway toward the one I’ve been trying not to think about, but I shut that shit down in the span of a heartbeat.
Today is not the day, or any other day for that matter.
Ryan unknowingly saves me from myself.
“Brought food. Steaks. And whatever else Camille cooked and stuck in here,” he says, lifting a cloth grocery bag.
“Damn, man. Your girl let you hit it, then sent you to hang out with your boys with food she cooked for us?” Cannon shakes his head in disbelief and takes a long pull from his beer. “That’s the kinda woman every man needs in his life. Know where I can find a girl like her? I want that.” He tips his bottle toward me. “Don’t you want that?”
“Nah, brother. I’m good with the single life.”
Despite knowing how I feel about relationships, they both look at me like I’m full of shit. I’m not about to have this conversation, so I cut it off before it even gets started.
“I’m gonna fire up the grill, then I wanna talk to you guys about something.”
Standing, I head over to do exactly that. I hear, but ignore Ryan’s muttered words, “Sounds serious.”
I’m quiet as I grill the steaks. Both Ryan and Cannon sit back and let me be, knowing this is how I get when I’m stuck in my head. They don’t take offense to my silence, don’t push me to talk. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more grateful that my boys know and understand me so well. I haven’t told them about any of the information I got from Jake. Knowing that I had him searching is the extent of their knowledge.
Once we’re all sitting down, plates piled with food and cold beers in our hands, I decide to rip off the band-aid.
“I have a brother.”
Ryan’s eyes shoot to mine and Cannon stills, fork halfway to his mouth.
“Well...a half-brother, but you know technicalities don’t mean shit to me. Blood is blood.”
“Back up a minute. What about your father? Did Jake find him?” Ryan asks.
“Yeah,” I say, still unsure of how to feel about knowing he’s dead.
Leaving nothing out, I give them a rundown of the information Jake has given me so far. I even tell them that he’s fairly sure I have another sibling, but I haven’t heard anything more on that front.
“Noah? Bartender Noah? He’s your brother?” Ryan asks, a contemplative look on his face.
“I have no fuckin’ clue who Bartender Noah is.” This from Cannon, who sits back looking confused.
Ryan looks at me closely and slowly starts to nod his head. “I can see it. I can’t believe I didn’t notice the similarities before.”
“Never really had a reason to look.” I point out.
He nods his agreement.
“I missed too fuckin’ much before I came up here. Who is Bartender Noah? And do we like him?”
Count on Cannon to take the seriousness straight out of a situation. Ryan and I both laugh, giving him the answers he so desperately needs, but not without a healthy dose of teasing since he’s so out of the loop.
“I’m guessing you haven’t talked to him about this yet?” Ryan asks.
“Got it in one.” I blow out a heavy breath. “I don’t know how, man. I don’t know how to approach him with this. I mean, it’s fucking crazy to walk up to him and break it to him like I did with you two.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t recommend that approach, but you need to talk to him. He’s good people. I don’t know him well, but Camille’s whole family loves him. Hell, he’s got Holden’s respect, which is pretty much the best stamp of approval someone could have in this town.”
He chuckles, but I know damn well he’s right.
Holden Sterling is the man in Blackwood.
I haven’t met a single soul in this town that doesn’t know and respect him.
Having that respect in return? It’s like wearing a badge of honor, which is why Noah gave me a warning when he saw me watching Presley. Holden isn’t someone you want on your bad side.
“I gotta figure out how to handle it. I don’t know his life, or his relationship with our father—if he even had one. I’m excited at the prospect of getting to know him, but at the same time, it’s a...delicate situation.”
“You’re right, but you’ll figure out the best way to get it done. And you know Ryan and I have your back. Hell, I’ll be right there to hold your fuckin’ hand if that’s what you need me to do.”
This ridiculous motherfucker.
Laughing, I reach across the table and slug him in the arm.
“Ouch. Fuck!” He rubs his bicep, practically pouting.
“Suck it up, pansy,” I joke. “And I don’t need you to hold my fucking hand. Get outta here with that bullshit.”
Ryan laughs at the two of us, then starts teasing Cannon for being such a pussy.
I sit back, beer in hand, and watch the two men I consider brothers.
Grateful as fuck to have them in my life.
ELEVEN
Presley
“Derrick, no! I swear...I will kill you if you post that one!” I shout through breathless giggles, trying to snatch my phone back from him.
I miss, and we tumble to the couch in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
I finally jerk my phone from his grip, but the force of the motion sends me sprawling to the floor. I land on my ass with a loud thud. Derrick gasps and the room goes silent. His eyes meet mine and we burst into laughter again.
Laying back on the floor, I try to calm down and catch my breath.
Seems the two glasses of wine we drank have gone straight to our heads.
Fine.
Bottles.
It was two bottles.
Derrick showed up a couple hours ago on a mission. Armed with a few bottles of wine, he was ready and determined to convince me to create a new Instagram account. I couldn’t bring myself to ruin it for him by telling him I’d already decided to start one.
We cracked open a bottle of wine.
I feigned a little resistance.
Eventually, we managed to get a username that wasn’t already taken, and now he’s insisting on posting the first picture.
A picture from my boudoir session.
A picture of me without a bra, my back to the camera while I look over my shoulder.
My eyes are lidded, cheeks tinted from blush, hair in disarray.<
br />
I still can’t get over how I look in the photo.
Hot. A little naughty. Freshly fucked.
It’s one of my favorites from the session, but despite Derrick’s insistence, I’m not ready to take the plunge yet. Soon, but not yet.
“Fine!” he huffs, eyes rolling. “We’ll choose a PG picture to start but let the record show that I think you should post something sexy.”
He stands, holding out his hand to help me up from the floor.
“I’m totally out of my element, D,” I say softly. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing with this, no idea what I should be posting.”
We curl up together on the couch, Derrick scrolling through the other pictures on my phone.
“I know, my pretty. We’ll figure it out together. How about this one?”
It’s a picture he took of me and Luna curled up together.
“Perfect.”
His fingers move rapidly as he adds a caption, hashtags, and taps to share.
I’m glad he seems to know what he’s doing. Apparently, he spent the last few days doing “research” on the best ways to promote me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s now officially in charge of my Instagram account.
“Done!”
“Good. Now gimme my phone. I wanna text Tara to see if she can help me with some type of portfolio, or maybe set me up with some other photographers.”
He leaves me to my conversation and disappears into my kitchen.
Returning a few minutes later, arms loaded down with snacks, he asks, “What did she say?”
I laugh, barely understanding him because his words are muffled by whatever sugar-filled goodness he shoved in his mouth before walking into the room.
“She promised to let me know if she hears of anyone needing a model.” I shift to face him as he drops the goodies between us on the couch, curling one leg underneath me. “She also wants to do another shoot with me. Said it’ll help her add to her portfolio too, so she’s gonna get a variety of shots.”
His eyes light with excitement. “Oooh! I wanna choose your outfits!”
“That’s not all you get to help me choose.”
His brow lifts, so I tell him about wanting to get tattoos to cover my scars.
