by Kate Stacy
Feeling a bit better, I send Derrick a text.
I’m keeping my promise to let him know that things have become too much.
He’ll stop by when he gets off work. He’ll help me work through things in a safe and healthy way. It’s what he’s always done for me, what he’ll always do. He’s the reason I was able to stop cutting in the first place. He’s been my best friend since we were kids, and my hero since high school.
Until he gets here, I’m going to lose myself in a book so my mind doesn’t drift back to all the negative things I can’t control.
TWENTY-NINE
Adam
Ripping the page from the sketchbook, I crumple it up and toss it toward the trash can across the room. It misses, naturally, joining the countless others littering the floor.
I tap my pencil on the next blank page, trying to decide whether to start the design again, or draw something new.
I’ve had this design in my head the past few weeks, plaguing my mind, begging to be put to paper. I’ve tried, more times than I can count, to draw it out, but it never comes out right. If even the slightest detail isn’t right, I have to start again. It’s a new compulsion and I’d bet almost anything it has to do with Presley. My deep-seated need to make it perfect because the design is for her.
It’s meant to cover her final set of scars, the ones on her left thigh.
It’s not what she asked for—not even close—but it’s the only thing I can see when I close my eyes and imagine tattooing her thigh. I need to get the design down on paper, even if it stays in my sketchbook, never used for an actual tattoo...I need to get it out of my head.
Much like Presley herself.
She’s at the center of all my thoughts.
I’m conflicted about my feelings for her.
I love her.
But I don’t want to love her.
I know that makes me sound like an asshole.
We were supposed to keep it fun and simple, enjoy each other for a while and nothing more.
My feelings complicate things and I’m not sure what to do with that, so I did what I always do. I shoved my feelings into a metaphorical box to deal with later. It’s a bullshit move, and I know it, but I’m not ready to confront those feelings head on right now, not when I’m still dealing with the lingering sense that I’m missing a part of myself.
I thought I’d found it.
Whatever piece of me is missing.
Connecting with Noah, bringing him into my life...it was supposed to fill that hole inside of me. It was supposed to fill up the empty space and make me feel whole again.
I’ve spent a little less time with Presley the past couple weeks and a little more time with my brother. I should be happy to have him in my life—and I am—but it still feels like there’s a hole in my chest.
Something is still missing.
Or maybe it's someone and not something.
Presley jumps to the forefront of my thoughts.
Stubborn girl.
Even my brain refuses to shove her into a box and hide her away.
I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to pretend that I don’t feel how I feel. My internal struggle with my emotions has been affecting the way I treat her, and she hasn’t failed to notice. She’s asked me countless times what’s wrong, and what she’s done to make me pull away from her.
How can I explain to her how I feel without hurting her?
We’ve been together for almost two months even though we never put a label on it. Our arrangement, for lack of better terms, has been exclusive. I’ve only seen her. She’s only seen me. I don’t want anyone else, and I hope to hell she doesn’t either.
Label or no label, she’s been mine this entire time.
I’ve had my reservations about relationships, about women as a whole. It’s hard to hold onto my reasons and excuses when I look at the people around me and see so many couples in loving, healthy relationships.
Maybe...just this once...I should listen to my heart instead of my head.
Maybe it’s time to make Presley mine in an official way.
Pushing off the couch, I abandon my sketchbook on the table and head to the kitchen to grab my phone off the charger. I pull up my recent calls, but before I can hit the icon to call her, the screen door slams shut, and Cannon calls out to me.
“Yo! Where you at?”
I listen to his footsteps on the hardwood floor as he makes his way through the house. I don’t voice an answer before he finds me.
“What’s up?”
“Have you seen your girl’s Instagram account?”
“Haven’t looked at it lately, why?” I ask, opening the fridge to grab a couple beers.
“Call it curiosity. But you have seen it?”
“Yeah, man. She’s posted pictures of her ink and tagged the shop, of course I’ve seen it. What the fuck are you getting at?” I ask, passing him a bottle.
“You’ve seen the pictures of her on there wearing next to nothing? The pictures of the two of you getting hot and heavy?”
Chuckling, I crack open my bottle and take a swig. “Yeah, Cannon. I’ve seen them. The ones of the two of us are going on some romance book cover or some shit.” I shrug my shoulder.
“Huh.” It’s all he says, but I can tell I’m missing something.
“What’s the problem?”
“Nothing, man,” he says, absentmindedly scrolling through what I assume to be Presley’s Instagram. “Fuck, she has a shit-ton of followers. Bet most of them are dudes. Judging by the comments on some of these...I’m not wrong.”
I walk over and look over his shoulder.
I’ve known about Presley the Princess’s Instagram almost from the beginning. I still find it amusing as hell that she chose that name as a “fuck you” to me when she thought I hated her, well...in all fairness, when I treated her like I did.
Honestly though, I don’t fuck with social media much. I have accounts on most of the platforms for the shop, but that’s simply good business. I don’t have any personal profiles, and I post on the business ones sparingly, so I don’t have much reason to go on Instagram.
I’m not surprised to see her follower count has jumped to over thirty thousand. Hell, I’m not even surprised to see that a ton of guys are saying some dirty shit to her in the comments. She’s fucking gorgeous, and anyone who doesn’t see that when they look at her needs to have their eyes checked. Her pictures vary from sweet, to downright sexy. Some of the shit she posts is hot as fuck, but it’s never bothered me.
I think maybe that’s what Cannon was trying to get at...but I know the real reason behind her account and her desire to model. If this is what makes her feel good about herself, if it helps build her confidence so she can see herself the way I do...I’m all fucking for it. Presley’s a grown woman and what she does with her body is her choice, so long as the only arms it falls into are mine.
Cannon scrolls through a few pictures, stopping to gape at some of the racier shots. I pop him on the back of his head and tell him to keep scrolling, but I’m fucking with him.
“How’d you find out about this anyway? You don’t usually mess around with social media.”
“Overheard a couple of guys at the shop talking about it, decided to take a look and see what the hell the fuss was about. I didn’t realize you already knew about it.”
He keeps scrolling, but a particular post catches my eye.
“Wait. Go back up.”
There’s a picture of her, Derrick, and a very large bottle of tequila. God, even completely toasted she’s fucking beautiful. What caught my eye was the picture above this one, where she’s holding a piece of paper, smiling like she just won the lottery.
Intrigued, I start to read the caption.
The more I read, the more my vision goes red.
She got a fucking modeling contract in New York—I glance at the date she posted the picture—three fucking weeks ago and
hasn’t said shit to me about it. Not a fucking word. Her happiness is glaringly obvious, and she has every right to be happy, but I can’t help the way I feel either.
My anger isn’t entirely unwarranted.
Our relationship may not come with a fucking label, but I thought we were close enough to share shit like this with each other.
Hell, beneath my anger, I’m fucking proud of her. She deserves everything she wants in this world. Had she told me, I would have celebrated with her even though the thought of her leaving Blackwood causes physical pain in my chest. Instead, I’m finding out weeks later, by pure accident, because she didn’t deem me important enough to share her good news with. She’d rather tell her thousands of followers than the guy she keeps in her bed.
Scoffing, I turn away from Cannon and chug the rest of my beer.
It leaves a bad fucking taste in my mouth.
I knew this would happen. Never should have let my guard down with her.
Princess Presley is too fucking good to be true.
She’s special...too fucking special to be stuck in a small town like this. She’s meant for bigger and better things, and there’s an entire world out there for her to explore. As much as I hate it...I want that for her. I want her to spread her wings and fly. I won’t be the one to hold her back. Sure, she might stay if I told her how I feel, if I asked her not to go, but eventually she’d resent me, and I’ll be damned if that happens.
At the same time, I gotta look out for myself.
Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t get a chance to make that call. I wanted to get closer to her, but I think it’s better to pull back at this point.
I’m already in too deep.
It’s gonna hurt like hell when she leaves town.
Cannon takes his eyes away from the screen long enough to notice my struggle.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin, man. Just thinking about some shit, that’s all. I think I’m gonna head over to Ryan’s for a bit. Spend some time with the kids. Wanna come?” I offer, already knowing he’s going to say no. It may seem like a dick move, because I know he’s still not ready to be around the twins, but it’s not my intention to hurt him. I want to help him move forward, but it’s not the time yet.
“Nah, I’m good here. Maybe another time.”
“Yeah.” I nod, gripping his shoulder in a tight squeeze. “I’ll see you when I get back, yeah?”
It takes him a minute to respond, his mind somewhere else altogether now.
“Course. I’ll be here.”
I’m not the only one struggling right now, a fact I need to remember.
Knowing what Cannon has been through…
My girl problems suddenly seem far less significant.
THIRTY
Presley
I pull into the parking lot of Three Kings right before closing and find it mostly empty.
The one vehicle I hoped would still be here is parked at the end of the building and that’s all that matters. I’m here to see one person and he can’t avoid me here.
I’ve been trying to call Adam for days, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t respond to texts, doesn’t return my calls. I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but he owes me an explanation.
I’ve been trying to get a hold of him to ask about my next tattoo. The close brush I had with my past only made me more eager to finish covering my scars. I want to get started as soon as possible because I know it’ll take more than one session with several weeks in between, just like the other one did.
I park my car, make my way to the door and head inside.
Trace is at the front desk and he greets me with a megawatt smile.
“Hey sweetheart, how are you?”
“I’m good, Trace. You?” I ask, crossing the space between us.
“Can’t complain too much. Even if I did, no one would listen.”
I laugh at his little joke, not missing the way his eyes move over my frame. I ignore it because it’s nothing new. Despite my relationship with Adam, all the guys in the shop never fail to check me out when I’m here. I should probably be embarrassed, because I’m certain they’ve all heard what I sound like when I come, but it is what it is. Aside from their blatant ogling, none of them treat me differently.
“Adam busy with a client?” I ask, not in the mood to make small talk.
“Nope. He’s done for the day. Should be in his office, you can head on back.”
“Thanks.”
I make my way down the hallway, stopping at the open door to Adam’s office. Sure enough, he’s behind his desk, shuffling through a stack of papers.
“Knock, knock,” I say, stepping into the room.
I can feel the tension radiating from him the instant I cross the threshold.
Not waiting for him to respond, I close the door behind me and take a seat in the chair across from him. He looks up from the papers in front of him, barely meeting my eyes.
“What can I do for you, Presley? I’m a little busy here.”
Well, then.
Straightening my spine, I blink away his curt response. “I’ve been trying to call you for days about my next tattoo, but apparently you’ve been too busy to return my calls.”
“Sorry. Been swamped.”
It’s a shitty apology that he clearly doesn’t mean.
I chuckle mirthlessly, already tired of his bullshit. “Fine, Adam. We’ll skip straight past the bullshit. What’s your problem? You kept telling me that nothing’s wrong, but obviously something happened to make you pull away and ghost me.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time.” That gets his attention and he finally looks at me. “I never once asked you for more than you were willing to give, Adam, but goddamnit I deserve some type of explanation from you. You want to end whatever this is between us? That’s fine. But be a man about it and tell me. Don’t play childish fucking games and dodge my calls.”
“Fair enough,” he says, pinning me with his stare. His eyes are scarily blank. There’s nothing there, not even the tiniest bit of emotion. “Whatever we were doing...we’re done. It never should have gone on as long as it did. I’ll do your other tattoo for you, but it needs to stay professional. You’re my client, nothing more.”
Wow. It’s like that.
“If that’s the way you want it.” I shrug because it’s better than fidgeting. “I’m not gonna argue, or try to change your mind, but I want to know why.”
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair.
I can’t help the way my eyes follow the movement, reminding me of all the times I did the same thing. I push the thoughts back and try to focus on the reason I’m here.
“I told you I didn’t want a relationship, Presley.”
“I never asked you for one, Adam.”
I hate that he’s using my name. He’s always called me Princess, even when he hated me. Hearing him call me Presley stings. He might as well insult me.
“Maybe not, but it started to feel like one all the same. Better to end things now before you get more attached than you already are.”
Is he fucking serious?
“What happened? What changed to make you go from hot to cold overnight?”
“Nothing happened. I just decided I’d had enough.”
Of me.
He’s had enough of me.
He might not have said it, but it’s exactly what he meant.
Jesus.
It would probably hurt less if he reached into my chest and physically ripped my heart out.
He might as well.
He’s so full of shit right now, he can’t even give me an actual reason. I know something happened, but I guess it doesn’t matter because he’s not going to tell me what it is. Knowing won’t change anything. He’s as stubborn as I am.
He’s breaking me in pieces right now, bit by bit.
I refuse to let him see
my pain. He doesn’t deserve it. I’ll choke it down and let it out later when I’m far away from him.
“Okay.” I stand, carefully balancing myself on wobbly legs.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You’re done, so I’m leaving.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me, but I mean every word. I’m not going to give him my tears and I’m not going to chase someone who obviously doesn’t want me. I may not always have the highest opinion of myself, but I know damn well I deserve better than that.
Giving him one last look, I turn away and head for the door. “Oh, and don’t worry about the other tattoo. I’ll get the work done somewhere else.”
“Come on, Presley. Don’t be like that.” He stands and crosses the room in an instant, grabbing hold of my arm before I can open the door.
I jerk my arm from his grip and turn my head. “I’m not being like anything.” He has the nerve to look affronted. “It’s obvious you don’t want to be around me, so I’m not going to force myself on you. This was your decision, Adam. You didn’t give me any choice.”
I turn the knob and open the door, refusing to subject myself to this for another second. He turns away from me, lowering his head as he walks back to his desk.
“Good luck in New York, Presley.”
It takes me a second to be sure I heard him right, but I’m sure I did.
In that moment, everything becomes crystal clear.
I whip around so fast my head spins.
“Is that what this is about? The stupid modeling contract?”
His silence speaks volumes.
“Are you for fucking real, Adam?” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to calm my temper. It doesn’t work. “I didn’t sign the damn contract. I never had any intention of signing.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I can see his eyes widen.
“Jesus Christ. Did you really think I would just up and leave Blackwood? Walk away from the life I have here? Abandon my family and friends?”
Abandon him?
I keep that part to myself, but that’s what it all boils down to. He thought I was going to leave, so he decided to bow out.
