Inked Passions: (A Love Struck Bad Boys Romance)

by Amber Burns

  I looked around me at the porch I stood on, and noticed the rough-hewn wooden furniture scattered about, no pillows were in sight. I guessed they would be inside stored away, and the wood obviously needed care; it was splintered, dry and in places worn. The stairs I’d somehow staggered up the previous night were broken and a few were even missing. How I hadn’t broken a leg was a miracle.

  By noon I’d taken a walk around the outside of the house and confirmed what the porch had left me suspecting, that I’d inherited a wreck. There was storm damage to the boards and the yard was a jungle. I dragged myself back up the stairs and inside.

  “And that’s only the outside of it,” I muttered to myself as I picked up my duffel, took it to what I presumed to be the main bedroom, and then hunted for the kitchen.

  I felt like shit warmed over, and as I walked through the spacious kitchen switching on appliances that had been long left off, I started realizing what I’d been doing to my body these past weeks. I was slipping into a repeat of my teenage years, and that was not a thing I wanted to do.

  I didn’t even know where exactly I was, I mean, I knew I was in Texas, Galveston, but which part? The taxi ride from the night before was an amnesiac blur. The refrigerator hummed satisfactorily, but when I went through the cupboards they were bare except for a few bottles of wine in a rack, bags of crisps, canned soup, peaches and bottled water. Those would have to do for the afternoon, as I had no money left and needed to read through those papers the lawyer had sent me.

  When I tried switching on a light in the living room later that afternoon, it didn’t work, so I sat in the kitchen with the stack of papers I needed to read, my hands shaking from the lack of Xanax. I knew I had to stop that shit, and would only take one or two at bed time to help with the bad dreams. Instead, I poured a glass of wine to try and calm the nerves.

  According to the words on this sheet of paper, once I signed them and arranged for them to be returned to Mr. Conrad, I would be wealthier than I had ever dreamed. Hell, I’d probably be wealthier than the president. I signed them without a second thought and resealed the envelope, calling the courier company to collect it while I refilled the now empty wine glass. Simultaneously I pondered how Andy had gotten so wealthy, what did one do to become so rich in this day and age?

  After my excursion through the wine rack the night before I had explored a bit of the house, and a few pieces of mail addressed ‘Crystal Beach’ told me my location at least. Not the most valuable real estate in the Galveston area after the damage done by Hurricane Ike in 2008. Not too many folks who lived here year-round had the funds to rebuild after the storm, and most had actually just upped and left. But there was a marina on the inland lagoon side of the coast where I could bring my boat so that it could be closer to home, and I resolved to do that soon.

  I sat on the lounge floor now going through utility bills from a desk drawer and trying to find information on getting the phone line connected; I needed internet. As soon as I had the money I would go and buy a computer, because wealthy as Andrew had been, he had never kept one here. His laptop simply travelled with him I suppose. On searching the house I didn’t even find a modem though, so it was entirely doubtful.

  The furnishings in the house were all very ‘New England’ style, I suppose the interior magazines would call it, and I had work to do making the place more my own if I was going to make it home. As it was I didn’t feel at all comfortable in it. I’d give that some thought over the next few weeks while I tried to get back on my feet. My first order of business was to go around the house and make a list of repairs to do, which I’d get to in the morning. It was getting late into the afternoon already and I felt my eyes drooping with an exhaustion I couldn’t explain. Even breathing right now seemed like effort, wasn’t this how the psychiatrists described depression? A tiredness that didn’t go away, an inexplicable sadness? No desire to really do anything, I just wanted to be numb.

  I simply dropped the papers and walked over to the couch, I needed to buy groceries, and lightbulbs… And that was all I thought of before I fell asleep. I could do everything… Tomorrow.

  3

  Three weeks into living in the house at Crystal Beach I got tired of stumbling up broken steps, pulling curtains and hearing perished plastic hooks crumble under the stress of use, and staring at peeling paint. I stomped out through the door determined to go and buy everything I needed to fix this wreck, right then and there. Stupidity I know.

  I was halfway down the driveway before realization dawned on me that I had no car and was miles from the nearest open shop. It was out of “tourist” season and all the local places were shut.

  “Fuck,” I swore to myself.

  Since I’d started trying to avoid Allen’s little ‘something special’s’ as well as running out of Xanax, my temper had gone to hell in a hand-basket. When I turned back to face the house, the old garage door caught my attention for the first time since I’d been here. I hadn’t come outside much after that first walk-around to assess damage. The weather had not been so great, and when I did leave the house it was to walk straight out toward the beach and stare at the horizon like a zombie, not look around the back of the place.

  I shook my head. “What are the chances?”

  The door opened stiffly, the joints rusted tight from the salt air. There inside, under a layer of dust, sat the most beautiful old Jaguar XKE I’d ever laid eyes on. I should have taken the old man for a Vintage car nut. It had a few spots of rust in its mint-green paintwork, but was otherwise perfect. I guessed correctly when I turned the key, which had been left in the ignition, that the battery was flat. After a charge and some tender loving care she’d run like a purring kitten. I disconnected the battery and took it inside, jury-rigged a charging mechanism (thank you military mechanical improvising skills) and sat down to calmly make a list of what I would need.

  My hands were shaking again, but I had to learn to cope, my personality was too volatile and addictive to play with the fire I’d been handling. The car battery would take a few hours to charge fully, so I settled down with a book and a cup of coffee; the other bonus substance I had discovered a significant stash of in the kitchen cupboards. I compiled my grocery list, along with my hardware list, and then once again relaxed back with ‘Inner strength’ (some book on recovering from trauma which fate seemed to have intended me to find). I’d actually enjoyed and found the sappily titled book useful so far.

  I took a drive to Galveston four hours later, lists in hand, and hunted down an ATM. After pulling out a couple hundred I nearly fainting at the figure in the account. My next port of call was a hardware store; buying the most essential items like paint and varnish. I also arranged for wood and new window shutters to be delivered within the week.

  Grocery shopping was a novel experience, I had never had to do it. I’d survived off take-out, army food or hostel kitchen fare for as long as I could remember after leaving home. I probably spent thirty minutes staring at milk, and trying to figure out which kind I should get. Nevertheless, I managed to get what I figured would feed me for a few days, and headed back to the car. I passed a ‘home décor’ shop and pulled into the parking lot, remembering the scratchy old linen on the bed. A few hundred dollars later (and lots of advice from the sales lady) I stuffed three big bags into the car, hoping to make my new home a bit more comfortable that night. God alone knows how she convinced me I needed scented candles too, but it’s not as if I had issues spending money.

  Back at the house I switched on music and actually had a good time unpacking the food, I placed the meat in the freezer, the apples and beers in the fridge, and dry stuff in the cupboards. It damn near seemed like a proper home. I then delved into the new sheets and pillows. I’d bought a new duvet too, and by the time I’d made the bed it looked so good all I wanted to do was fall straight into it.

  I managed to resist that urge and picked up a beer in the kitchen instead. Walking out onto the balcony, I stared in desperation at the
broken stairs and peeling paint. I jumped up onto the rail and sat there with my legs dangling over the undergrowth that strangled the area around the house completely. The sea was rough today, and white foam topped the swells as they rushed toward the beach and crashed against the sand.

  I looked up and down the beach, and that’s when I saw the lone figure walking away from my house and toward Port Bolivar. It was a much more desolate part of the Peninsula, where the worst of the ruined houses stood and very little had been rebuilt, simply because it jutted even farther out into the water and was so much more exposed. A couple of the local stores were down there, but they only opened during season, along with the camp ground. Basically the college student’s seasonal party area.

  The person walking down the beach was a girl; I could see her hair blow out to the side of her in the strong wind. In the stray rays of early evening sun, auburn lights glinted in her long strands. She had stopped and was facing the sea, and even at this distance I sensed a deep sadness in that lone little person so far down the beach. I was making myself melancholy, and jumped down off the rail to go and make supper. I spent the better part of the evening cooking myself a proper meal for the first time in my life.

  As the weeks passed, I started working on that house with a passion I didn’t know I had in me. Tourist season was approaching and I had an idea of how to keep my trust fund from evaporating. I had the capital to get some high grade coke from old high-school contacts in Miami, and with students and holiday people around, I’d turn over a killing. I knew I was once again playing with fire, but I wasn’t planning on using, just selling… And I was planning on selling to Allen specifically. He could spread it from there.

  My handiwork made my uncle’s old place seem like a different house altogether, I’d painted the boards a shade of light blue, and hung brand new white storm shutters at all the windows. The wild vegetation was gone, though it hadn’t gone without a fight, and I had the scars to prove it. The thorns hadn’t been so visible from outside the bushes.

  Every evening at six I made my way to that balcony rail to watch for the girl, and every evening I saw her, walking down the beach. I hadn’t gone to talk to her, and I didn’t know where she lived. I was scared if I got close to her I’d just hurt another person, so I simply watched her every night from my balcony. This helped me keep her at a distance, merely a beautiful mythological figure. She was so petite from a distance, and I thought she was young. She had turned toward me one evening and I swear she didn’t have any lines on her face and, unless I was hallucinating, her eyes were blue.

  “You’re fucking crazy, and you don’t deserve anyone, you’re just a washed-up piece of shit Deverroux,” I muttered to myself, turning back into the house.

  A few days later I sat down and ordered new furniture online. I’d had enough of living in a house full of somebody else’s memories, and needed to make it my own inside now, more than just having the most comfortable bed in the world.

  Tourist season had begun and local stores were slowly opening their doors. As the tourists arrived I’d began to see life in a few more houses around. Even at the busiest time I guessed there would still be two houses on either side between me and the closest neighbors, which made me happy. I’d procured and sold a good stack of coke to Allen, letting him come to my place to pick it up. I’d told him to keep me out of how it spread or where it originated from.

  “Sure Mich, no worries, this is gonna be a hit, coke is the latest big come-back drug... And holiday season is here! College kids will lap it up.”

  I was stupid enough to not see how hungrily he glanced around the house, and after, slunk off with the bag under his arm. I wish I’d known at that stage how hard this stupidity was going to come back and bite me in the ass. I just never learned.

  I sat back with a beer after having a shower on the first night after un-boxing the new couch, coffee table and flat-screen TV. I had mounted the latter on the wall that I’d repainted a dark blue, giving a much manlier feel to the place lately. Overall life was good. Having my own house… I was even getting used to that idea and it was really starting to feel like mine. I was slowly getting over the need I had for calming goodies, and I was fucking proud I’d done it alone. No twelve-step program for me, no Sir.

  As tourist season got into full swing Allen began stopping by and handing me wads of cash regularly. I’d stashed away most of it in a bag in a cupboard down the passage from my bedroom. Security was not something I was too concerned about, not since I’d been here anyway. I hadn’t noticed bars on any shop windows, or security of any sort. When I slept I still slept lightly. Consequently I woke up with every creak the old house made.

  At about midnight one night, not too much later, the house creaks were a bit too regular. They were coming from the balcony, and then a window shattered. I sat bolt-upright in bed and listened. There were two voices, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I stood and moved silently to my door, my hand-to-hand combat training and stealth movement tactics running through my mind.

  When I looked cautiously around the doorframe, there were two figures rummaging through my chest of drawers and display cabinets in the lounge and passage. I could now tell one was Allen, and heard him whispering.

  “I tell you man, I gave him all the money, and I ain’t seen him take it to no bank, and I been watchin’. It’s here somewhere.”

  His companion shone a flashlight around and answered nervously.

  “But what if he wakes up? The dude’s ex-army Al.”

  Allen’s laugh and his comment made me see red.

  “He’s a wash-out, and he takes some pretty strong shit I gave him to sleep, he won’t wake up even if you go and slap him.”

  I silently got behind them, slipped the catch on my door so they were locked in and flicked the light switch.

  “Wrong,” is all I said.

  The two men froze, brining a slight smirk to my lips.

  “Good evening Allen, and I don’t think I’ve met your friend.”

  They stopped, the other man dropped his flashlight, and I saw a wet patch bloom on the front of his jeans. Allen smiled, a smile of someone who was about to try and talk himself out of a problem.

  “Stop, before you begin,” I said as I started walking toward him, slowly.

  Allen tried to retreat but had nowhere to go. When his back was to the wall I stopped approaching.

  “I heard you, I heard you insult me, and I want you both out of my house. As to me being a wash-out, please take this as a reminder that I’m everything but that.”

  I punched him so hard to the side of his head that I felt the bone in my hand crack, and something in his head gave way. His friend grabbed him and they staggered to the door.

  “I never want to see you two again,” I yelled after them.

  I locked the door and walked to the kitchen to put ice on my hand, after which I went back to sleep, calmer than I’d been in ages.

  Allen ended up in Galveston General Hospital with a cracked skull two days later though and I got called in for questioning. I told them about the break-in, got reprimanded for not reporting it, and that seemed to be that. But rumors spread around Crystal Beach that summer about the violent man that had taken over the Lechat house, and everywhere I went I got scared looks, or was avoided by the locals. My hand healed in a couple of weeks and I bought a boxing bag to hang on my porch as a stress reliever. I wouldn’t soon forget how good that punch had felt, and again my teenage years came back to haunt me.

  Through all of this (the redecorating, the robbery, learning that I was not cut out to be a drug dealer and working on the rust spots on the Jaguar) I still made sure I was there to watch my mermaid walk the beach every evening at six. I started to really wonder who she was, why she walked alone every night, and why she seemed to have such a sad aura about her, visible even from this distance.

  I was lost in thought about my sad mermaid when a soft, and virtually inaudible ‘meow’ pulled me from th
e fog. It stuck me as so pitiful and small. When I walked back to the rail I heard it again, a hoarse little cry. I went one by one down the stairs trying to find where the sound was coming from, and eventually sat on my haunches right next to an opening that led under my porch stairs. There was no undergrowth, but it was closed off with wood to keep rodents out.

  When I stopped to listen I’d obviously made a bit of noise, because one of the tiniest little creatures I’d ever seen up close poked its head through a small hole and staggered out into the chilly evening air. One blue and one green eye blinked up at me, and he walked right up to my outstretched hand, still crying out. When I picked the little thing up he was nothing but skin and bone, and shivered in my palm, ice cold and barely filling my hand. I had never had a particularly soft spot for cats, but some deep sense of compassion stirred in me at how helpless this little thing was. He was dirty and obviously starved, and I cradled him against my chest as I carried him inside the house.

  I could not guess the little thing’s age, but I figured I best try and get something in its belly before I tried to clean it, and warm milk seemed a good idea. He couldn’t yet drink by himself, so I hunted down a syringe from my first-aid kit. I had no idea a half hour of painstaking labor would follow. I was no easy task getting him to take bits of warmed milk from the syringe as I held it to his mouth. After that, with much sneezing and spluttering, we both needed a wash. So I started a bath for the little guy, filling the basin with warm water, and using shampoo to wash him clean. This process was all much to his horror, which he made loudly known. Once sufficiently clean, I toweled him and left him in a box I found in the kitchen with a blanket. Only then did I go and shower.