Something Real (Exile Ink Book 3)

by Skylar Hill

  “Hey!” James protested as Grant guffawed.

  “All’s fair in love and war, baby,” she giggled, taking a sip of her wine.

  “Oh, I like her, Jimmy-boy,” Grant said.

  “Brat,” James teased Cam, capturing her mouth in a messy but sweet kiss. He tasted like beer and balsamic vinegar, a combination that shouldn’t be pleasant, but was.

  “I propose a toast!” Grant said, tapping his knife against his wine glass.

  “Hear, hear!” Tasha said, lifting her own.

  “To Jimmy-Boy,” Grant said, gesturing to his friend. “For bringing us all together and giving us all jobs. To Cam, who’s graciously found it in her to love his ugly mug.” Laughter spread across the table. “And who has cooked us an amazing dinner and opened up her lovely home. And, finally, to us,” he looked over the table, his eyes shining with a fondness like he’d known and worked with them all for years. “The Exile Ink originals. If we do our jobs right—and of course we will—they’ll talk about us like we’re legends. Sláinte!”

  “Sláinte!” they echoed, their voices exciting Nandy, who began to howl in the house, joining in with their revelry.

  James put his arm around her, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, watching as their friends talked and laughed and shared their stories and plans, the feeling of family and excitement and creativity in the air.

  It was like she’d always dreamed.

  She just had to figure out a way to keep it.

  Chapter Six

  James

  “This place is better than I even dreamed,” Grant said.

  The next morning, the two men were standing in Exile Ink’s main room, where the lobby and the public tattooing stations were. Originally, when the building had been a textile factory, this had been the factory floor. But James had transformed the space, taking advantage of the high walls and ceilings, and the amazing light that poured in through the old factory windows.

  There were four tattoo stations set in the main room, with four more private rooms upstairs. The walls were lined with carefully stained wood—entirely recycled and pulled from barns that James himself had torn down in exchange for the wood. There was even strips of wood from an old boat on the south wall.

  Grant ran a hand over one of the walls. “I love this,” he said. “It’s rustic, but warm. Cozy, almost.”

  “That was the idea,” James said. “Though when I was nailing each strip up, I was cursing the idea.”

  Grant laughed. “I bet.”

  Cam appeared at the top of the stairs. Because Exile Ink used to be a factory, a long spiral staircase led down to the factory floor. It was a great feature, but James and Aiden had spent considerable money making the building accessible for their clients who used wheelchairs and had other mobility concerns. Grant especially worked with a lot of veterans, and James wasn’t about to let anyone feel excluded or discriminated against. He wanted Exile Ink to be a place his clients felt at home. Comfort and ease were essential when it came to a tattooing session, and he’d put that in the forefront of his mind when he’d designed the place.

  “I’ve got something to show you two,” Cam said, before disappearing back up the stairs.

  The two men followed her up the stairs, into the entryway.

  “Hi guys,” Tasha said, looking over her shoulder. “Come and join us.”

  Cam and Tasha had spent the week before painting the main entryway wall with several layers of chalkboard paint. And now their hard work had paid off, if the boxes of chalk Cam thrust out at the two of them was any indication.

  “Just like in school,” Grant said gamely, shaking a red piece out of his box and going over to the wall to join Tasha.

  “Do I get to draw J + C = 4 Ever?” James asked as he opened his box of chalk.

  “That’s what trees are for,” Cam said primly, making him laugh.

  “We were thinking more of a welcome to our guests, not love notes,” Tasha said.

  “We’re going to put it in a picture frame.” Cam pointed to the little marks she and Tasha had made, outlining the rough outline of a frame. “We each take a side of the frame. Make it our own. To showcase our different styles.”

  “Fantastic idea,” Grant said.

  “I love it,” James agreed. “Let’s do it.”

  Tasha cranked some music as they set to work, classic rock pumping through the building as each of them took a side. James quickly fell into the zone, exclusively using the white chalk (and then, when he ran out, stealing Cam’s stick) as he created an intricate pattern of dots that were part of a much bigger picture. Everything else fell away as he worked—with the exception of Cam. He was always aware of her, in his periphery, just in case she needed him. But the rest of his focus remained on the wall in front of him—and the picture he was creating with each careful sprinkle of dots.

  Dotwork was something he’d started studying about 10 years ago, and it had taken him a few years and a lot of practice to feel confident enough to design pieces using the techniques he’d learned. There was something incredible about creating a bigger picture out of nothing but little dots of ink, arranged in a certain way. It required a great deal of foresight, of planning, and of understanding of line and depth, of shape and how the human eye perceived things.

  His body relaxed as he worked on the scene forming in his mind, making it a reality in chalk before him. He was the last one done, and when he finally walked back to join the others and survey their work, his stomach tightened.

  Sometimes, looking at art was like falling in love. He’d had those moments before—the first time he saw Keith Haring’s work, the first time he saw a Calder mobile, his first visit to the Louvre—but this… this was different.

  This was theirs.

  Tasha’s part of the frame—the bottom—was sprinkled with pinup girls who were more like warriors, a little army of them marching along the base of their chalk-frame. Classic tattoo hearts, flowers, anchors, bows, and stars were sprinkled between the pinups, cute and cartoony, but with shading that spoke of Tasha’s expert touch.

  Grant’s part of the frame—the top—was a solar system, done in such realistic detail it was like standing among the stars.

  “I added Pluto,” Grant said. “Because fuck it not being a planet. Poor little guy.”

  James shook his head, smiling as he turned his attention to the left side of the frame: Cam’s contribution.

  Camellias, many-petaled flowers blooming pink and red and white, climbed their way up to the top of the frame with such fluid grace you could almost believe you were watching them grow up the wall.

  “Wow,” Cam said, her eyes falling to James’ addition to the frame.

  He’d created a mountain scene entirely out of dots. Tall redwoods towered over a tiny log cabin, a long path winding away from the cabin, toward a distant city. His journey. Back home. To find her.

  He truly believed that. That he’d been drawn here, drawn back home, drawn to her. The person he needed most, who understood the hole his father’s death had left in him and helped heal it, who understood his ambition, his desire for family, for friendship, for creation and great art.

  Cam’s hand found his, soft with chalk dust. There was a smear of pink across her cheek and he smiled, thinking she was more beautiful than all the art he’d ever seen.

  The four of them stood back, surveying their work, the combination and differences in their styles and talents.

  “We’re going to blow them all away,” Grant said.

  James smiled.

  Legendary. Like Grant had said last night in his toast.

  He was going to aim for it.

  Chapter Seven

  James

  James’s hand settled on the small of Cam’s back as they made their way through the maze of tables at The Grove, an upscale restaurant that was perfect for quiet business lunches during the day and anniversary dinners at night. Every time they met with Russ Weston, the head of Weston Security, Cam got stre
ssed and tense. It didn’t have anything to do with the man himself—Russ and Cam had been friends for a long time, and James really liked the guy. But so far, every time they’d met with him, bad news had been delivered. And the look on his face as they joined him at his table in the back told James that unfortunately, that tradition was going to continue.

  “I ordered some bruschetta to get us started,” Russ said, getting up and shaking James’s hand before leaning over to give Cam a gentle hug. “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Okay,” Cam said, sliding into the booth and reaching for her water goblet, taking a long drink. “But you don’t look like there’s good news.”

  Russ sighed, and James’s stomach sank.

  “I have several people in California working on this for us,” Russ explained. “And I’ve managed to get hold of the list of people who will speaking on Keith’s behalf.”

  “There’s an entire list?” James asked incredulously. What kind of vile person stood up for a man who beat his children and murdered his wife?

  “My father had dirt on a lot of people,” Cam said. “A lot of them probably thought they were safe once he was in prison. But now…”

  “Now he’s collecting what’s owed to him,” Russ finished. “And unfortunately, it’s a strong list. He has several police officers who retired honorably, a city council member, and several business owners from your hometown vouching for him.”

  Cam’s lip curled in disgust. “Let me guess,” she said. “All men.”

  “Yes,” Russ said.

  “The good old boys’ club strikes again,” she muttered.

  James gritted his teeth, hating the knowing bitterness in her voice. Over and over again, help had been denied her by men in power—doctors, police officers, teachers—they all turned a blind eye to the abuse until Keith took it to the point of murder. It horrified him, how trapped Cam’s mother had been… how trapped so many women were. When all this was settled, he was going to talk to Aiden about donating to more domestic violence charities through their family foundation. He was fortunate enough to have the money to fund charities that created real change, and he didn’t take that gift lightly. He was going to make sure he did everything he could so the Portland women’s shelters had everything they needed.

  The waitress came with the bruschetta and took their orders—steak for James and Russ, pasta carbonara for Cam—and then whisked the menus away.

  “So are you saying the possibility of him getting out is going to be a reality?’ James asked once she was gone.

  “You can never say for sure,” Russ said. “Each probation board is different. Until we’re in that room, listening to the statements, it’s going to be hard to tell which way it’s going to fall. But I do think we should take some steps to start implementing the Plan B we discussed.”

  “That means getting Evie to move into the house with us,” Cam said, with more than a little dread in her voice. She leaned her elbows on the table, pressing her face into her hands. “I haven’t even suggested it yet,” she said through her fingers. “She’s going to hate the idea.”

  “We’ll need time to get the restraining order in place,” Russ said. “And we’ll need time to see if he’s going to start harassing you immediately, or if he’s going to stay in California. Coming to Oregon would violate his probation, so there’s a modicum of protection there.”

  “That’s not going to matter to him,” Cam said. “You know he used to write Evie letters, before we moved? From prison. Never to me, because I was the bitch who shot him. Just to Evie. I sent them all back, but they came, every week, like clockwork, until the week we moved to Portland. So I got our names legally changed to my grandmother’s maiden name. I cut ties with everyone back in our hometown. I didn’t want to risk him finding us. But now, these days, with social media and the Internet…” she gestured hopelessly and James put his arm around her, gathering her close as she leaned gratefully against him. “I’m sorry, Russ,” she said shakily, wiping at her eyes. “I keep crying every time I see you.”

  “No apologies are necessary,” Russ replied gently. “I have so much admiration for the way both of you have been dealing with this. And I know that Evie will understand, even if she won’t like living away from college. But her schedule—the fact that she’s on campus so much—makes her an easy target. The dorms would make her even more vulnerable. She’ll be safest with you at the house and, well, frankly, at Green Valley. Your brother’s security is excellent,” he said to James. “And I’m not saying that just because he had me run some upgrades on a few things. Evie will be safe at work. And we can take steps to make her safe at school, if Keith does show up.”

  “Doesn’t he just get arrested if he shows up?” James asked. “He’s violating parole by crossing state lines.”

  “That only matters if he’s still there when the police show up,” Cam said miserably, before Russ could say anything. “And that only matters if he doesn’t just pull a gun and shoot.”

  “Honey,” James squeezed her shoulder, hating how matter-of-fact her words were, like she’d thought about all the scenarios way too many times.

  “Okay,” Cam said. “So if he gets out, and we get the restraining order, Evie moves into our house. We have the security system already and we have floodlights rigged on motion censors. And Nandy’s a good guard dog.”

  “Getting a dog was a good idea,” Russ told her. “Now in terms of your own personal security, Cam—“

  “I don’t need a bodyguard,” Cam interrupted flatly. “I can take care of myself.”

  Russ shot James a worried look. “Cam, you were one of my best students. And you’re an excellent fighter. But Keith’s been in prison for eight years. And he’s been on top the whole time.”

  “Meaning?” Cam asked.

  “Meaning you don’t get to the top of a prison gang—and stay on the top—without being a vicious, violent son-of-a-bitch,” James said grimly.

  “Exactly,” Russ said. “I never want to discount your abilities, Cam. They are valuable and important. But this is a whole new level, even if you didn’t factor in all the trauma you suffered at his hands.”

  “I’m not going to freeze if he attacks me again,” Cam said, her eyebrows snapping together in irritation. She said it so loudly that the table next to them glanced over, and James shot them a look that told them to kindly go back to their lunch.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Russ reassured her. “I’m sure you’d react just like you were trained to. But he is a killer, Cam. And you are not.”

  Cam opened her mouth to say something—what, James didn’t know—because she was stopped by the food arriving. The waitress refilled their drinks as well, smiling cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to their tense, pained mood as she left to attend to her other customers.

  “Is that what it comes down to?” Cam said, once they were alone again. “That because I’m not a killer, I’m never going to win when it comes to him?”

  Russ sighed, putting his steak knife down. “You don’t want to be like him.”

  “Is that the only way to beat him, though?”

  James was starting to wonder if it was. If death was the only thing that was going to sever the threat that Keith Fawcett posed to both Cam and Evie.

  “I can’t answer that question,” Russ said. “All I can do is to guide you down the paths that I think will be most effective in stopping him. I wish I could do more, Cam. But there are some things a person can’t do without sacrificing a bit of their soul. And I don’t want that for you or for anyone who works for me.”

  Cam stabbed at her pasta, falling quiet as they ate. Every few minutes, James would place his hand on her thigh, just resting it there, and her hand would drop to cover his for a few moments. When their meal was complete, she looked down at her phone.

  “I hate to cut this short,” she said. “But I’m going to have to leave now to make it through traffic. I’m meeting Evie at the Green Valley lab.”

  Ja
mes got up from the booth, allowing her to scoot out.

  “I’ll walk you out,” he said.

  “Thank you, Russ,” she said. “I’m sor—”

  “No more apologizing,” Russ interrupted her with a gentle smile, which she returned. “Step by step, we’ll tackle this. No matter how the hearing turns out.”

  She nodded, turning and letting James escort her from the restaurant.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked as they stood outside on the curb, waiting for the valet to get her car. His hand was still at the small of her back, and he brought her closer to him, his head dipping down a little to look into her beautiful blue eyes.

  She nodded, looking entirely unconvincing. “I just—I was hoping for better news. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  “Honey,” he said softly, cupping her cheek.

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she took a deep breath, holding them back. “I don’t want this to be our life,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. “I don’t want to spend my life looking over my shoulder. I don’t want you to wonder if he finally found us if I’m late for dinner one night. I don’t want Evie to give up her independence. The last thing any 21-year-old wants is to be living with her older sister and having a curfew.”

  “Evie’s smart, and she’ll understand,” James assured her. ‘And I will find a way to make it temporary, if he gets out, Cam. A guy like that, he’s not going to suddenly go straight. He’s crooked. He’s always going to be crooked. And I will make sure he gets caught. I’ll have PIs on him 24/7, just waiting to jump on any illegal activity. And when he’s caught? He won’t get probation this time.”

  It was a promise he desperately needed to be able to keep—and he would find a way. No one was going to hurt his family, and that is what Cam was. His family. His partner. The love of his life. And his future wife, if he had any say in it.