Trouble

by Kira Blakely

  I walked to the sink and looked out into the small back garden. My mother was out there, sitting under the trees and sipping from a cup. God, that image was… it was time immemorial. She’d done the exact same thing hundreds of times before. Tea breaks were her thing.

  I welled up, tried but failed to keep the tears at bay. There was so much riding on Get Ink’d and the show.

  Get it together! Woman up, Margot.

  I unlocked my phone’s screen and exited the image, then brought up a blank text. I attached the image, then typed beneath it. “Can you explain what’s going on here? If you’re going to pull out of Get Ink’d, at least be honest about it, please. I need to prepare for the future. For my family.”

  I hit send, then blew out a breath in a long stream, lips forming a little O. It would be OK. It had to be OK.

  Besides, Cain had wanted to help us out financially a few days ago. Surely, he couldn’t do a total 360 in such a short amount of time? But doubt crept through me. Impulsive decisions were his forte and always had been.

  My phone buzzed in my palm and Cain’s number—not his face, thank god, that would’ve been torturous—flashed on the screen.

  I swiped my thumb across it, then pressed the phone to my ear and looked out at Mom sitting at the end of yard.

  “Cain,” I said.

  “Who sent you that picture?” he asked.

  “Does it matter? I have it, and I’d like to know what the hell is going on. This isn’t your business. It’s ours.”

  “It sure as hell matters, Margot. Whoever sent you that picture did it to stir the pot, and that means they have an ulterior motive,” he continued. “I’ll be damned if I let them get away with it. It was that slug of a man. I know it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, voice shaking because I couldn’t hold back my anger a second longer. My anger or my grief.

  I’d kept it together for Jemma and Mom. I’d never grieved for Dad in the way they had because if I’d let myself break, who would be there to help them? Who would be the rock when the house fell down?

  “Cain, I just want to know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing is going on.”

  Relief surged upward.

  “I wouldn’t touch that woman or her shop with a thirty-foot, dick-shaped pole if you paid me. And you couldn’t pay me enough,” he said.

  “Then what were you doing in her shop?” I asked. I couldn’t keep the insecurity out. God, it was pathetic. I wasn’t this person.

  “She caught me walking down the street after you told me not to come back to Get Ink’d.”

  Yeah, I hadn’t wanted him to come back and cause trouble. That didn’t mean I didn’t want him as a partner in the damn business. Like it or not, I needed Cain right now.

  In more ways than one. No!

  “She offered me a partnership in that fuckfest of a parlor,” he said, and laughed. “Can you believe it? What a load of turds.”

  “I—OK,” I said, and exhaled. This was good. He wasn’t pulling out of the shop. And he wasn’t pulling out of her either. Wow, that was a detestable thought. “OK, that’s fine. Thank you,” I said, and kept it as formal as possible.

  My emotions had run too high with Cain already. This was a total cock-up and I needed to regain control before it was too late. “Thank you for allaying my fears,” I said.

  “There a reason you’re talking like a robot right now?”

  “No, I’m just being professional.”

  “Whatever you say, C3PO. We need to talk about what happened this morning. Come down to the shop and let’s get, uh, how did you put it? Professional.”

  “No,” I replied. “I’m tied up here. Cain, I’ll see you tomorrow and we can discuss this properly.” If I went there now, professional would become physical, and that would be the end of my last smidgen of control over my own heart.

  “Margot. Come here now.”

  “Have a good night, Cain. Stay safe. Don’t go tossing any cameras into the street,” I said, then hung up.

  I exhaled and sagged against the kitchen counter.

  It couldn’t go on like this. I couldn’t keep stressing over him and what he’d do next.

  This had to end. Soon.

  Chapter 19

  Cain

  Nobody hung up on me. Nobody refused to meet with me. Except for her.

  Of course, Margot would be the exception to that rule, but it didn’t piss me off any less that last night, when I’d needed to speak with her, to see her face-to-face, she’d told me to wait. I was one impatient motherfucker.

  I stormed down the sidewalk and let myself into Get Ink’d.

  The purple-haired chick rose from behind the desk and waved at me. “Hey, Cain. How are you?”

  I grunted by way of reply.

  “Do you want coffee?”

  I faltered mid-stride and looked her dead-on. The camera guy, Ben or Jerry—who the fuck knew?—hovered in the background, camera up and rolling. “No,” I said. “And not because I don’t want coffee. Listen, purple-haired chick—”

  “Nat.”

  “That’s it. Fuck, I’ll never remember that. Listen, Nat, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you make shit coffee. Like, bad. Like it tastes like something else that’s brown and not made from beans, if you catch my drift.”

  Her jaw dropped, revealing the silver ball in the center of her tongue.

  Ben or Jerry chuckled and adjusted his camera. He was lucky his name reminded me of my favorite ice cream or I’d have forgotten that too. I shrugged and strode past them both, my insides turning, not out of nerves but out of anticipation.

  I needed to see Margot, like she was food for my fucking eyes. I also needed to slam her up against a wall, part those precious thighs and taste the sweetness between them, but judging by her robot act on the phone last night, that probably wouldn’t happen.

  Fuck it, who was I kidding?

  The minute she saw me, the minute I laid hands on her, she’d melt into my arms again.

  And that’s the opposite of what you want.

  I shoved the thought aside as I shoved the door to her office inward and entered.

  Margot sat behind the desk, her palms pressed up against her temples, elbows on the desk as she studied a tablet laid between her arms.

  I slapped the door shut behind me, and she let out a muted shriek, then straightened. “What the hell? Don’t you knock, Foster?”

  “Not when it’s my office,” I replied. “Care to explain to me why you couldn’t come here and meet me last night?”

  “Not particularly. I don’t owe you any explanations,” she said. “Though, you certainly owe me some, since you missed all of your appointments yesterday and almost lost me a fucking client.” Margot killed the screen of the tablet.

  Good thing too, since I was in the mood to throw something again. The sight of her there, so cool and collected after she’d driven me crazy with anger and concern last night, brought all the emotion pumping back.

  I closed in on the desk and planted my fists on it. “What the fuck is up, Margot? Why are you acting like this?”

  “Like what?” She shoved her chair back and got up too. “I’m acting like a businessperson. Like your business partner.”

  “You’re not just my business partner.”

  “I’m not anything to you. You made that clear in Japan,” she snapped it out.

  I held back a laugh, but let the shit-eating grin show. “So, that’s it,” I said. “That’s fucking it, right? You want more than just a couple fucks.” God, so did I. I wanted it so bad it made me want to punch a wall, but neither of us could afford that.

  I couldn’t burn her. I couldn’t allow myself to become infatuated then lose interest and end up breaking her heart.

  “No,” she said. “That’s not what I want. I want some fucking normalcy in my life. I don’t want to have to worry that you’re going to abuse a member of the press tomorrow, or run off to my worst enemy and have a shadow-cloake
d meeting without my knowledge. That’s all I want. Normal!” The last word came out a yell, barely held back, as if it was stuck behind her teeth.

  “Well, you’ll never get it with me around,” I grunted back at her. “I’m not normal, Margot. You know that.”

  “I know that, and I didn’t ask for this,” she hissed back.

  I tucked my fingers under the edge of her desk and lifted it, pushed it a few inches to the side and walked forward. I caught her chin in my hand. “You didn’t ask for it but you’ve always wanted it, and that’s a fucking fact. So what now, Margot? What are you going to do now that you’ve got it?”

  She froze up beneath my touch. Defiance seethed in her gaze. “I have nothing except this shop. Don’t you understand that?”

  “That’s crap,” I replied. The words weren’t meant to hint that she had me, but they did. As a friend she always had, as a lover? Fuck, no, come on, I’d gone over this a million times with myself and I was still caught on the fence.

  “Just let it go. Give me my business back. I don’t know. I don’t know.” She shook her head and closed her eyes.

  “You can’t afford to have this business by yourself. You need my backing, and that’s the reason you freaked the fuck out over text last night.”

  “I can’t afford to have you around either,” she said.

  “Why?” I took hold of her upper arms and held her, shook her gently. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Tell me why. I’m tired of waiting for you to tell me what the fuck is going on. Tell me now, Margot,” I growled.

  Her eyelids snapped open and she focused on me, practically fucking spitting fire and brimstone. “You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t get to. No one does, not anymore. Now you can get the fuck out of my office. I’ve got a meeting with Guy today.”

  “A meeting with Guy? What for?”

  She jerked herself out of my grip and backed up a couple steps. “It doesn’t matter. Just leave, Cain, I can’t be around you right now. You’re driving me crazy.”

  Ditto, woman. Fucking ditto.

  Was I angry? I couldn’t work out what this seething, needy sensation in the pit of my stomach meant. She wanted me to walk away, and I wasn’t the type to linger. I searched for reason in all the chaos.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m out.” I walked to the door and halted there, hand on the doorknob. “But I’ll be back later when you’ve cooled down, Margot. I’m your partner.”

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “How else should I say it?”

  “I don’t know, just not like that.” She stood at the side of the desk, her arms folded across her chest, covering the tits I’d suckled and feasted upon, and the heart that rested beneath them.

  The heart I couldn’t claim, no matter how much I wanted to. I wrenched the door open, came face to face with Ben-Jerry, holding his camera up as if filming our conversation was the best event TV had seen in years.

  I pointed a finger in the center of the camera’s lens. “You record my private conversation, and I’ll meld this camera with your face, understand?”

  Ben-Jerry dropped it from his face and blinked at me. “Are you—” He looked past me and into the office at Margot. “Is he serious?”

  I walked past him and out into the parlor without waiting for whatever answer she’d give him. I needed a couple minutes of air before I came back and attended to my clients for the day. At least, that would help me breathe.

  The artistry of it always made me feel good. It was the only time when I wasn’t concentrated on the “missing” element in my life. Apart from when I was inside Margot, or with her, or speaking to her, or fuck, even fighting with her.

  Purple-haired chick stood again as I passed. “Hey!” She yelled. “Hey, asshole.”

  I looked back at her.

  She tucked her lavender locks behind her ear and glared at me. “I might make a cup of coffee that tastes like shit, but at least I don’t make people feel like shit. So, guess we’ve both got something to learn, don’t we?”

  I pushed out into the street outside and inhaled the city scents, let them scour out the smell of her perfume. Margot’s scent was indescribable for the most part, something light, like cotton candy, but deep at the same time.

  Jesus, I really am whipped.

  I walked a couple paces down the road and leaned against a lamppost, stared at the spot where the camera had landed in the street yesterday morning, when everything had seemed as peachy as Margot’s ass.

  My phone trilled in my pocket, and I wormed it out of my jeans, answered only to distract myself from the bullshit on repeat in my mind.

  “This is Foster,” I said.

  “Mr. Foster.” Mr. Begay’s voice, sharp as a fucking tack, was unforgettable and it sent me back through time, to a night six months ago when I’d run into Margot again for the first time in years. In that blue dress, shaking her head at me like she’d done since we were kids.

  “Mr. Begay, how are you?” I asked, and kept my tone measured.

  Don’t think about Margot.

  “I’m doing well, Mr. Foster, and I hear you’re doing well too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, it’s reached my ears that you’re part owner of a business in Lakeview and that you’re going to be on television. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, on TV,” I said, because man, who the hell said “television” like that anymore?

  “That’s fantastic. I must say, I’m pleased to hear that, Mr. Foster. Your mother would’ve been proud of your accomplishments, if I may go so far as to say it.”

  I bristled, then relaxed. Easy. He’s trying to be nice. “Thank you,” I said, stiff as a board. “All I’m interested in is ensuring that I can support my mother’s charity to the best of my abilities.”

  “Well, Mr. Foster, if you continue in this vein I don’t see why we can’t accept you as a more active participant in our charity, perhaps even as an honorary founder,” he said.

  My heart fucking leaped. That was all I’d ever wanted.

  “That would be fantastic, Mr. Begay,” I said, but doubt still barreled through me. It hovered, waited for me to fuck up as I’d done countless times before. “And thank you for your call. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Take care, Mr. Foster.”

  He hung up, and I stowed the phone, working this over in my brain.

  Damn, if I played my cards right, I’d finally get what I wanted. My impulsive nature had always been my downfall, but if I could hang on a little while longer… then what? I’d be a part of the charity. I’d do what I loved and help out, but would it change me?

  Would it tame me?

  Christ, the urge to jump off a building hadn’t disappeared. It surged every morning, unless I was in the shop with her. And I couldn’t guarantee that would last.

  I knuckled my forehead and headed back toward the front door.

  Of all the shit I’d wanted in my life, I’d thought nothing would come close to honoring the memory of the one woman who’d actually given a shit about me as a person. But this feeling with Margot? It was a threat.

  It was pure need, and I had to figure out what to do about it.

  Chapter 20

  Margot

  “You sure you want to stay here all by yourself?” Nat asked, and twirled a strand of purple hair around her finger. “I mean, it’s not exactly dangerous with the alarm, but still. You’d be all alone.”

  “And so?”

  “Just that it’s creepy, boss. What if there’s a ghost or some shit?” Nat shivered and rubbed her arms.

  “You’ve been watching too much Supernatural, Nat.”

  She raised a finger and waggled it at me. “One can never watch too much Supernatural, boss. It’s not physically possible.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Seriously, I’m going to buy you the box set or something because that shit is lit as all hell. Ha, exc
use the pun.” Nat trundled to the door and shouldered her bag.

  I opened up for her and let her out into the Chicago night. “Be safe, Nat.”

  “You be safe,” she said, and looked back at me, the light from one of the lampposts catching the lavender hue of her hair. “You’re the one who’s about to have a ghostly experience.”

  I managed not to roll my eyes at her as she walked off, whistling under her breath.

  Man, she made bad coffee, but she sure was a character. Nat kept me smiling most days, that was for sure, that or tugging my hair out because she’d scheduled the wrong client in on the wrong day or time slot.

  I shut the door and locked it, double-checked it wouldn’t open, then walked back through to my office. I had a panic button on the wall in there, so if anything happened, I could hit it right away. I wasn’t worried, though. I’d spent nights here alone before, poring over the books and mulling over how to make things better. Right.

  I sat down in my office chair and rested my wrists on the desk. God, I’d had to get Ben’s help to pull the desk back into position after Cain had moved it. I hadn’t had the willpower to speak to him today.

  Watching him interact with people, especially women who came in to get art etched onto their bodies, had almost killed me.

  “It’s not about him,” I whispered. “Or what he wants to know.” How about what he deserved to know? I’d slept with him. I was his friend, his business partner. He’d had the decency not to pry before but—

  I cut off the line of thought and opened my bottom desk drawer instead. I shifted papers aside and my fingertips brushed the leather surface of the photo album I’d stowed there six months ago when I’d officially taken over my dad’s shop.

  I lifted it out and placed it on my desk, then opened it.

  Tears bit at the corners of my eyes. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, asshole,” I muttered, then opened the album.

  It was the first time I’d gone through it since he’d passed. The first picture, oh god, was of me and him. My dad so much younger, wearing a pair of shorts that would’ve been unacceptably short by today’s fashion standards, his blond hair tufted up comically atop his head. I was in his arms, no more than two years old, and grinning. We looked similar. He’d been the more masculine version of me, in a way, with minor differences.