Hard Love

by Shana Vanterpool

  “Here.” I shook out some pills, made a note to have them refilled, and then handed him his coffee.

  He struggled onto his elbow, our faces so close I got lost in the forest of his eyes.

  “Ah,” he grunted, taking a long drink of his coffee. He sounded like a zombie. “I think I slept too long. My body feels stiff. Tin man. No oil.”

  I kissed him. On his soft, sleepy lips. I tasted the richness of coffee on his breath and the deep moan of hunger that hummed in his throat. I wanted more—needed more—but I couldn’t have that. He was still in so much pain. Anything more than what I did to him in the shower would only hurt him.

  I didn’t want that.

  “Eat, and then we’ll go take a walk around the apartment.”

  His face was drawn down. I could sense his negativity in the air. He was in a lot of pain and in a bad place mentally. I wanted to make it better, but I didn’t know how. I bit my lip and decided to give him a little space.

  “I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready?”

  “No,” he blurted. His hand shot out to grab my wrist. “Stay. You’re the only fucking thing keeping me even remotely sane.”

  Insanity never sounded so sexy before. “I’ll stay.” I curled up against him, wrapping his left arm against my chest. “Close.”

  At noon, I dragged him out of bed and away from the news and threatened to put him in a headlock when he started pissing out excuses. I wanted Brando better. Maybe if he could think around the pain, he could form thoughts that didn’t hurt so much. The sky was churning, a huge dome of storm, when we stepped out of the apartment for the first time since we’d gotten to Portland.

  Trixie’s leash was in my right hand and I stuck close to his right side just in case. He looked pale and empty. It made my heart ache for him. He was a walking, talking ghost with only minor sparks of life.

  I needed magic and Brando needed life.

  And who’s to say we held the power to dole out such necessities?

  I didn’t bring up the open position at Guns & Ink until I had to. We’d been in Portland for over a week at that point. Brando had gotten better physically, but inside I could see the shimmer in his eyes fade a little more every day. Madi and Klay had left for the shop and we were at the kitchen table eating breakfast. He pushed his eggs around and stared at nothing.

  Brando was empty long before he got here. He’d be empty anywhere. That’s what scared me the most.

  “So, I was thinking,” I began, catching his gaze when he looked up quizzically. “There’s an open spot for an artist at Guns & Ink. And with your artwork, I think you’d be an amazing addition to the team.”

  He worked his jaw and shook his head. “I’ve never inked on a person before.”

  “Neither did I when I started. I only sketched. It isn’t all that different when you take away the doubt. Think about it, please? Klay could use the help.”

  He ran a hand through his inky mop and then shrugged. “What do I have to do?”

  “You’ll need to get licensed. Pass a test. You need over three hundred hours, and at least fifty tattoos. Luckily for you, you can intern no problem at Guns & Ink, and Klay will pay you regularly. After you get your license, you’ll be safe.”

  He didn’t look excited, but I thought that was his face.

  “Sounds good.” He pushed his plate away and then braced himself. He squared his shoulders and stiffened his jaw. “I’ve been looking for places to rent online.”

  My heart withered. But I kept my face calm. Kept the ugly need for this man quiet. All I could think was, so soon? And what could I say? Please don’t go? I don’t know why, but everything feels … right … when you’re around? We agreed to keep our feelings safe. Me wanting him there wasn’t safe, I guessed. But I wanted him. Probably more than I’d ever wanted anything.

  “Find any?” I took a long drink of my coffee, welcoming the burn.

  “A few,” he admitted. “I’m in everyone’s way here, Cat. It’s probably best for all of us if I had my own space.”

  Rage began to burn its way through me. I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at myself. All those warnings, all those feelings, and I’d ignored them still, knowingly making the wrong choice because it had felt good. Brando felt good. But all he wanted was new scenery. He hadn’t come here for me. He’d come here to get away.

  I swallowed the burn in my throat and forced my face to appear serene. When he blinked at me, I figured I wasn’t forcing myself that hard. “You’re not in the way, Brando. You just want to be.” I got up to leave, and then rethought doing so, whirling around on him. “What are you going to do by yourself? Who’s going to clean your wounds? Who’s going to help you?”

  “Cat, you should be happy. You can go back to work. Back to your life. I’m trying to make this easier on you.” His wide eyes and desperate air made me think he believed that. He really believed he was disrupting my life.

  But he wasn’t. At the same time, I didn’t know what exactly he was doing to me, other than driving me crazy. I was the one holding on, had been since I boarded the plane to Denver. That entire time, I had defied my own personal preservation and fell head first into a pit of confusion and want. I wanted this, whatever it was, but Brando didn’t.

  Not wanting to sound desperate—desperate was one thing I was not—I shrugged. “When are you moving out?” My harsh tone hurt my heart. I didn’t want to hurt him, but in a war between our hearts, I had no choice but to protect my own.

  He obviously wasn’t going to.

  He looked down at his plate. “I’ll leave as soon as possible.”

  I absorbed my emotions and then locked them away. With a double lock. “Good. Since you’re obviously well enough to take care of yourself, I think I’m going in to work today. Come in tomorrow at nine to start.”

  When I got home from work that night, Brando was gone.

  And so was his safe.

  Chapter Eleven

  Brando

  My keys felt heavy in my hand.

  It had been too easy. All of this had been too easy. Leaving Cat should have been impossible. But something had paved the way, and I couldn’t help feeling like I was walking toward every single wrong choice I would ever make. I thought I was doing the right thing, getting out of her life, but the moment I was alone in my empty apartment, I felt upside down and lost.

  She had so much more to give the world than I had to offer. Cleaning my wounds and helping to dress me wasn’t her obligation. She had a life. She didn’t need me bringing her down.

  My apartment was on Nineteenth Avenue, third floor, one bedroom. Busted elevator; I had to take the stairs. Psyching myself up, I made my way downstairs and spent the next half-hour hauling my safe up the stairs. The moment I made it inside, I ran to the kitchen and puked in the sink. My head swam with pain, and I sagged to the floor, clenching my eyes shut against the dark torment twisting in my brain.

  I’d have to start over, but pretenses didn’t mind.

  I crawled to my bag and dry swallowed two pills. Then I struggled to my feet and made a bed on my bedroom floor out of dirty clothes. I passed out, waking up to searing silver light. Outside, it looked like snow. Every single part of me felt encapsulated in pain. But I fought myself. I showered, trimmed my beard, and dressed warmly, choosing black jeans and a black sweatshirt over my plain white shirt. I gritted my teeth and tied my boots, slid a palmful of water through my hair, and then I faced myself in the bathroom mirror.

  Other than my red eyes, I looked presentable. I pocketed my wallet and cell and then I took off for Guns & Ink. I parked the Charger in the back like Klay instructed when I called last night. He hadn’t mentioned Cat, and I didn’t deserve to ask. His truck was parked a spot over. The back door to the shop was unlocked when I tried it, entering into a small hallway.

  I kept down the hall, finding another door after spotting a bathroom. That one was locked when I tried it. Before I pulled out my cell and called Klay, the door opened, and t
here he stood, grinning knowingly.

  “This door’s locked by a code.” He waved me into the building and pointed to a small keypad I missed above the handle. “Keeps the stragglers out. Code’s seventeen-ten. Cat will hook you up with keys and shit. She’ll be in soon. Let’s go in my office.”

  I followed him into a new hall and he opened a black metal door on our left. I was slightly familiar with the shop the one time I visited. I knew the door opposite his office and two over was the breakroom. I recalled my visit then, when I came to inform Madison that her attacker had been caught and killed by yours truly. It brought a wave of relief at the same time it unnerved me. That wasn’t even four months ago. But it felt like a lifetime.

  The last time I’d sat across Klayton, I’d been a detective.

  “First thing first, you should probably nix the sweatshirt.” He lifted up both his arms and nodded at his tattoos. “It’s good ink, and it’ll be nice for your new clients to see. Most people don’t want to be guinea pigs for a tattoo.”

  It was second nature to hide my stories. That’s what my tattoos were. Sketches that told the truth when my world imploded. It felt freeing and dangerous to mark my body with the truth when my heart sought out every lie to cover them up. “Makes sense.”

  “You’re,” he made air quotes, “interning. Getting your hours. Rules are pretty simple. Sixty/forty per job. As soon as you get a blood borne pathogen certificate, you can start inking. My suggestion is, you work your ass off and don’t say no unless they’re under eighteen. It’s hard as hell to get new clients to trust an intern, and you need at least fifty jobs under your belt to get a license. Lucky for you, we have to renew our certificates every year. I hired a specialist to come in tomorrow morning. Cat will get your new hire paperwork started when she gets here.” He looked away when he mentioned her name. “If all goes according to plan, you’re an employee at Guns & Ink.” He extended his hand and gave me a humored look. “Never thought I’d ever hire a cop.”

  “Never thought I’d work for a felon.” I grinned.

  He winked. “Funny how shit works out. When Cat gets here, she’ll set you up. But until then, the parlor needs sweeping.” He clapped twice, a wide arrogant grin on his fucking face. “Snap snap, Detective.”

  I refrained from sending my fist into his jaw. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

  He chuckled. “You still have your gun?”

  “Not on me.” I could still hear him laughing when I slammed his office door.

  Starting over had its drawbacks. I tore my sweatshirt off and tossed it in the breakroom, draping it over one of the chairs at the table. Cleaning supplies weren’t hard to find. They were in the supply closet. I decided that if I were going to start over, I might as well do it right. I pulled out the push broom and drug it after me into the main parlor.

  The floors were gunmetal gray, with black grout. Tattooing stations were set up around the room, and there was a Guns & Ink mural hanging up in the waiting area where five people sat, faces bored. Getting up at eight for a tattoo? That was either concerning, or Cat wasn’t the only one seeking out magic. I wondered how many of us missed the wonder, bypassed the burn of life, in exchange for moments that would never matter.

  Madison was sitting at the register, tongue ring between her teeth in concentration as she studied what looked like a textbook. When I came in, she glanced up curiously, and then smiled wide when she saw me.

  Damn thing was cute. I couldn’t help giving her a small smile back. “Morning, Madison.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can call me Mad, Brando. For the hundredth time.”

  I chuckled, studying the artists at their stations. There were two of them, both young, probably in their late teens or early twenties. One female, one male.

  “Klay already put you to work?”

  I shrugged her worry away. I wasn’t opposed to hard work. I began sweeping near the register, winding the broom between the legs on her stool to get the dirt there. I did my best to ignore the pain in my back and side. Focusing on the quiet brush of the broom on the tiled floors.

  “Studying?” I asked.

  “Online courses are a lot more demanding than university.” She didn’t sound put-out, however, and I assumed being abducted from a college campus would make studying online a walk in the park.

  “Condensed academics,” I stated, smirking when she nodded seriously.

  I’d moved on to the window area when I heard her speak again.

  “You hurt her, Brando.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, hands still moving. I opened them and kept on. “I was trying to do the right thing, Mad.”

  “Which is what?” she asked but continued speaking before I could answer. “Not being a burden?” Her voice became sad. “I know that feeling, unfortunately. Not wanting to be a burden to the people who open their homes to us. You want to know how I stopped being a burden?”

  “How, sweetheart?”

  “I switched places. If I were Klay and Klay was me, would I want him to feel that way? It’s pretty simple when I think of things like that. Put yourself in her shoes and she in yours. Things might make a little more sense.”

  I shook my head in wonder. “Things should make sense for you.”

  “There’s all kinds of burdens, Brando. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

  Thankfully—for many different painful reasons—Cat came in then, turning the corner from the back with leery, beautiful eyes. She looked for me. I wasn’t being presumptuous. Her eyes skirted around the room and they didn’t look anything but angry and hurt when they landed on me. She wiped her emotions clean quickly, but I saw her emotions long enough to know I’d put them there.

  She didn’t acknowledge me at first. “Are all of them waiting on me?” she asked, walking over to a binder and flipping it open.

  “Yep. I called your clients last night. You’re booked out for the next two weeks solid. First guy’s name is Mike. He said you drew his piece two and a half months ago.”

  “Thanks, kid.” She ruffled Mad’s hair and walked around the counter for the waiting area, mumbling, “Morning, Brando,” along her way.

  “Morning, Catherine.”

  Her shoulders stiffened at my use of her full name, but she didn’t say more. It twisted me up how easy we became strangers. Two nights ago, we’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, and now I barely got a hello. An uneasy feeling burned in my gut, but at that point, pain was everywhere. I endured it, sweeping the ever-loving-shit out of that tattoo shop. I grabbed the dust bin and dumped it in the trash can in the breakroom. The trash was full, so I took it out back and dumped it in the alley, returning as Klay exited his office.

  “Cat’s been a prissy little shit since you left.” He slammed his door and headed into the breakroom.

  I followed him. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Look, I get it. I don’t blame you for wanting your own space. For wanting to be alone. Been there.” He got two paper coffee cups and filled both. “But you’re not pissing off a sweet little saint. You’re pissing off Catherine Abbott. You have to be prepared for broken bones and a fight.” He handed me one of the cups and then set to making his, pouring a stream of powdered creamer into his.

  I ripped open two sugar packets I plucked from the bin. Instead of taking heed to his warning, I found it strangely intoxicating. Dangerous. Fighting a woman like Cat would leave one hell of a beautiful scar. “I think I can handle her.”

  He laughed uneasily. “You’re probably the only one.” He patted my back on his way out. “Come with me.”

  I put a lid on my coffee after stirring in the creamer, and then followed him into the parlor, and over to the register. “I have a consultation today. Her name is Gloria. It’s an important piece. Take her over to my station and hear her out, and then draw her piece. Don’t fuck it up.” And then he turned to Madison, his rough persona fading in exchange for a soft smile as he bent to kiss her lips.

 
Looking out over the tattoo parlor, the buzz of the guns in the air, the faint hint of ink and leather in my nose, I felt the burn of something living and heavy.

  “Gloria?” I called out.

  A short brunette with gauged ears and bangs jumped up, grateful to not be sitting anymore. She wore a tie-dye tunic shirt and jean shorts, her pale legs covered in tats and commando boots. She was so colorful, I blinked when she smiled at me.

  I held out my hand. “Brando.” She shook my hand, her cheeks flushing the color of her garnet eyeshadow.

  She studied my right arm as she shook my hand, tracing the flames on my inner wrist. She followed the flames up to a pair of aces, stopping in the middle of my piece to bite her lip at me. “These are super badass.”

  “Uh, thanks. You want to follow me?”

  “Did you draw them? My brother’s an artist. He draws all of my pieces, but he’s overseas right now, and I thought I’d get a tattoo in honor of him.”

  “I drew them all. What branch is he in?” I settled in Klay’s seat and nodded for her to take the chair.

  “Army. Second tour.” She visibly paled, but I saw the burn of hope in her eyes and knew that I’d do my absolute best to get her piece right. “He’s like my whole world.” She swung her feet, staring at her boots.

  I wasn’t a comforting man. My hand hovered awkwardly over hers before I settled mine on hers and squeezed. “Let’s make him proud, yeah?”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  I grabbed the sketchbook off Klay’s station, and pulled the sharpened number two pencil between the pages free and turned to a fresh page. “Anything in mind?”

  She kicked the toe of her boot against mine. “I wanted something that represented him, like his life in the Army, but also me, my life without him. My fears, my strength—I have to be strong. I want this tattoo to remind me of that.”

  I took a deep breath and then I did something I hadn’t done in years. I opened the vault on my emotions and did the only thing that had ever made sense to me. I drew. My right hand flew over the fresh page, incorporating her suggestions and her pains with my vision. Halfway through, there was too much pencil, gray and black, I needed more color, more vividness.