“Here.” A box of colored pencils appeared in front of me.
“Thank you.” I took the box and gave Cat a grateful smile, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at my sketch. And all the life in the world burned in her gaze. Her eyes shot to mine, and she gulped. She didn’t say anything. She went back to her client and put on fresh gloves, bottom lip between her teeth.
I dumped out the colors and spread them out, holding up the sketch. “What do you think?” I asked Gloria.
“I don’t know. You pick. You’re blowing my mind.” She rested her head on my shoulder, peering down at my sketch with glimmering eyes.
I plucked the purple pencil and added shading around the edges where it needed it, and then I produced the blue, blending the colors together until I had it right.
“Okay, I think that’s it.” I handed the sketch to Gloria, who sat back gripping the sketchbook, her tears brimming.
A single purple protea flower blossomed out of her brother’s army helmet. There was a doll that looked like her on the ground, limbs bent at misplaced angles like doll legs. The doll had dark bangs and combat boots, and though there was a smile on the little dolls face, tears streamed down her face as her little fingers reached for the protea flower. So she’d remember to smile, remember that it was okay to cry, remember to always reach for her strength.
Klay walked over, Cat too, peering over Gloria’s shoulder. Both their faces were slack, and then they met each other’s eyes. Cat’s lips lifted in a smug grin and Clay gave her a nod.
“What do you think?” Klay asked Gloria.
“I think it’s stunning.” She shook her head, an embarrassing amount of gratitude in her eyes. “It’s everything I ever wanted. What does this flower represent?”
“Courage and strength.”
She smiled, teary eyed at the sketch. “It’s perfect.”
“Trace this exact design minus the shading onto transfer paper. Place it where she wants, and I’ll get to work.” Klay waited patiently.
I’d gotten enough tattoos to know how this process worked. I took my time, transferring the sketch until it looked identical minus the shadowing and color. “Where would you like it?” I asked, grabbing a pair of black gloves from the pack on his station.
Gloria gave me her left arm, pointing to the inner skin. “Right here.”
I felt at home, spraying the area with alcohol and using sterile wipes to clean her skin. After transferring the sketch onto her skin, I pushed away, examining the placement. Any time she needed strength, all she had to do was look down.
“Interesting fact. My machine’s empty. If you want to fill it up with sterile needles and fresh ink, I’ll be right back.” Klay sauntered away, a suspicious glimmer in his gaze.
Excitement burned in my blood. Maybe covering up my ink wasn’t about hiding from everyone else. Maybe it was more about hiding from myself. I knew how to load a tattoo machine. I knew how to keep things clean. I knew how to test for strokes, which needles worked best for shading and which worked for outlining. I’d never given a tattoo in my life, but I watched my father give out millions. Black ink ran in my DNA.
I hated how alive I felt powering on the machine. The buzz rattled my teeth, sent my heart into overdrive. I was a teenager again, and danger thrived all around me. Before it all went to hell.
I lost my cool, but when I looked up, Cat was watching me. “You can do it,” she mouthed, giving me an encouraging smile.
Even mad, she was supportive. Even hurt, she was on my side.
I swallowed my emotions and met Gloria’s eyes. “You ready, babe?”
She beamed through her tears. “Yes.”
For the next two and a half hours, I lived. A rush of life rained down on me, saturating me in purpose. Reason. Everything mattered with my ears rattling with the buzz, with the smell of ink and the smear of purple on pale flesh. It was second nature, like picking up a legacy. The Hard Riders’ blood flowed through my veins whether I liked it or not.
Gloria cried as she studied her piece in the mirror when I was done. Silent tears trailed down her face. Her flesh glowed, raw from the needle, but the finished product shimmered purple, blue, and black, with a slight 3D shading, like the piece was rising off her arm.
The moment I turned off the tattoo machine, reality slammed back into me. The sounds of the shop came back, and I was an ex-cop with bullet holes in my back, and no clue at all how I was going to make it.
But at least I had my revenge.
Chapter Twelve
Catherine
Hell was just like this.
Watching Brando Hawkins vibe out with a tattoo gun in his hand, his inked-up arms on display, black hair messy, gorgeous face serious—he was desire reincarnate.
He spun magic in his art, twisting the frayed and beautiful pieces together to create beauty and wonder. My heart ached for him as I watched. Thankfully, my current piece was easy. If it needed more attention I wouldn’t be able to give it, not with Brando in the room. There were roses in exchange for eyes in a skull. Blinded by love. I knew the feeling all too well unfortunately.
Madison rang up our customers at the same time. We’d spent the same amount of time on our first jobs and when we were done, it was lunch. I watched Klay take Brando in the back and knew the expression on Klay’s face looked a lot like opening a secret treasure.
Brando was exactly what Guns & Ink needed.
“Take a pic of her sketch,” I told Mad. “Can you make Brando his own portfolio and put it in the waiting area? Make her sign a release form, too.”
“Yes, Catherine. Bossy much?” She gave me a wounded look.
“Sorry,” I admitted, leaning over the counter to kiss her cheek. “I couldn’t sleep last night.” Alone.
Klay and Brando worked side by side for the rest of the work day. I remembered those early days with a much younger Klay. He was a patient man with a crass delivery. If you could ignore his attitude, he had a lot of knowledge in this business. I had four more jobs that night. Nonstop, only taking a small break to cram food into my mouth, before returning to my clients. I felt rushed and anxious, but that’s only because Brando wasn’t in my orbit anymore. He left at eight that night. Before he took off, he paused in the hall to look around, his eyes falling on mine.
I didn’t want him to leave. But it wasn’t up to me anymore. That was the problem. I relied on another human being to make sense of my emotions. That was dangerous. “I’ll call you?” I mouthed.
He nodded, staring into my eyes for a moment longer before he took off for the evening.
My heart felt weighed down once he’d left the building. I took it out on my client, creating an incredible piece full of music notes and falling stars. She hugged me, and I smiled when I’d completed her piece, but I didn’t feel it.
My bank account, however, breathed a sigh of relief when I pocketed my cut that night. It was almost one in the morning, and my stomach was empty.
I called Brando as soon as I was in my car, watching Klay and Madi’s taillights in front of me.
It rang twice before he answered. “You always work this late?”
His voice seeped into my brain. “I do when I need the money.”
“Can I help?” He sounded intimate, deep voice quiet.
I missed him. One day without him had started to disintegrate my control. “Yes.”
“Really?” He sounded surprised, thinking I was talking about money.
But I wasn’t. “You can help by talking to me.”
His heavy sigh fell from the other end. “What do you want to talk about, Cat?”
“I want a good reason.”
“A good reason for what?”
“For why you left me.” I glared at the road, hating how vulnerable he made me feel. Vulnerability felt a lot like exposure, and exposure often led to pain.
“I didn’t leave you. I did what I came to do. To figure things out.”
The reason I was having a hard time about th
is wasn’t because he’d left. But because he’d left me.
“Do me a favor?” he asked.
“What?”
“Flip our roles. You’re me, and I’m you. Move in with me, Cat.”
My heart seized. I recoiled at the idea, hating that he had a point. It wasn’t him that displeased me. He was the only idea that made a lick of sense right now. It was the idea of uprooting my stable ground to stand on his. Which was ultimately what I was asking him to do. I felt terrible. Brando’s ground was unstable enough without me forcing him to exchange his ruined road for mine.
“Exactly,” he breathed, probably sensing my unease. “You wanted to keep our feelings for each other safe. This will do it.”
My head nodded, tears blurring my eyes. “Fine, okay. But I worry. I worry that you’re not eating, that you’re not sleeping. That you’re lying on the floor in pain because you can’t get up to get your pills.” I started to hyperventilate.
Brando and I were supposed to be near each other. I’d known it from the moment we met. We were the last two screwed up pieces in an atrociously gorgeous puzzle. We just didn’t know why.
We needed logic. Reason. If we were going to shatter, there had better be a reason. Unless of course we were the other’s reason.
“Cat, I survived things that should have killed me. I’ll be fine, baby. I promise. You don’t need to waste a second worrying about me.”
I’d wasted more than a second, and I’d continue to do so. But I gave him another “fine, okay,” to appease him. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work?”
“Yes,” he said quietly, and I could’ve been fooling myself, but also longingly.
“Be there early, probably seven-ish. The blood borne chick is coming by.”
“That’s only five hours from now.”
“Don’t I know it.” I yawned, turning the street for my apartment. “And I have another full day of clients.”
“It was amazing, Cat.” Guttural excitement thrived in his voice. “Is that what it feels like every time?”
I smiled as I pulled up, killing the engine on my car. “Every time, Brando.”
The separation between Brando and I felt a lot like ripping out my veins one by one. Every day I bled out a little more, lost a little more life.
We caught each other’s gazes around the parlor, bent over clients, the buzz of ink and magic in the air between us. We tattooed the hell out of everyone that came in, creating masterpiece after masterpiece; it was the only way we could live, doling out artwork like bribes—Guns & Ink flourished. We left late and called each other before bed every night.
But we didn’t touch. We didn’t kiss. We didn’t share a drink in a dingy hotel at three in the morning, and I missed his rare smiles so badly, I started to wonder if I’d ever seen them.
And then Ariel happened. Fucking Ariel. And like a trail of dominos, she’d unknowingly tipped over the first one, sending Brando and I into different waters.
It was Sunday, I was looking forward to two days off, and Brando was tattooing a masterpiece on an ex-NFL player’s leg, full of yard lines and dollar bills falling to make the field. He was so different when he was inking, in his own intense bubble. The possessed look in his eyes glimmered in the edge of the forest green color.
The front doors opened at around noon, and I barely looked up, catching long, tan legs and a glimpse of red hair before returning to my client.
She was one more nameless client in a crowded tattoo shop. I’d forgotten all about her until an hour later. Brando finished with his NFL player, hugged it out, and he sank down at his station, running a hand through his hair. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, his arms corded in stories, his tight black jeans blending in with his black leather stool.
“Brando, got time for a walk-in?” Madi asked, an edge to her voice.
Mad didn’t want the client around Klay, and I could bet she’d asked for him first, which was why Mad had pawned her off on Brando. Isaiah hadn’t been in all day and wouldn’t be back until Wednesday.
“Sure,” he called back.
And that’s when I heard it. High heels. Long Legs was going up to Brando, and he was eating her up like I did the rush of first love. Still, I didn’t lose my cool. He looked horny, but he was a man. They gave that look to everyone. When he looked at me his pupils widened and his eyes leaked want. All was okay.
She giggled, he laughed, and I gritted my teeth.
“Ouch,” my client hissed, glaring at me when I jammed my needle into his shoulder.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, wiping the excess ink away. “Sit still.”
I tried to concentrate. I tried to focus on my work.
But she giggled so fucking loud. Like a red siren catching every male’s attention in the room.
“She’s damn fine,” my client whispered.
Don’t stab him. “Long legs, big boobs, what’s not to like?” I muttered, breathing through my nose. “Look forward, please.” I shook off her giggles before I did something stupid, like ram my tattoo machine into her eyes.
Brando was sweet. He was playing along.
All wasn’t lost yet.
Until she paid her bill for the tattoo he gave her on her ankle and she leaned up and kissed his cheek, putting her hand on his arm.
“No ring on your finger. Are you seeing anyone?” she asked hopefully.
I hyper-focused on his answer, holding my breath.
“No,” he answered after a second of hesitation.
My heart shattered.
“Today’s my lucky day,” she purred. “Here’s my number. Give me yours and we can meet up and talk about … tattoo aftercare.”
He chuckled warmly. “Seems legit.”
She giggled. Again. What a moron. “I’ll be seeing you, Brando. Thanks for the angel wings.”
“Later, Ariel.”
It was official.
I hated him.
I would wreck him.
Make him regret the day he ever fucking played with my heart.
I looked up and met his eyes, loving the way he flinched.
Game on, Brando.
I returned to my client. I crushed my piece, and though it took great effort to smile, I did so. I was used to rising from the ashes. Hell, I was reborn in them.
I went out that night after work. Met a guy named Alec. He had pretty eyes and pretty words, a poet transplant from Minnesota. I drank his shots and went home with him, with every intention of doing what I always did, but the moment his lips touched mine, I cringed. They felt wrong, too cold and dry, nothing warm about him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, smiling at me.
I wondered why he looked so slimy suddenly. “Nothing.” I tried to shake the feeling off. “I feel nauseous.”
“Well, sit down. I’ll go get you a diet soda.”
Why diet? I thought, glaring at his back when he took off. I wanted to go home. I felt a sense of foreboding, looking around his apartment. No longer fueled by revenge and hurt, I took in his apartment. It was fully furnished. If he just moved in, why did it look like he’d lived here for years?
Past hurts were only good for one thing. They implanted warnings in our brains. And my brain was screaming at me.
Even my demons looked around in concern.
The windows were barred, but we were on the second floor.
The bar was two blocks over. We’d walked here. I needed my car. That was a long way away. I shouldered my purse, the buzz of whiskey in my veins making my head muddled. My breathing intensified. Run, my heart begged. I reached for the door handle as he reentered the room, soda already opened, bubbling in the can.
He smiled, eerily calm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I think I left my ID at the bar.”
He smiled wider. “You have your ID, Cat. Why don’t you come back in here and sit down? Drink your soda. You’ll feel better.”
How stupid did I look? Rule number one. Never drink a drink you didn’t open yourself. I
looked over his shoulder and pretended to be shocked. “Who’s that?”
“What …?” He turned around, face confused.
I used the distraction to flip the lock, both the top and the bottom, and flung the door open.
“Damn it!” he roared behind me.
My demons like to dance in my pain, but they knew they’d never survive if there was more. My heart pumped the blood I needed into my limbs, and I ran. Ran down the hall, bypassing the elevators for the staircase sign I’d seen coming in. Elevators took time, and I didn’t have it. I could hear him grunting behind me.
“I just want to talk!” he lied, chortling behind me.
I begged the stars, all the gods in the skies, all the magic in the world. Not again. Terror turned my stomach over, but I swallowed the bile down, yanking open the heavy metal door and flying down the staircase. I’d made it to the first floor before I heard his feet on the rusted metal staircase.
“You wanted it!” he shouted, the poetic calm in his voice replaced with hate-filled fury. “You all fucking want it. Come back here!”
The metal door at the bottom of the stairs was partially open. I thanked my maker and wrenched the door open, flying out into the street on the other side of the bar. I didn’t waste any time. Wasting a second could be the difference between more pain and surviving.
Why did men hurt women? Why couldn’t they just let us be? Why did they like the word no? When the word yes was so much more beautiful?
Angry, terrified tears streamed down my cheeks as I ran down the street for the corner.
“You’re lucky, you fucking bitch. I know your name!” His roar echoed in the streets after me.
When I made it around the corner, I stopped to turn around. He wasn’t behind me. I continued, struggling with my cell as I ran. But before I called Klay, I thought better of it. The last time someone hurt me, he beat them into a two-year prison sentence. Madison wouldn’t last two years without him. Me neither. We needed him. We needed good men when so many of them weren’t.
Hard Love Page 13
