Harder (Stark Ink Book 1)

by Dahlia West

  He had hours until he had to open the shop. The customer booked was a regular and Adam knew he wouldn’t mind having to enter through the back door. Adam needed to pay the bills, and Jeannie. Life couldn’t stay on pause forever. There might not be enough hours in the day, but there were plenty at night. He’d make do. The Dream was dead, but now he had The Plan. And The Plan would get him through, get all of them through, more or less.

  He pulled onto the street and headed across town. Normal nine-to-fivers weren’t awake at this hour. Calla was asleep, safe and warm in her bed. It did no good to wish he were there with her. He gunned the engine and crossed the train tracks, tracks he felt he’d been straddling his whole damn life. Warehouses gave way to gas stations and fast food joints. Condos and apartments appeared on the opposite side. In the bright dawn light, he parked in the driveway. As he set the brake, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was hard to tell the dark circles under his eyes from the bruises. The cut was healing, though, without needing stitches. Maybe that was a good sign. Resting on the brake knob was his own large hand, knuckles split and bruised. Maybe he was fighting a war he couldn’t win.

  But no. He couldn’t think that. He had to stick to The Plan.

  He levered himself out of the Charger and headed to the door. Dalton answered, eventually, looking more ragged than Adam had ever seen him. His T-shirt was ripped and stained, his five o’clock shadow looked more like five-months, and Adam could smell the stench of beer even from a few feet away. Dalton’s bloodshot eyes narrowed on him. “Come to apologize?”

  Adam sighed and shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  Then he wound up and punched his younger brother in the face.

  “Fuck!” Dalton bellowed. He started to stumble back but Adam grabbed him by the shirt. There was a distinct tearing sound and he pulled hard. Adam assumed the damage was the least of the shirt’s problems. He dragged Dalton off the tiny concrete entryway and threw him against the Charger’s front fender. Dalton bounced off it and stumbled onto the lawn he hadn’t cut in about as long as he’d been neglecting his face.

  Adam reached around the door and engaged the doorknob lock. He pulled it shut behind him, then stalked toward his prostrate sibling.

  “The fuck?” Dalton repeated and tried to roll out of the way. “I don’t need this shit!”

  Adam smirked down at Dalton as he grabbed his arm. “Why?” he sneered. “You got work to do?”

  Dalton glared up at him.

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” Adam told him, “skipping work so much that they can your ass or showing up hammered so you can ruin your other hand!”

  “That wasn’t my fault!” Dalton shouted as Adam pulled him to his feet and slammed him into the car again.

  It was a low blow and Adam knew it. The accident hadn’t been Dalton’s fault, but nothing that had happened since then could be considered an accident.

  “Get in the car,” Adam ordered.

  Dalton drew up his shoulders. “Screw you.”

  “We have to deal with Pop,” Adam declared. “So get in.”

  If Dalton had been ready to return the swing, Adam’s words made him think twice about it. He visibly deflated. “What’s wrong with Pop?”

  “He’s not good.”

  Dalton put his hand on the door and opened it. Wordlessly, he slid onto the passenger seat. Adam rounded the front of the car and slid behind the wheel. As he pulled out of the driveway, he said, “I sold my bike to cover your debt. The least you could do is not puke in my car.”

  “No one asked you to,” Dalton snarled as he rolled down the window.

  “You’re so fucking grateful.”

  They rode in silence a moment before Dalton said, “It’s not the end of the world. I’ll sell my truck. You can get your bike back.”

  Adam almost felt heartened at the offer. It was as close to a real apology as he’d gotten from Dalton so far. It wasn’t the right time to say they’d definitely be selling the truck. But Adam wouldn’t be using the money to get his Harley back, unfortunately.

  He turned the corner and pulled into the lot of a low-slung, utility-gray painted building on the edge of downtown. He’d managed to roll past the sign that read “Daybreak” without Dalton paying it any attention.

  Dalton finally realized they were at their destination and leaned forward to study the place. “What the hell?” he said darkly. “A nursing home?” He turned to Adam, his eyes full of accusation. “Pop’s got to go to a nursing home? Already?”

  Adam shook his head slowly and put the Charger in park. He killed the engine. “No.”

  “Then what? Why is he here?”

  “Get out.”

  Dalton froze and seemed to study Adam’s face as if searching for an explanation. “What the hell?” he repeated. When he got no response, he turned his head and glanced back at the building. Finally he turned back to Adam. “Oh, this is bullshit!”

  “It is what it is.”

  “Oh, screw you! Screw this! I don’t need rehab, Adam!”

  Adam ignored him. “Walk through those doors and get straight.”

  Dalton’s face twisted with rage.

  In the cab of the Charger, Adam could smell the alcohol on his breath as he seethed with rage.

  “You don’t know me, bro!” Dalton hissed. “You’re never around! You checked the fuck out of this family over a year ago and never looked back! So don’t think you can come back now and start telling me what to do, like you’re some kind of—”

  “Big brother? That’s what I am,” Adam replied. “And that’s exactly what I’m doing. Get. Out. Of. The. Car.” Without waiting for Dalton to comply, Adam opened his own door and hauled himself out of the vehicle. He crossed to Dalton’s side and yanked open the door. Dalton hesitated a long moment before levering himself out of the passenger seat.

  Instead of heading toward the front doors, Dalton lifted his chin defiantly at Adam. “I’m not going in there.”

  “Yes, you are. And they’re prepared to hold you if you don’t.”

  Dalton gaped at him. “That’s… that’s bullshit.”

  “You’re drunk,” Adam pointed out. “And violent.”

  “Horse shit!”

  Adam leaned in. “Drunk, violent, lazy, gimpy, waste of fucking space and if I could take the name Stark from you, I would. Because you don’t deserve it. I hope Mom can’t see you now. She’d be ashamed.”

  Dalton surged toward him arm already cocked for a swing.

  The punch hurt, but not nearly as much as it had hurt Adam to say those things to his brother. As Adam hit the pavement, he silently acknowledged that Dalton may never forgive him. Adam wouldn’t blame him. Dalton may never forgive him, but at least he’d be sober. Adam played up his injury, a dive if there ever was one. Dalton kicked him in the ribs and went in for another shot. Before he could land a third blow, two large orderlies burst from the building. They shouted at the two brothers until they got close enough to wrestle Dalton away.

  As they dragged him across the parking lot toward the rehab facility, Dalton looked back over his shoulder at Adam. Even at that distance, Adam could see the hate in his brother’s piercing gaze. “You’re a shit brother!” Dalton screamed.

  Adam silently agreed.

  One of them definitely wasn’t worthy of being a Stark right now.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Adam pulled up in front of Calla’s house and put the Charger in park. He suddenly felt old. And exhausted. And nearly incapable of even making the short walk from the curb to her front door. Like an asshole, he hit the horn instead, short and sharp. He could almost feel his mother smacking him in the back of the head. Motivated by her certain disapproval, he grasped the handle of the driver’s side door at the moment that Calla’s front door opened. She hustled out and he sat frozen, hand on the door, caught between getting out and looking ridiculous or staying seated and being a jerk. Calla didn’t seem to mind, though, as she opened the passenger door and
slid in. Her smile died on her face though as she caught sight of the fresh bruise on his cheek.

  “What happened?!”

  Adam shook his head, wearily. “Nothing.”

  “That’s not nothing! Adam, what’s going on?”

  “It’s really nothing.”

  Calla wasn’t buying it. “I’m calling the police,” she insisted, fishing into her purse for her phone.

  “No,” Adam replied and reached for her.

  She tried to lean out of the way. “This is too much. I don’t know what is going on here but—”

  “Dalton.”

  Her fingers paused on the screen of her phone and she looked up at him quizzically. Adam sighed. It might as well all come out, he figured. He didn’t want to keep lying to her, but he didn’t relish the thought of opening his mouth and cementing the idea that he was what he’d accused her of thinking when they’d first met: that the Starks were little better than white trash. God knew Zoey’s folks had always thought that. Maybe they had a point.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The shop wasn’t robbed.”

  Calla froze. “I… to get the money to open the place, I borrowed some money.”

  Calla’s eyes narrowed. She wasn’t stupid and he didn’t need to explain that his loan hadn’t come with paperwork and a rubber stamp.

  “I paid it,” he insisted. “I did. But Dalton knew where I’d gone for the cash, and he’s had some trouble lately. So he—”

  Calla held up her hand, interrupting him. “Don’t do that,” she said sharply. “Don’t gloss over it. What does ‘trouble’ mean?”

  Adam hesitated. It seemed wrong to flap his gums about Dalton’s personal life. This was Calla, and Adam trusted her, but it didn’t really give him the right to tell tales out of school. Then again Calla represented the actual school, and if she thought for one second Ava was in danger…

  “He got hurt on the job. He did some physical therapy. It’s been going okay, I guess, but he missed work. Then… then he started drinking.”

  Calla sighed heavily. She didn’t look pissed, but she didn’t look relieved, either.

  “His girlfriend Zoey left him. He’s taking it hard. Anyway, he went to the same people that I went to and got some cash to pay off his truck. And he hadn’t paid it back.”

  That was as much as he was willing to say. Hopefully Calla wouldn’t press him for details about who’d lent them the money. As far as Adam knew, Calla didn’t know the Buzzards existed nor did they know about her and he intended for it to stay that way.

  “They came to collect, came to me, and not Dalton. There might have been some confusion there about who owed what.” He shrugged. “Two brothers, same last name. I paid his debt. Then I sent him away.”

  “Sent him where?”

  “Rehab. A place downtown. Actually the social worker helped me with that.” He looked away from Calla, toward the sun peeking over her rooftop. “I didn’t know he was that bad. I had no idea. I had to fix it.”

  Calla set the phone on the dashboard and reached for his arm. “Adam, this is not on you. Dalton’s a grown man. I’m sorry for his problems but he made these choices and—”

  Adam shook his head. “No, this is on me.”

  “How can—”

  He turned from the window and met her gaze. “I turned my back on my family, Calla. It felt like it was only for a minute, but it was a hell of a lot longer than that.”

  They rode mostly in silence to a one-story brick building not too far from the tattoo shop. It had a neatly kept entrance and freshly painted lines in the parking lot. A large white sign next to the front doors read: Shady Oaks. Adam put the Charger in park and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. This was the third facility they’d seen this afternoon. Calla hadn’t bolted after his confession even though he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. This was too much to handle for him and Calla certainly had no skin in the game.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly, not for the first time that day.

  She smiled at him before opening her door.

  Adam followed suit and they fell into step together as they headed toward the building. They caught up to and tagged behind a haggard-looking mother and her daughter. The girl was nearly Ava’s age. She was dragging her feet, clearly not too enthused about where they were. As he got closer, he couldn’t help but overhear their conversation, one-sided at it was. “It won’t kill you to visit,” the mother hissed quietly. The only response she received was the girl popping her gum and looking sullen.

  They entered the building first. The girl held the door for Adam, rolling her eyes at him as he reached for the handle. She flounced off while he let Calla pass in front of him. In the lobby, the mother had stopped. The girl had continued on, though, toward the reception desk. “Janey!” the woman called. Janey sighed and turned.

  Off to the left was a day room. It was furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs. A TV was tuned to a daytime talk show. A few seniors were watching, others sat by themselves instead. Near the doorway, young Janey’s mother stood next to a man in a wheelchair. The woman put her hand on his arm, patting gently. He didn’t meet her eyes. His grayed, thinning hair was combed, white cotton T-shirt freshly laundered. He was clean, at least, Adam thought.

  He knew he should continue on. This was not his family, not the reason he was here, but his feet seemed firmly planted on the rubber welcome mat. He couldn’t move away. In front of him, Janey paused. She looked from her mother to the man in the wheelchair. She blinked. Once, twice, three times until recognition finally set in. The man in the chair did not look up. He was impossibly thin, Adam noticed. Papery skin covered bony hands that rested in his lap, obviously placed there by someone else. Adam guessed that young Janey had never seen her grandfather so thin, so frail. Which explained how she’d walked right past him when she’d first entered the building. Adam felt sorry for her as her lower lip, which had jutted out defiantly before, now simply quivered instead.

  For some reason, she glanced at Adam, as though he could tell her how the man she knew had faded away and had been replaced by a catatonic stranger. Adam looked away, because some things were inevitable and beyond explanation.

  People got cancer and died. People got Alzheimer’s and lived.

  He looked away from the man in the chair, as well. He didn’t need an After picture in his mind every time he looked at Pop. Calla gave the girl a wan smile and Adam, too. He took what comfort from it he could. She took his arm and led him past the girl, to the reception desk beyond, knowing he needed a purpose, a path, a problem to solve.

  Adam slipped past Janey as a tear slid down her cheek.

  I’ll visit, he vowed. When it gets to that point. I’ll visit all the time. So would Ava, he knew. Because they were Starks, and Starks knew about family.

  For better or worse, family was all you had.

  Calla led him to the reception desk. “We have an appointment,” she told the woman. “For a tour.”

  Adam looked at Calla. ‘We.’ She’d taken on his problems as though they were her own. She would have done it for anyone, he knew, because that was the kind of person she was.

  The woman nodded. “I’ll get the administrator,” she told them and levered herself out of her chair. “Have a seat.”

  Calla plucked a brochure off the counter and headed for a small couch. As they sat, she handed it to Adam. He flipped past the smiling faces of a gray-haired woman and a considerably younger nurse on the cover. A mission statement, a list of programs. No mention of monthly or yearly cost. Adam knew most of it would be covered by insurance, at least for the day program.

  “They all seem the same,” he muttered.

  He closed the booklet and looked up, past the neatly organized reception desk and into a room off to the right. Another day room of sorts, brightly lit with windows unshaded and thrown wide. Plenty of fresh air, at least. A woman in a padded chair was having her hair brushed by a nurse. Or maybe just an orderly. Ada
m didn’t know the difference unless he was close enough to see the title on their nametags. The elderly woman had her eyes closed but she was smiling.

  Adam realized that if the facilities were all the same, then maybe it was the small things, the little kindnesses that made all the difference in the world.

  “My grandmother died in a nursing home,” Calla said quietly.

  He turned to look at her.

  “It was a nice place,” she added. “We visited a lot.”

  Adam tried to picture living in a place like this, but couldn’t. “Were you there? At the end?” He recalled his mother’s shallow breathing that day, the Ativan he’d had to put under her tongue to reduce the foam coming up from her lungs. He hoped Calla was spared that, at least. Maybe there was no dignified way to die. Maybe the best you could hope for was not to be alone.

  Calla shook her head. “She died in her sleep, late at night. We weren’t there.” She squeezed his hand.

  Adam didn’t know exactly why, but he felt a thing like hope for the first time in a long time.

  The tour was short; the facility wasn’t large. The rooms were semi-private, two beds and a television. Adam pictured Pop turning up Lucy full blast and his roomie complaining. He almost laughed but it seemed inappropriate. The rooms weren’t important, though. Not right now, anyway. They were here to check out the day program. They were shown the art and exercise rooms. In the activities room, the residents were gathered in a circle of chairs and couches. They had small photo albums in their laps. “Reminiscing activities,” the administrator explained. After the tour, he handed them two vouchers for the cafeteria. In line for lunch, Adam surveyed the food on offer and judged it better than Pop would have gotten in the service, at any rate. Calla got her own tray and they took an empty table by the window.