by Cole Gibsen
“Just once?” Emily quirks an amused eyebrow. “What happened? Did you tell the priest and he made you do a dozen Hail Mary’s?”
“Not quite,” I answer, surprising even myself with the truth. “A busted rib, kicked out of the house, and all of my stuff burned in a bonfire in the backyard—that’s what standing up for myself got me.”
The pennies Emily is counting slip through her fingers and clatter to the floor like copper raindrops. A few of them roll beneath the edge of the counter, where we’ll never reach them, and I cringe. I know our manager will have a fit because the register will be short.
But Emily appears not to notice—or maybe she doesn’t care about things as trivial as registers a few cents short. Her lips part, but for the longest time she doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, until finally she whispers, “Jesus, Ash, I—”
I shake my head, stopping her. I don’t want her sympathy; that’s not why I told her. And it isn’t until this very second, when the ropes of tension ease just a fraction from around my chest, that I realize why I told her. I wanted, just for a moment, to spit out the secret that’s been sitting on my tongue like a mass of needles.
“That was over a year ago.” I readjust my grip on the bus tub. “I’m fine now,” I tell her in a way I hope sounds convincing—both to her and myself. I mean, maybe the exact definition of fine isn’t struggling to pay rent for a shabby two-bedroom apartment that I share with a stripper, but it sure is a hell of a step up from living out of my car like I had been a year ago. And even if I’m not fine, I will be someday, when I have a place of my own and am making my living as a poet. After all, when you’re a writer, suffering is just more ink for the page.
The thought pulls the corners of my lips into a smile. I still have hope. It was the one thing that bastard wasn’t able to burn to dust in the backyard.
Emily snaps her mouth shut and leans against the counter. “You know, Ash, if you need to work on your self-confidence, you can start by telling me to shut the fuck up. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.”
I grin at her. “Shut the fuck up, Emily.”
She smiles back. “You know what just happened here? I think we became friends. Now if you’d be so kind to take care of those dishes while I finish counting the drawer, we can head to the tattoo parlor and get you all fixed up.”
My smile slips. “Sounds good,” I say, even though I know better. It’s not that I don’t have hope, I just know nothing as simple as a tattoo cover-up is going to fix me. But I don’t say so, not aloud. Because tonight I want to pretend I’m the kind of girl who could be friends with someone like Emily, a girl who goes out on Friday nights.
A girl whose demons don’t run deeper than the ink staining her skin.
Chapter Two
Ashlyn
I follow Emily as she pushes open the wood-framed glass door and walks into the tattoo studio. The door closes behind us with a soft click. Out of habit, I reach back and discreetly turn the knob to make sure it doesn’t lock behind me. Only after I’ve confirmed I haven’t been trapped inside do my coiled muscles unwind.
Laminated posters of tattoo designs, everything from butterflies and roses to laughing demons and decaying corpses, fight for space on the cluttered walls. The black and white tile floor gleams, and the room smells like a mix of pizza and antiseptic.
The pizza smell I find odd until I spot the cardboard box sitting on a glass case filled with various barbells and hoops for piercings. My stomach growls, but Emily appears not to notice over the loud rock music blasting from the speakers mounted in the corners of the room. God, how long has it been since I had pizza? My mouth waters. Eating out isn’t exactly a luxury I can afford. My meals mainly consist of nutritious dietary staples like instant mac and cheese and peanut butter sandwiches.
Emily walks over to the pizza box, flips the top open, and pulls out a slice. After tearing into a piece of pepperoni, she slides the box in my direction. “Want one?”
Nervously, I glance around. I know I should decline. It’s basically stealing to take food without it being offered by the purchaser. But the smell of cheese and crust claws into my empty gut, and I can’t refuse. I pull a slice of pepperoni out of the box and nearly die when the warm mozzarella hits my tongue.
“Lane! Hey, dickwad!” Emily calls out despite her full mouth. “We’re here!”
Her greeting startles me, and a piece of pizza lodges inside my throat. I sputter and hack to dislodge it. I’m still wheezing when a dark purple curtain covering the doorway behind the counter opens, and a guy steps through.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe, and I’m no longer sure it’s because of the pizza.
The guy is tall and lean. Colorful tattoos decorate the length of both of his arms. Most of the designs are abstract swirls of color, but amidst the artistic chaos one drawing stands out above the rest: the name Harper written in bright red ink on his collarbone, peeking out from the edge of his white V-neck T-shirt. His dark hair is messy, but in a way that looks intended, and his face has the scruff of someone who’s forgotten to shave for several days. His eyes—the color of dark chocolate—narrow when he catches sight of us. He folds his arms and a tendon flexes along his jaw. “Unbelievable, Em. First, you keep me from my bed. Now you’re eating my dinner?”
I hold my breath to stop my sputtering and subtly lower the pizza to my side. I feel like a dog that’s been caught stealing food off the table.
“Keep your panties on, princess.” She slides the pizza box across the counter toward him. “We took two pieces. Chill.”
His eyes flick to my face, and he frowns before turning to Emily. “Is she choking?”
His question doesn’t make sense. I think I would know if I were choking. But then my vision goes a little hazy around the edges, and it dawns on me I haven’t taken a breath in some time.
“She’s fine,” Emily answers. She thumps me on the back, easing the lodged pizza down my throat.
I gasp loudly and take several ragged breaths before I add, “Fine. I’m fine.”
“Uh huh.” He arches an eyebrow, and my cheeks heat several degrees. Turning away, he snatches a slice of pizza and tears into it. “I’m going to grab a bottle of water,” he announces between bites. “You guys want one? I thought I’d ask, even though I know you’ll only help yourself.”
“Why yes, Lane,” Emily says in a singsong voice as she grabs another slice. “I would love a bottle of water. How thoughtful.”
I can only nod.
Lane shakes his head and disappears behind the curtain. Once he’s gone, I turn to Emily. “You said he was gross,” I say, trying my best to sound casual despite the fact my pulse is buzzing like a livewire. “He is not gross.”
A sly smirk pulls at her lips. “I never said he was gross. I said he was not my boyfriend because that would be gross—he’s my brother.”
Her brother? Now that she mentions it, the resemblance is obvious—they both have the same angled chin and sloped nose. “Why didn’t you just say that?”
She pulls a pepperoni off her slice of pizza and deposits it on her tongue. “He’s the best damn tattoo artist in the state—maybe even the entire Midwest. But people don’t tend to believe compliments when given by family members.” She pauses, and her smile widens. “Wait. Back up. You think he’s not gross? What’s that supposed to mean?”
I jerk back. “Nothing. I—I didn’t mean anything.” A blush burns up my neck. I quickly take a bite of pizza large enough to inhibit speaking. I point to my mouth and shrug.
Emily’s gaze flicks to the curtain Lane disappeared through. “Listen, Ash, there’s something you should know about Lane.”
I can’t help it. Curiosity pulls at me like marionette stings and I lean forward.
“Earlier you said—” She shakes her head. “No, forget earlier. It doesn’t matter.” She licks her lips and glances down at her lap. Idly, she pulls another pepperoni from her pizza. “Here’s the deal. You’re not the first girl to think
he’s not gross. But Lane’s an ass. I can say that because I’m his sister and I love him. He’s a dickhead. Don’t get me wrong—he’s had some really bad shit happen to him so, in a way, he’s earned the right to be a dick.” She shrugs. “So just in case you were getting any ideas, just don’t. Steer clear, Ash. You seem like a really sweet girl who’s dealing with some stuff. And Lane will only bring you more pain.”
I swallow my bite of pizza, and it feels like a lump of lead sliding down my throat. I’m not sure whether to be offended Emily doesn’t think I can take care of myself, or appreciative that she cares enough to warn me. Either way, it wasn’t like I was seconds away from jumping on top of him. I mean, I have hormones, but I also have self-control. Besides, I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I’m still trying to walk the tightrope that is my life alone—much less with another person in my balancing act.
“Your brother is an asshole,” I say. “Duly noted.”
Emily smiles and tosses her pizza crust into the trash can beside the counter. “Good. You’ll thank me someday. And, besides, he’s technically already involved.” She raises her hands and air quotes the word involved. I want to ask her what she means when Lane brushes past the curtain carrying the water bottles.
“Here.” He hands me a bottle and places another next to Emily. “Since you’re keeping me at work late and eating my dinner, I really hope this is going to be worth my while.”
“Nope.” Emily grins as she untwists the cap. “You’re going to do this for free.”
“What?” His eyes widen, and he slams his unopened bottle against the counter. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because of last weekend.” She takes a gulp of water and screws the lid back on. “You owe me. And I’d like to transfer my favor to Ashlyn.”
He turns his heated gaze on me, and it’s all I can do not to shrink against the wall. I want to tell him I didn’t put Emily up to this, but the words jumble inside my mouth, hot and thick. Finally, I murmur, “I…I can come back some other time.”
“No.” Emily slides off the counter. “We’re here and you’re going to get this done tonight.” She presses a finger against her brother’s chest. “You’re not the only one who’s had a rough go of it.” His eyes darken, but she appears not to notice. “Ash needs a clean start, and that begins with getting this douchebag’s name off her arm. Can you please take the corncob out of your ass long enough to do me this one favor?”
“Fine.” Lane sidesteps his sister and walks toward me. “But now you’ll owe me.”
He stalks toward me like a tiger on the hunt. Anger radiates off of him in prickly waves that make my skin itch the closer he gets. I search for an escape, but Lane stands between me and the door. I look at Emily, begging her with my eyes to intervene, but she ignores me, fumbling inside the pizza box for another slice.
Lane stops in front of me and holds out a hand. “Let’s have it.” Everything about him is hard, from the muscular lines of his chest, which I can see outlined through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, to the frown that appears to have taken permanent residence on his lips. When I make no move to respond, he sighs. “Your tattoo. I need to know what I’m covering up.”
Despite the fact that every instinct screams for me to run from the room, I hold up my arm. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’m so damn used to doing what I’m told, because even though I’m out of the house, I’m still trapped, held hostage by everything I’ve endured. Disgust washes over me like acid, and it’s directed at no one but myself. I should be better now—stronger. But Lane’s proven that even after all this time I’m still the same coward as when I was locked inside the house. So damn weak.
He snatches my wrist and pulls me forward so suddenly I gasp. His grip is surprisingly firm and I know even if I tried to break away, I wouldn’t be able to. I’m trapped. The thought jumpstarts my heart into a skittering frenzy. He lifts my arm over my head and leans close enough I can smell his cologne—something light with a hint of citrus. He peers at the name etched on my skin and his brow furrows. “You got branded, huh?” He drops my wrist. “Genius move, cupcake.”
Something stirs inside me—the warmth of a spark of anger. I cling to it, fanning it like a flame. Anything is better than being afraid. “I have a name,” I say. My words are a small triumph, but I’ll take it. Maybe deep inside, I have a backbone after all.
“I’m sure you do.” His chin lowers, and he meets my eyes. An amused smirk pulls at his lips. “If you’re lucky, I might even bother to learn it.”
“Lane!” Emily half chokes, half shouts through her mouthful of pizza. “Be nice.”
“It’s fine, Em,” I say before Lane can respond. I’m glad for the anger simmering through me, burning away my fear. I welcome the feeling of my blood boiling over than of wanting to cower and hide. And even though he’s a massive jackass, there’s something refreshing about his brutal honestly—he’s definitely not the type of guy to tell you what you want to hear.
Using my new courage, I push my shoulders back and meet his gaze. “You’re one to talk about genius moves—especially when you have a girl’s name tattooed on your chest.”
Lane crosses his arms. “That’s completely different.”
“How’s that?” I ask, tossing the remainder of my pizza crust in the trash.
He’s almost a foot taller than me, and he leans down, closing the distance between us. Miraculously, I don’t flinch. “What Harper and I have is special. It’s forever.”
My throat goes dry but still I hold my ground. “It would have to be special. No normal girl would put up with your superiority complex.”
Emily makes a snorting noise before busting out in laughter. “You’ve got to hand it to the girl. She’s known you less than ten minutes and already has you pegged.”
Lane doesn’t fold under the weight of my insult like I’d hoped. Instead, he has the nerve to smile. “Where’d you find this one, Em? She’s feisty.”
Emily playfully swats at his shoulder. “Please, Lane. Please. Just this once, pretend to be a normal human being. For me? For your little sister who you love so dearly?”
He makes a face before giving an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I won’t be a big meanie to your new little friend.” He looks at me and extends his hand. His eyes flash with amusement. “Truce?”
I don’t move or bother to answer him. He’s so damn unreadable, I can’t tell if he’s being serious or if this is all a big fucking joke to him.
He doesn’t wait for me to take his hand and instead snatches my wrist. “Let’s do this, shall we?” With a tug, he ushers me to the curtained door behind the counter.
“Have fun you two,” Emily sings behind me. “Lane, I’m headed to Peter’s party. You should catch up with me when you’re done. You, too, Ash. It’s going to be a great party, and I’d love to see your new ink.”
“You’re leaving?” I try to wrench free from Lane’s grip, but his fingers are unrelenting. My confidence crumbles. If Emily ditches me, it will just be Lane and me alone. The thought threads across my chest like the laces of a corset.
“Relax, Ash.” Emily drops the last of her crust into the trash can and dusts off her hands. “Lane’s bark is worse than his bite. Just don’t take any of his shit.”
Before I can answer Lane drags me behind the curtain, cutting her off from view.
“See ya!” Emily calls out, her voice muffled by the fabric separating us. A second later the front door chimes as it opens and closes.
Lane releases my hand, and I spin around. The floor in this room is the same black and white tile of the first one. The walls are also decorated with posters of tattoo designs, as well as pictures of real tattoos so brilliant and lifelike, I swear the images are about to burst off of the skin they’re inked on. These must be examples of his work and, despite his douchebaggery, I can’t help but respect his talent.
“Sit,” he orders and points to a large padded chair similar to the kind found in den
tist offices. Before I can comply, he drops onto a rolling stool and scoots it up to a cabinet with various instruments and jars on top. He opens a drawer and withdraws a plastic packet with a needle sealed inside and lays it out on the counter. Next, he grabs antiseptic, a small bottle of ink, and a box of black latex gloves and sets them in a neat row.
Now’s my chance, I think, as I watch him get organized. I can easily make a break for it while he’s distracted. As if reading my mind, he pivots on the stool. “Sit,” he says again.
Swallowing hard, I walk to the chair, hating myself a little more with each step. I mean, I really do want the tattoo covered, but I hate that the cost is my self-respect. “I’m not a dog,” I mumble.
“My apologies,” Lane says. He makes an exaggerated sweeping motion with his arm. “Whilst thou, princess, please sitteth down? I knowest thou must be accustomed to thrones, but just this once whilst thou make an exception?”
I frown at him as I slide onto the chair. “You know, it would make things a whole lot easier for both of us if you stopped acting like such a dick.”
“Sorry, cupcake.” He turns back to the counter and resumes organizing his equipment. He pauses long enough to glance at me over his shoulder, his cheek creasing with a wicked smirk. “Who said I liked things easy?”
Chapter Three
Lane
The girl stares at me from the tattoo chair but says nothing. Good. I’m not really in the mood to talk. The sooner I get this tattoo done, the better. With a waiting list for tattoos and cover-ups that exceeds several months, I feel like I live in my shop and the bed in my house is a poor, neglected friend.
I guess it could be worse. Yes, my workload leaves me exhausted, but I’m making insane money. In the end, isn’t that all that matters—making sure I can give Harper and myself the best life possible?
I take the girl’s wrist and turn it over, exposing the tattoo. The muscles in her forearm go rigid under my touch. She’s afraid. But that’s not unusual. Most people start to sweat it the second their ass sits in my chair. I lean close and study her ink. The lines are sloppy. I lightly run my finger over the cursive name. She inhales sharply.
