by Cole Gibsen
Whatever words I planned to say next dissolve on my tongue. It had been hard enough finding rent I could afford. There was no way I could do it now that my savings are gone.
As if she knows this, Selena gives me a smug smile. “I tell you what. You take that wad of cash over there.” She motions to the clutter on her dresser. “Buy Diesel everything he needs, and you can keep the rest until I find out who took your money. Sound fair?”
I know Selena well enough to know she won’t be asking anyone anything, so as much as I hate it, this is the best deal I’m going to get. “Fine.”
“Good.” She falls back against her pillow. “Would you also mind taking Diesel out for me? You know how late I work. I just want to catch a few more minutes of sleep before my alarm goes off.”
I’m pretty sure she doesn’t own an alarm. Still, I say nothing as I step over piles of lingerie, shoes, and clothes to get to the dresser. Amidst the clutter of makeup, lotions, and perfumes are crumpled bills I’m sure were shoved in her sweaty G-string only hours ago. I gather every one I can find and leave Selena’s room, closing the door behind me.
I can’t deal with the mess in my own room at the moment, so I head to the small kitchen to count the money—a little over three hundred bucks.
The puppy looks up at me and whimpers. I pocket the cash and scoop him up. I have no idea the last time he’s been let out or fed—given the state of my room, I’m willing to bet it’s been awhile. “Let’s get you some food. Come on—” I almost say Diesel, but the name doesn’t feel right. “Listen,” I tell him. “It’s not that I don’t think you can pull off the name, but you look more like a…Hank. Is it cool if I call you that?”
The puppy wags its entire butt. Apparently it is cool.
I reach for my keys and phone, only to notice I’ve missed a text. My heart quivers the moment I read the sender’s name.
Mom.
She’s written only six words, but they’re enough to rake knives across my chest.
Please come home. Things are different.
I can feel myself coming undone all over again, muscles loosening from bone, and bone falling from tendon until I’m sure I’ll dissolve into a pile on the floor.
God, I’m so tempted. Between the parties, the constant mess, and the sketchy guys, I would endure almost anything to escape this hellhole of an apartment. Almost.
This isn’t the first time my mom’s promised things will be different. I’ve talked to him! He’s promised to change. He’s only hard on you because he loves you and wants you to succeed. He’s had a tough life; he can’t help the way he is. He’s agreed to go to counseling. These are the pretty words wrapping the box of promises she’s offered me time after time. But I know, like every time before, once the words are peeled away and the box is opened, there will be only jagged pieces.
A pretty box full of broken promises.
The memory of the bonfire blazes in my mind with so much intensity I flinch. On top, a stuffed horse, one of my favorites from when I was a girl, crumples and burns into nothing. So much of my childhood—of my life—became nothing that day. I became nothing.
So, no. I won’t go back.
As much as I want to believe things might finally be different, I know better. I’ve been burned too many times before.
Chapter Eight
Lane
I’m outlining a cover-up design in my sketchpad while trying to ignore the ramblings of the scratcher—a novice who stupidly attempted to tattoo himself. He came to me with what he claims to be a picture of his mother on his calf—but it actually looks more like a portrait of Ronald McDonald.
Sadly, I’ve seen worse.
“I mean,” the guy continues¸ “it’s not too bad for a first-timer, right?”
I spin around in my chair and glance at the snarling creature on his leg. “Yeah. It is. Look at that shit. It’s supposed to be your mom? It looks like something out of a Stephen King novel.”
The guy frowns at me. “I just need more practice is all. I’ll start smaller. My girlfriend says I can ink a heart on her ankle—”
“No!” I jab a finger at his face. “You are forbidden from marring any more skin. You want to practice?” I reach across the counter and grab an orange I’d planned to eat for lunch. I’m more than happy to sacrifice it if it means the end of his skin mutilations. “Here.” I toss the fruit at him. “Start with fruit and work your way up to pig skin. I swear to God if anyone comes in this shop wanting a tattoo fixed, and I find out you were the one to fuck it up, I’m kicking your ass.”
The guy shrinks back against the seat, like I knew he would. Even the biggest assholes are afraid to challenge the guy about to drill into their skin with a needle. I just hope he takes me seriously. Tattoos are art and self-expression, not fucking cattle brands.
I turn back to my sketchpad, but I’m no longer looking at the design I’ve laid out. Instead, I find my thoughts drifting to Ashlyn and the douchebag she’d let talk her into tattooing his name on her skin. I’ve seen it many times before. The guys pressure the girls into getting the ink, claiming it will prove their love, but what the guys really want is to claim ownership of their bodies.
I think about Ash sitting in some other artist’s chair, getting a tattoo she doesn’t want, and my stomach clenches painfully tight. I’d be lying to myself if I said this was the first time I’d thought about her today. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since I dropped her off at her car. She’d been so quiet on the ride over. She’d glanced at me as she shut the door, and her eyes were so full of worry—like she was afraid of something.
It took everything I had not to follow her home to make sure she was all right. Even now, I can’t shake the uneasiness I felt watching her drive away. What if she’s hurt? In trouble?
“Um, dude?”
I look over at the scratcher to find him staring at my drawing pad. I glance down and found I’ve rested my sharpie against the page too long, giving the drawing of his mother what looks like a really big wart on her chin.
“Shit.” Get a fucking grip on yourself, Lane. I rip the page from the pad. “Don’t worry about the drawing. I’ll have it squared away when you come back tomorrow.” I swallow hard and try to push all thoughts of Ashlyn from my mind. I honestly don’t know why I’m giving her a second thought. I’ve got too much on my plate at the moment to worry about some girl. “Come back at two, and we’ll get started.”
The guy nods and slides off my chair. I don’t bother to watch him leave, so when I hear the front door chime, I assume I’m alone. I roll over to the counter and drop my forehead against it with a thunk. I’m better than this. Lane Garrett doesn’t get distracted by the opposite sex—so why is it happening to me now?
“Dad? Are you feeling okay?”
I push away from the counter to find my ten-year-old daughter staring at me with her lips pouted. Lines of concern etch her little brow. Like everything else about her, it’s adorable. “Harper! Hey, sweetheart!” I plaster on my biggest smile and squeeze her against me. Her chocolate curls tickle my chin. “No. Your dad isn’t sick, he just had a long night babysitting Aunt Emily.”
Harper giggles and slides from my grasp. “Dad. Aunt Emily is too old to be babysat!”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?”
My mom pushes aside the curtain and steps into the room. She smiles warmly when she sees me. “Hey, Lane. Sorry for the surprise visit, but she wanted to see you.”
“Never be sorry for bringing in my favorite person for a visit!” I grab Harper and try to squeeze her into another bear hug, but she squeals and wriggles free. Avoiding my hugs is something she’s started doing more and more since she turned ten, and I can’t help it—my heart breaks a little more each time. I look at my mom. “Thanks for watching her for me today.” I motion to my schedule book and sigh. “I’ve got a full lineup.”
Harper stops smiling. “Aw! So you’ll be home late?”
“Afraid so.” I tousle her ha
ir. “Way past your bedtime.”
“I’m ten and it’s Saturday! What if Grandma lets me stay up?”
“She won’t.” I jab a stern finger at my mom. “You won’t.”
She smirks and waves my warning away. “Please. Grandmas are known for their stern enforcement of bedtimes.”
I make a face. “Yeah.” I turn back to Harper, who’s still giving me puppy eyes. Damned if it doesn’t make me want to cancel all my appointments and lock the shop up right now.
“Can you at least give me a tattoo?” she asks, bottom lip stuck out.
Warmth swells inside me. At least she’s not too old for some things. “Sure.” I open a drawer, searching for the washable markers I’ve used to give Harper “tattoos” since she was a toddler. As for the real thing, she’s not allowed to get one until she’s eighteen, just like everyone else. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes until my next appointment so it will have to be fast. What do you want?”
She points to the edge of her name peeking out from my shirt collar. “I want your name, Daddy, like you have mine.”
I freeze with my hand clutching the black marker so tightly my knuckles turn white. Very slowly, I swivel around to face her. “Sweetheart, what does Daddy say about getting someone’s name inked on your body?”
She flops onto the chair with a huff. “That getting someone’s name is a bad idea because you can’t be sure they’ll be with you forever. But we’re going to be together forever, right?”
Damn it. She has me there. I look to my mom for help but she’s too busy trying to cover her smile with her hand. I give her a look that clearly states, Thanks a lot, before I turn back to Harper. I take her hands in mine and pull her close so our foreheads touch. “Yes, sweetheart, we’re going to be together forever. I promise.”
She traces her name along the edge of my collarbone. “Is that why you never got my mom’s name? Did you always know she was going to leave?”
My mom stops laughing, and I feel as if an invisible fist has ripped through my chest and taken hold of my heart. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion, but that doesn’t make it any easier. “Sweetheart,” I struggle to say, “when your mom found out she was pregnant, she was very, very young and scared. In her own way, she wanted to do what was best for you, and she thought that was to let me take care of you.”
Harper nods slowly, her eyes roaming my face as if searching for the truth. Someday, when she’s older, I’ll tell her about the two sixteen-year-olds who made a reckless mistake and paid for it. Crystal and I barely knew each other when we hooked up at that party all those years ago. When she found out she was pregnant, she insisted on giving the baby up for adoption. After all, what the hell did two sixteen-year-olds know about raising a baby?
Initially, I agreed, but only until the moment I first saw Harper and knew I could more easily saw off my limbs and give them away than I could give up the baby who was just as much, if not more, a part of me. I tried to make it work with Crystal so Harper could have a mother, but in the end there was no fixing what had never worked in the first place. Crystal eventually left, leaving me with sole custody. After Dad died, with Mom unable to work while receiving chemo treatments, I dropped out of school so I could work full time to provide for my family. I went through hell to make sure Harper, Em, and Mom never wanted for anything. And I’d do it all over again.
In ten years, Crystal has never visited, called, or even written to check on her daughter. Even though Harper doesn’t remember her, her mom’s absence has left a hole in her heart. I can see it in the way her brows draw together when she’s studying other mothers at the playground or in restaurants. I can read on her lips the questions that she refuses to ask. The biggest one is why. And no matter how much I want to, I just can’t answer.
Because I don’t have an answer. Apparently, there are people who can cut out a piece of their heart, throw it in the trash, and forget it ever existed. I am not one of them.
But they’re out there.
Which is why I’ve worked so hard to create a good life for us, to make sure Harper has all the security and love she needs. I can’t afford to let someone else in to our family and risk them undoing everything I’ve struggled to build. I know relationships come with risks, which is why I’ve vowed to avoid them.
Harper is my number one priority. She needs stability, and I owe it to her to make sure she has it. The fact that her mother gave her up hurts her, so I’ve dedicated my life to loving her enough for two parents. Maybe I’ll be enough, maybe I won’t. Either way, I’ll be damned if I let anyone else into our lives and risk them walking away with another piece of my daughter’s heart.
Chapter Nine
Lane
I’m sprawled across the tattoo chair, dicking around on my phone in an attempt to keep my fury at bay. I told Ashlyn to be here at ten o’clock for her shading appointment. But here I am, alone, at nearly ten forty-five. I shove the phone in my pocket. Fuck this, I’m going home.
But no sooner do I stand when I hear the front door chime. My muscles tingle as I try to get a grip on my agitation. I stride to the curtain and rip it aside. Ashlyn stands at the front door, twisting the handle open and closed. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
Inhaling sharply, she releases the knob. A flush creeps into her cheeks. “Sorry, I was just checking—” But she bites off the words before she finishes. “Never mind. It’s silly.”
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I do. I’m so sorry.” She leans against the door and combs her fingers through her hair. “Work ran late and I had to rush home after. My roommate got this puppy that she’s not going to take care of. I knew she probably hadn’t let it outside the entire time I was gone, so I drove home really quickly so I could—”
“Save it.” The words come out harsher than I intend and she flinches. “I don’t want to hear your excuses when you obviously don’t care about my time. Did it ever occur to you I have better things to do than sit around all night and wait for you to show up?”
“No, I—” She snaps her mouth shut. “I’m sorry.” She twists her fingers together and shrinks against the door. “Maybe I should go?”
There’s something about her that looks so fragile, vulnerable. My anger dissolves and I’m left feeling like an asshole. I sigh and shake my head. “No. Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve had a long day and I thought you were blowing me off.
“I would never!” She shakes her head and that’s when I notice the exhaustion pulling at her shoulders, and the dark circles beneath her eyes. Maybe she’s still suffering from last night’s hangover—or maybe it’s something else entirely.
My dad the cop would never turn away from someone in distress. While I hate to get involved in other people’s business, there’s that part of him that lives on in me. I take a step toward her and her eyes widen, startled. “Are you okay?”
She gives a nervous laugh. “Of course I’m okay. I’m fine—better than fine. So do you still have time to do some shading or do you want me to come back another night?”
It’s obvious this girl doesn’t have a lot of experience lying. The truth is written across her face like on the page of a book. “Don’t bullshit me. You don’t look fine.”
Two tiny lines crease above her nose as she frowns. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my roommate and I keep very different hours. It’s taking a little getting used to.”
I don’t buy for a second that’s the extent of her problems. But she does have a point. Whatever is going on with her is none of my business. I shrug—my attempt to drop the subject. I can’t force her to open up to me, and I paid my duty to the old man by asking. Still, I can’t shake the gnawing feeling she’s in some kind of trouble. Even worse, I can’t figure out why I care.
“Come on.” I wave a hand for her to follow, and head into the back room. When she enters, I point to the chair. “Make yourself at home. Some people get sick to their stomach wh
en they’re getting inked. Nerves or whatever. Sometimes a soda helps—you want one?”
She nods as she walks to the chair. “Please,” she says and perches on the end. She picks up one of the markers I used for Harper’s “tattoo” and raises an eyebrow. “Doing some coloring?”
I cross the room to the mini fridge. “They’re for the kids that come into my shop.”
An unreadable expression crosses her face, and I’m reminded of Em’s drunken warning from last night.
She’s got a thing about kids.
I hesitate with my hand on the fridge. What kind of thing? Does she not like them? Did she have an abortion? Did she abandon her baby with the father and take off across the country, never to be heard from again?
I want to ask about this, but I know that would violate the conditions of our truce. Besides, after tonight I’ll never see Ash again, so it’s not like it will matter.
I open the fridge. “What kind of soda do you want?”
She shakes her head and sets the marker down. “Doesn’t really matter. I was in such a hurry after work I didn’t have time to eat, so I’ll be happy with anything.”
I turn away from her so she can’t see my frown. I know she’s feeding me more lies. As skinny as the girl is, she either forgets to eat a lot, or there’s something else going on.
Not my problem, I remind myself as I grab two Dr Peppers from the fridge. I also snag the Snickers bar I’d been saving for later and toss it on Ashlyn’s lap.
She flinches—something I realize she does a lot—before grabbing the candy. “That’s really nice of you, but I’m fine, really.” She says this, but I can see the hunger in her eyes and the way she can’t look away from the chocolate bar. “I’ll just eat something when I get home.”
“Keep it.” I set the sodas down on the counter and pop both tabs at once.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s a fucking candy bar, not an engagement ring. I’m sure.” I turn to hand her the soda and find her staring at her lap, lips tight, and cheeks flushed red. Jesus H. Christ. I don’t know what I find more annoying, that this girl is so sensitive, or that I actually feel shitty for making her feel bad.
