Bad Ink

by Megan Hetherington

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Other Books

  Author Profile

  Sample Chapter - Into the Light

  BAD INK

  Megan Hetherington

  Copyright @ 2019 Megan Hetherington

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to real events, real people and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission. Apart from small excerpts that are used in book reviews.

  ASIN: B07TY55CYD

  Prologue

  Isaac Winters

  Seven Years Ago

  “You like it up the ass, Jay?”

  Laughing at Rory’s joke, I strain my neck to glance over my shoulder to the rear of the camper van, catching him flick the back of his hand on to Jay’s bare thigh.

  “Screw you,” Jay spits. He slides open the rear door, pulls his shorts out of his backside and slips out into another morning when the mercury tips one-hundred degrees.

  Like the rest of us, the heat and lack of sleep this week have made Jay cranky and devoid of humor.

  The original idea for spring break was as a tonic; a time to rejuvenate before a serious semester of exams but, like all college freshmen, we missed that memo. Desperate to cement our status as the bad-ass newcomers at San Diego University, we’ve been on an all-out jaunt to Mexico. And, yeah, we smoked too much dope and drank excessive amounts of Tequila. So, rejuvenated is not a word I’d use to describe us right now as we yearn for the nearing comforts of home. More frazzled. Tetchy. Even paranoid.

  Fidgeting in our sarcastically named Pussy Wagon, eyeing the border crossing ahead, it’s natural the five of us panic. Shit, we’re teenagers and watched too many drug-smuggling movies; it’s obvious our young imaginations shift into overdrive.

  Henry glances across from the passenger seat with furrowed brows.

  “Prison,” I explain to him. “Rory thinks we’ll get pulled by the Federales.” I nod up the line to the Mexican militia, stalking the cars at the border control.

  Henry’s jaw slackens and instinctively he swipes his forefinger under his nose. “Do you think so?”

  “Lighten up, dude.” I re-sit my ball cap on my head, prodding the annoying curls of my over-long hair behind my ears.

  I’m about to close my eyes and dream up a vision of Cate, my wholesome girl with her soft, creamy skin, mahogany-colored hair and lusciously plump lips. Instead, I’m forced to acknowledge Carlos in the windshield mirror, lining up between the front seats.

  He nudges his fake Oakley’s down the bridge of his nose before thrusting his head through the seats to join in the conversation. Carlos isn’t strictly on Spring Break—he didn’t enroll at college and bunked off most of high school too—but he convinced us we needed him on this trip for his local knowledge. It turns out his local knowledge is as extensive as ours. Sweet FA.

  “Fuck that. They’re only for show.” Carlos smacks his gum loudly in my ear. “They’re not interested who’s coming in or out, it’s the US border guys who are and we’re US citizens. So, go figure.” He throws himself back on the bench, reveling in his cocky surety.

  “I’m not bothered who we’re hiding. It’s what might be lost in here,” Henry fusses.

  “Stop being a pussy,” Carlos scoffs. “Just because this rental’s in your name doesn’t make everything in here yours.”

  “You better not have stashed any shit, guys.” Henry’s eyes redden as if he’ll burst into tears.

  “Fuck this. I’m going for a piss.” Rory joins Jay out on the melting asphalt, closely followed by Carlos, who, despite his nonchalant shrug-off, has left sweaty handprints on the worn-leather front seats. I angle to one side to avoid them.

  “Shut the door, Henry, it’s a fucking furnace out there.” I blow out a breath and twist the grime-covered knob which sets the air-conditioning to stutter out dust-ridden air.

  As requested, Henry squeezes through the front seats and, with a grunt, slides shut the door while I watch the other three saunter off toward the amenity block.

  To calm the tension brewing, I crank up the volume on the radio and we sit tight, weighing up the soldiers ahead against a background of Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’. There are half a dozen guards, wearing dark-blue fatigues, punctuated with sturdy utility-belts and black combat-boots. Their menacing image topped with rifles held protectively across their armored vests. Two German Shepherds and their handlers circle a car ahead. The dogs suddenly pull onto their back legs and bark aggressively at a sun-bleached Dodge Journey truck.

  Henry blurts out a nervous laugh. “Seems their time’s up.” He grasps the nape of his neck and wipes his palm over hairs which have likely stood on end. I figure this because mine have prickled too.

  Flicking my eyes to the truck, I purse my lips and selfishly wish it’s exactly what’s happening to the occupants.

  Four of the guards move away to investigate the targeted car and, as I hoped, the line moves quicker—three cars being waved through in quick succession.

  I clear my throat and thrust the van into gear so we can edge closer to the front. Two hours it’s taken to get to this point and now we’re only two cars away. Panic rises in my throat and an icy bead of sweat snakes down my spine.

  A glance over at our friends laughing and joking as they exit the restrooms, has me for a moment, considering bailing out too. But that’s plain ridiculous. As Carlos assured us—we’ll be fine. We’re US citizens they’re not interested in us. The guards will apologize for holding us in this line.

  As we inch closer to home, the needle on the engine-coolant dial nudges into the red. We don’t need to break down here—other side and we’re fine. If the van gives out on the US side of the border, I’ll hitch a ride home or call Cate to collect me. I’ve spent enough time in this heap of crap and with its occupants to share another shit-show with them.

  Now, there’s only one car between us and the rabid dogs which have now re-joined the main check-point.

  I gulp.

  A solitary guard strides around the rest of his team and makes a beeline for our car.

  He lifts his gun. My jaw slackens.

  Then he repeatedly flicks his rifle from our car to the side of the line.

  I can’t swallow. My Adam’s apple swells in my throat.

  There’s no mistaking what the guard means.

  He’s indicating for us to pull over. They’re going to run an inspection on us. And the van.

  “Isaac?” Henry looks as if he’ll pass out, his face paling to a green-tinged white.

  “Fuck,” I murmur under my breath, my chest tightening as I watch Rory, Jay, and Carlos turn away from us, disregard our plight
and join the pedestrian line to cross the border.

  I screw my sticky hands on the steering wheel. “You got any dollars?”

  “Why?” Henry asks innocently.

  A tingling sensation which starts as heat in my hairline travels over my forehead, stinging my eyes on the way to my heart, where Cate made me promise. Don’t do anything stupid and come back to me the same man.

  ◆◆◆

  That was almost three thousand days ago. Shit, it seems such a long time, when said like that. Actually, it’s a long time whatever unit of measure you care to use.

  So much has happened since, and none of it good.

  My heartfelt promise to Cate was soon forgotten as I strived to survive the hell-hole of a Mexican jail.

  Now I’m back, not by choice. I couldn’t pass on this—it’s the only reason I’m still breathing. In those seven years, each breath was sucked in and blown out with this in mind. A debt I promised to repay.

  I’m not the same guy who went into prison, fuck, I was only a boy when Henry and I were turned away from the border and manhandled to a Mexican holding cell.

  Henry never made it beyond the cell. His final words lost on the Mexican criminals who crowded around his twitching legs as he swung from the bars by the belt of his jeans.

  It was obvious I wouldn’t tread on American soil in a hurry after that—a rushed trial, no help from the consulate, and a lengthy sentence meant I was doomed.

  Understandable—who cares about a boy from state care who’s written off by society before he can prove himself?

  Well, I did prove myself. I proved to be precisely what every statistic said I’d become. A failure. A criminal.

  And to my friends? To them, I became the fall guy. The scapegoat.

  Whichever title anyone gave me, I stopped being Isaac, the boy with an all-American future. I’m now the ex-con with history and a new identity borne out of a need to survive.

  And everyone now calls me Raul.

  1

  Cate

  Present day

  Although I’m nowhere near water, it feels like someone wraps my hair around their wrist and drags me to the depths of a murky lake. As I sink to the bottom, my vision blurs and my hearing muffles—a regular feeling when my low blood pressure causes me to faint.

  Before I completely succumb to the effect of air squeezing out of my lungs, I gasp in a breath and steady myself with a shaky hand on the hood of my car.

  My lungs violently object with a cough, which leads me to clap my hand to my mouth and, with fright from the consequences of being spotted, I drop to my knees.

  Huddling on the curb, I press against my car tires and take a deep breath, inhaling warm rubber and brake dust.

  The plan I made on the drive here was clear. Walk confidently in to the gym where Isaac trains every morning. Introduce myself and tell him he is father to a beautiful daughter. Our daughter. Arrange to meet somewhere appropriate at a later date to discuss what happens next. Walk out.

  Not, drive into a dodgy part of town, feel sick with nerves when I see the ‘Carlos Combat Training’ signage over industrial looking doors of an ex-warehouse; attempt to cross the street intending to ask the huge guy loitering outside if he knows Isaac Winters. Then, fall at the first hurdle, when I realize the huge guy is actually Isaac.

  It’s been seven years, so it’s not surprising his appearance has changed. Shaven head. Broad shoulders. Tattoos spilling over the collar of his shirt. But it’s his bold stance which gives him away. Feet wide apart, arms crossed, and a curve to his back from broad shoulders which narrow to a tight core. Isaac has presence and always has. A calm, iron-centered, never-to-be-messed with, presence.

  After several restorative breaths, I dare edge to the front fender to take another look, because my mind is already doubting it’s him.

  My first love.

  I vividly recall his musky sandalwood scent, the rhythm of his heartbeat against mine, and the vibration of his voice on my neck. I rub away the trail of goosebumps from my throat, brought on by the thought of his touch. And to stop me from being overwhelmed by the sensory onslaught, I close my eyes to the flashback and focus on the reason for me being here.

  Another glance, and I see Isaac is now twenty feet away, and with by a smaller guy, wearing a light-gray, shiny suit. It could very well be Carlos. And even though it’s not my place to judge, I feel an unexplained hatred toward him and his cigar-toting swagger. Leading my Isaac astray.

  Elliot, my assistant at work, reluctantly revealed to me Isaac is back in town and working out every morning at a gym run by his school friend, Carlos Hernandez. Despite Elliot’s protestations, I had to see for myself. And, although I’ve described Carlos as Isaac’s friend, I can’t understand why Isaac would see it that way. Their lives took very different paths that day at the border. One walked the crossing back to freedom, the other sunk seven years into a Mexican jail with no foreign privileges.

  Isaac jerks his head over his shoulder in my general direction. I press my back to the steel body of the car, desperate to disappear into it, while I take shallow breaths and look to the sky with a prayer.

  I’ve learned to live without him—scratch that—I’ve learned to live. But he’s always there. Every day I’ve looked into eyes as unique as his, run my hand through hair the same shade, and trailed a fingertip across lips with the same texture. There’s no mistaking who my daughter’s father is. And it taunts and rewards me every single day. I could never forget him even if I tried.

  And, for that reason alone, I can’t do this.

  My decision to come here was ill-conceived. I can’t risk letting him see me, for fear of where this might lead. My bravado vanishes, leaving me crouching like a fugitive behind my car, across the street from the man I’ve always loved more than any other and no courage to face to him.

  Waiting for my moment, I grab it when Isaac turns to Carlos and claps a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  I half-stand, and with feet which cannot carry me fast enough, I scurry around to the driver’s door. My hands shake violently, requiring me to cup one over the other to get the key in the lock.

  After sliding into the seat, I glance in the rearview mirror, on the slim chance Isaac’s seen me. Followed me. But, there’s nothing except the two of them, fixed to the spot against the backdrop of a line of gray buildings, set against a gray road surface and thunderous gray skies.

  My view remains on the mirror but refocuses on my reaction and I’m surprised—not by the ashen pallor of my skin, nor the glassy eyes, but my grown-up self. Like him I’ve matured into an adult with history. So much has occured in the seven years where he’s not been part of my life. It’s difficult to know where to start with him.

  For a moment, I’m transported to the last time I saw him. The parting kiss we shared before he went on a spring break road-trip to Mexico, and the promise he made to come back to me.

  Back then, he had soft chestnut hair framing a boyish face. Caramel eyes, coated with a ring of brown which grew darker as you looked in to them. And three gold specks on his left eye, he said only shone for me.

  What a load of bullshit.

  He doesn’t give a damn about me or what I’ve been through. He communicated not a single word when he entered jail. The flurry of letters and calls stopped. And that’s when his sentence became my sentence.

  My focus re-adjusts to look beyond my reflection to his form. He’s now facing my direction. I sink into my seat so I’m hidden from view by the headrest and I glance into the side mirror; freezing with horror as he takes a few paces toward me.

  After all these years fantasizing over him; desperate to tell him about his daughter and have him describe to me what he endured. I can’t go through with this.

  Frantically, I scrabble to insert the key into the ignition, ready to take flight if he continues this way.

  I sigh with relief when he veers off to the right, zapping open a fancy-looking SUV with blacked-out windows and a Lamborghi
ni badge on the sunflower-yellow hood.

  After a few seconds, when I sink further into my jacket collar, the SUV burbles passed. Fixing my eyes forward, I hope and pray he isn’t looking sideways into my open window. Then, once his SUV sails passed the front of my car, he presses his accelerator and roars away.

  Caused by a mixture of anticipation, shock, and relief, sobs rack through me. I’ve been through too much in my adulthood to let them continue for long. Biting on my trembling bottom lip and a quick swipe of the back of my wrist underneath my nose, I straighten my back and turn on the engine. A blast of warm air courses over my face from the air-vents, reheating my cheeks to their normal shade of pink.

  Fumbling in my purse, I pick out my cell, balancing it under my chin so I can fix my hair into a ponytail while the call rings through.

  “Elliot.” I blow out a steadying breath. “I… I can’t come back to work. Make some excuse or other. Say Hope’s ill or something.”

  “You’ve seen him?” he blurts.

  “Uhuh.” I close my eyes, recapturing the vision of Isaac stood a few feet away.

  “Well… what happened? What did he say?” He sounds as breathless as me.

  “Nothing… nothing happened. I couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  There’s a pause before he answers calmly, “Good, it’s for the best, Chica.”

  “Uhuh.” A ball of relief, mixed with poison and regret, collects under the base of my tongue.

  “I’ll see you in the morning. Go relax. Drink a bottle of wine or even better, go screw that guy of yours.”

  An explosive laugh painfully ruptures the ball under my tongue.

  “Okay.” I open my eyes and start the car. Pleased to pull away from what could have been the biggest mistake of my life.

  For a few blocks, I drive aimlessly, not concentrating on where I am or where I’m going. Just enjoying the breeze blowing through the open window—the humidity of June stifling in a car with no air-conditioning in southern California. Until I find myself stuck in traffic on Sorel Avenue and familiar stores and café’s jolt me back to reality.