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Bad Ink

Page 6

by Megan Hetherington

The waiter pulls out the cork but Carlos pours it. It’s like a ritual. Denoting both the serving of alcohol and the giving of life.

  Although it wasn’t always like this with Carlos and I. At school we were buddies, living in the same run-down neighborhood. That was his territory, not mine. My escape was supposed to be to the next set of foster parents who would hopefully adopt me full time. But it never happened. It seemed I was destined for the type who wanted the extra paycheck, the additional benefits. Not those who fostered children for the good of it.

  Maybe it was me, expecting the world and not seeing the best in those who gave me shelter. Selfish, because their shelter was in the poor part of town. Even so, I kept my nose clean and our paths deviated as Carlos sought thrills on the shady side of the street.

  I mulled this dilemma constantly, in those first few months of prison—that my ungrateful thoughts about my upbringing had dealt me a shit hand in a nod to Karma. But as months turned into years, I came to understand Karma was involved but not in a revengeful way.

  It was my destiny to be incarcerated, so I could be re-born.

  Carlos admired me for taking the rap for our little college trip. Or that’s what he says. But I know he didn’t expect to see me again. And certainly not like this. He thought I’d rot in that jail cell. Not end up a fighting hero. But, he appears to have taken the bait so far. And, as I get the measure of him, I make sure he doesn’t do the same with me.

  With a flick of my wrist, I down the Tequila in one. The glass doesn’t touch my lips and the burning liquid doesn’t touch my tongue. The one and only place it hits is the back of my throat, where it lands like a hot ember.

  Once empty, I drop the glass on the table and it rolls off the edge. A petite blonde with an eye-catching rack stoops to pick it up. As she goes to place the glass back onto the table, I grab hold of her wrist and pull her on to me. Yeah, she’ll do tonight. I desperately need to forget. To forget Cate. And this blonde’s rack looks the perfect place to get lost for a while.

  She’s immediately attentive—her hands roaming my chest. Then she tries to kiss my lips so I roughly push her face onto my neck. I’m not ready for the taste of Cate to be kissed way.

  As she sucks on my neck, the chemical smell of hairspray smarts my eyes. And it’s what I need—the antithesis of Cate’s sweet, natural smell. Hopefully, everything else about this petite blonde will be different too. And, as I quickly skim down her fake tanned skin, to her false tits and pussy revealing skirt, I let out a sigh of relief.

  “You were fucking awesome tonight, Raul,” Carlos yells above the pumping music. “Fucking awesome.”

  “He made it kind of easy,” I reply.

  “It’s what I like about you, hermano, you make it sound like a walk in the park. And it’s why I have faith in you.”

  Juan and Diego march towards the VIP area and, with a slight jerk of my head, Juan comes behind my seat.

  Tactfully, he whispers into the ear furthest away from Carlos, “We got her home. Eventually.”

  I don’t like the way he says that and I snap my chin at him. Although I don’t want to go into any detail in front of Carlos or the girl latched onto my neck, I want to know Cate got home safe.

  “Problem?” I hiss.

  “No, not at all. She thought she’d given us the slip with a false address. But we followed her home.”

  I straighten my head away from his voice. It’s all I need to know. She’s as far away from here as she needs to be.

  Fortunately, Carlos doesn’t notice our exchange. He’s in an animated discussion with Pedro, his actual blood-brother; not a brother like the rest of us. Between them they run this shit parade. The legit, the not so legit and the downright criminal. The only parts I get to see, thankfully, are the training gyms and clubs. As one of his few non-illegal assets, it was a demand he agreed to. Keep me clean. The other demand was my identity. I came out of jail with the tag, Raul, and he is more than happy to run with it. I didn’t want to alert my reappearance to anyone unnecessarily, especially not Cate. Although that part of the plan has been thwarted.

  The blonde has stopped paying attention to my neck and has now sunk her hand onto my dick. But her moves are irritating. Like all the girls in here she’s too eager and bold. They’re about giving. Which as nice as it sounds is boring as fuck. I’ve not been inclined to eat pussy once since I’ve been around Carlos and the girls he throws at me. And I miss it. Giving a woman an orgasm is the best feeling ever. The smell, the taste, the heat, the vibrations and the satisfied moans. These women aren’t interested in any of that shit. Giving is all they want to do. I guess they don’t want to enjoy it. All they want is money and security and they won’t get those from me.

  I tilt forward, and with little effort, squash her tiny hand. She squeals with the pain of her wrist being crushed. And it’s the final nail. If she cries out like that with a little discomfort, it‘ll be the end when I show her the true meaning of pain. Because I don’t do gentle.

  With a hand on the neck of the Tequila bottle, Carlos taps me on the elbow. Of the few of us who are allowed glasses, there’s even a smaller number who can touch the bottle. But it’s not why Carlos is tapping me. And as I pour a steady stream over the glasses on the table, I turn to hear what he has to say.

  “I’ve put a bonus into your account. A gift for being such a good soldier.”

  I give him a small nod of gratitude, behind which I disguise the repulsion of his act.

  “Buy yourself a new car. Something flash.” He beams.

  The next fight can’t come quick enough. He’s spinning his web, one radial at a time and I need to make my move before I’m cocooned in his trap.

  Money is the last thing I need. His expectation for me to buy something lavish with it, will be considered an act of loyalty to him and a show of extravagance to the rest of the San Diego underworld. The desired message being—Carlos Hernandez is on the way up and so are his posse. He treats them well, because they respect and adore him.

  What a load of crap.

  8

  Cate

  The next morning, I wake with a start, my heart racing and thumping out of my chest from the clutches of a vague dream involving Isaac and Hope.

  For a good few moments I stare at the elaborate, fake-glass chandelier hanging from my bedroom ceiling and run over the events of the night before. I’m no calmer about any of it. When I heard Isaac was back in town I made plans, rational plans, to meet with him. To discuss our circumstances and tell him about Hope. Like two adults should.

  Instead, Isaac is Raul, a monster who dumped me like a sack of shit in a shower, backstage at a fight.

  I’m the mother of his child who single-handedly raised his offspring and his response? To embarrass me beyond belief.

  I thump both fists on the mattress and sit bolt upright.

  He’s not getting away with this.

  Throwing off the powder-blue duvet, I reach out for my cotton robe, before stomping to the kitchen to fuel for my intended showdown. A double helping of Hope’s favorite cereal should fix my hangover. I take a bowl full over to the kitchen door hoping the cool morning breeze will calm my frame of mind.

  A ball flies in the air and lands in the backyard, bouncing off a plastic ride-along truck and into the sand-pit with a dull thud. A puff of golden grains billow into the air.

  I stick my head out the partially open door. “Thank you Mr Lee,” I shout, through a mouthful of breakfast.

  My mom helped me choose this neighborhood. It’s family orientated she explained. That might have been so when she had a growing family, now it’s full of bored middle-aged couples who take part in swing parties disguised as wine tasting. Fortunately, they’ve not approached me. But they’re nosey all the same. Knowing my comings and goings and forever ‘making sure I’m okay’. It’s thoughtful but in a suffocating way. I would much prefer somewhere rural with no neighbors and my space or slap in the middle of the city surrounded by people who don’t get inv
olved.

  The crunching of my teeth on the chocolate hoops further works me up. I chastise myself for wasting time on another unlikely dream and I retreat to the bathroom to brush my teeth and style my hair.

  With heated tongs, I curl my hair into shiny ringlets. Then, with the help of a YouTube video, apply a double helping of make-up complete with contours, false eyelashes and newly shaped eyebrows. Then, I go through to my closet and pick out a short, tight skirt made from three thick Spandex bands which lift at the center front. My legs aren’t particularly tanned but enough to not wear any tights and when I pull on my thigh-length, suede boots I know it doesn’t matter. I push my tits into place in the snug-fitting bra top, and to make sure his eyes wander to my bolstered cleavage, I fasten a silver necklace with a sleek-hanging pendant which arrows into it.

  I stand in front of the mirror and practice a pose and even a swagger. He’ll wish he never passed up on this baby.

  Cautiously, I totter downstairs and pick up his discarded tee and sweatpants, intent on stuffing them into a plastic bag. But, the moment the fabric bunches in my palms, my determination falters. It’s soft and smooth and instantly grabs hold of my emotions when I bury my face in it. A deep inhalation of Isaac spikes straight through to my heart.

  How? How can that man-half-beast, be the same person as my Isaac?

  Ugh! I slump onto the arm of the sofa still clutching at my past. Hope’s toys scattered around the living room floor; I gently push a heel on her latest obsession, a fire truck. I wheel it back and forth while I think about what I’m expecting to get out of this move. To make him jealous? To make him hate me? I don’t know. I can’t reconcile my feelings toward him.

  Leaving Isaac’s clothes on the back of the sofa, I hitch each ankle up to wrench off my boots. Then, I trudge upstairs and wipe off my make-up, brush out my curls, and twist the frizzy mess which is now my hairstyle into a bun. I wiggle out of the tight skirt and pull on a pair of denim shorts with a cute lacy edge. I’m not being cute for him but it’s summer and the brief rain shower we had last night was a blip in an otherwise hot June. I don’t have any energy to pull the bra top off so mostly cover it instead with a blouse. Finally, I stuff the sweatpants and tee into a cotton bag and plod downstairs to screw my feet into my Converse sneakers.

  With my Ray Ban’s pushed onto my nose, I climb in the car and roll down the windows. Reminding myself to find a garage to fix the air-conditioning as soon as I’ve thrown the clothes into his face.

  I drive off toward Isaac’s gym with Dua Lipa pumping out of the speakers and a breeze buffeting my face. It’s fresher today, the rain yesterday clearing the air somewhat, but I know San Diego well enough to appreciate the heat will intensify as the day wears on. Cautiously, I massage my fingertips over my forehead at the thought of the humidity coming back which will undoubtedly make my hangover worse.

  Ironically, the parking spot I occupied the other day is the only one free once more. I parallel park into it, pausing before I complete the maneuver when I spot Isaac’s SUV parked near the gym entrance. I assumed he would be here but now I know he is, my breathing falters. Before I can back out, I scrunch my fingers on the top of the bag and trot across the road to the entrance.

  With my hand curled around the heavy-duty handle, I cautiously pull open the door. The thumping beat of rock music hits me first, then my nostrils are assaulted with a mix of testosterone-laden sweat and vanilla ice-cream smell of air-conditioning.

  My eyes dart around, not wanting to take another step without knowing my ultimate destination. But I need not worry. I home straight in on him; laid prone on a press bench.

  He’s bare-chested and his knees are bent at either side of the bench; his sneaker-clad feet planted onto the floor. His arms stretch passed his head and with huge hands he holds a weighted iron bar. I bite on my lower lip when his grip tightens and his knuckles pop as he prepares to push on it.

  A mountain of a guy stands at his side, presumably to grab hold of the weight should he need to. He looks like one of the guys in the black SUV who drove me away from the fight last night. I cringe at the thought.

  The bar sags alarmingly with the weight of the plates stacked on to it. I’m unable to lift my feet, as if they’re stuck to the carpet with gum, mesmerized by the sight of his trembling arms lifting the bar. Slowly, his elbows bend and the bar lowers onto his collarbone. After a few seconds, he puffs out his chest and with an explosive grunt, yanks the weighted bar into the air. Locking his elbows for a moment before he drops the weight with a heavy clang onto two side rests.

  I hitch a breath as he crunches his abs to sit, grabbing a towel from the side of the bench. He wipes his face and I stiffen further, realizing I’m in his direct line of sight. I clutch the bag to my stomach which cramps as his expression hardens.

  He casts the towel to the floor, stands, and scoops his leg over the bench before striding towards me.

  It takes three breaths from me and three strides from him before I snap out of my frozen state with an indignant thought. No-one will treat me like he did last night and get away with it. No one. Not even Isaac Winters, father of my child. I grit my teeth and brace for whatever he throws at me.

  Without a word and his hot mint-infused breath on my forehead, he wraps a palm around my elbow and drags me backward to the exit. Punching the door open, he pushes me into the street.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I shout, rubbing at my elbow now free of his vise-like grip.

  “Who said you can come here?” he growls, his expression as dark as wet earth.

  “I don’t need anybody to tell me where I can and cannot go.” I cross my arms defiantly in front of my chest, still clinging onto the bag.

  “Don’t come here again.” He leans into me and snarls in my face, “Ever.”

  For a moment, I’m shocked by the venom he spits out. I pull myself together and fire back at him, “I don’t know who you think you are Isaac Winters but this is a free country and I’ll go where ever I goddamn want.”

  Slowly and deliberately, he inches into my face until our noses touch and eyes lock in a battle of wills. “Don’t,” he says through gritted teeth, “ever, call me that again.”

  A laugh blurts out of my astonished mouth and, with a precocious rock of my head, I snap out, “Screw you!”

  I attempt to sidestep him but he grabs hold of my arm squeezing on it until his grip sears through to the bone.

  I yelp. “Leave off, you’re hurting me.”

  Although I try to pull away, only my head turns. His free hand closes on my face and, with both cheeks squeezed between his thumb and fingers, he reels me back into his face. “I’m warning you, Kitty.” His pupils are so dilated, the whole of his eyes are consumed with an inky blackness. “Don’t.” His growl reverberates across my face.

  Forcing my eyes away from his glare, I notice the hickey on his neck, which wasn’t there when we got close and personal last night. Fucking dirtbag.

  I bite down hard on the piece of skin between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Fuck!” he bellows, releasing his grip on me.

  Wasting no time, I run across the street to my car and with adrenaline coursing through my veins I jump in, start it, and flip it into gear. First, I reverse with a toe-curling bang into the car behind and then shunt forward into the car in front. Finally, I screech out into the traffic; leaving Isaac steadfast on the sidewalk glaring at me.

  A hundred yards down the street, I realize I’ve still got the bag of clothes—the whole stupid reason I’m here. I spin the car around in the middle of the street and throw the cotton bag at his feet. Wheel-spinning away with my heart pounding into my mouth, I watch him in the rearview mirror pick up the bag and disappear into the gym.

  After the excitement, I desperately need to use the bathroom, so pull up in front of a drive-through restaurant. Abandoning my car in the parking lot, I rush through the family-filled queues to the restroom. I heave my anxiety from the recent
escapade, curdled with the alcohol laying heavy in my stomach from last night, into the toilet bowl. Hanging my head over the pan, I ruminate over who he is now or should I say what? After my two altercations with him, it feels like I’ve got the wrong guy.

  Eventually, I feel calm enough to flush the pan and wash my mouth in the sink, startled by my reflection which shows eyes as wide as a frightened rabbit. I’m not cut out for this drama.

  As calmly as I’m able to, I walk into the dining area, stop at the counter to order an iced coffee, and retreat to the car to sip it in relative safety.

  Toeing off my shoes, I stick my feet onto the dash and wiggle my toes in the fresh air. After several cooling sucks through the paper straw I’m calm enough to drive home. Determined to make the best of the rest of my weekend.

  My minds made up—there is no way that asshole is getting anywhere near Hope. She deserves better than that, and right now she has it, in me.

  The greater distance I put between me and the gym, the less concerned I am about what’s happened. Shaking my hair out of the bun, I turn up the volume on the radio and sing out my anger. But the feeling of amelioration is thrown upside down when I pull into my driveway, because parked in the middle is a bright yellow SUV and resting against it, Isaac.

  What the hell?

  I shift into park, pulling dangerously close to his pumped-up bodywork and scramble out of my car. Marching straight to him, I yell in his face, “Come for a second round have you, asshole?”

  I’m not even considering the twitching of drapes and the number of fingers hovering over 911, this altercation will cause.

  Isaac doesn’t respond, he merely maintains his stance—crossed arms, crossed legs and a dark expression on his face.

  He’s now wearing a muscle hugging tee and vibrant white sneakers which draw my gaze slowly down gray sweatpants that bulge in all the right places. There’s an unwelcome pull at the top of my legs at how fucking goddamn delicious he looks. The guy sure knows how to pull off casual seduction.

 

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