Bad Ink

by Megan Hetherington

“Yeah, why not? No point in his education going to waste.”

  I’m surprised, not able to correlate the Eduardo I’ve been introduced to and the Elliot I knew for the last seven months.

  “I’ll need to consider homeschooling Hope though.”

  “Whatever you think is best, although there are international schools she could attend.”

  “Oh?” I didn’t think about that and to be honest I’ve not thought over a life in Mexico. It’s only been a few days and during that time I’ve been insistent on going home. Mom and Dad declaring their wanderlust has lifted a self-imposed veil of selfishness.

  “And what about Carlos and the other stuff?”

  “It’s as fixed as it can be. I can’t ignore the fact I spent seven years in a Mexican jail and only survived by getting close to people whose whole life revolves around crime.”

  He looks across as we come close to the border crossing.

  “I won’t lie to you, Cate. I won’t get involved in any of that, but I can’t guarantee it won’t come looking for me.”

  I take in a large breath. “I understand.” And I do.

  As we speed up at the other side of the border, the heat from the windows and the melodic tones of the radio lull me to sleep. I feel Isaac push a bunched-up item of clothing into the crook of my neck; the smell of him soothing and protecting me at my most vulnerable.

  The jolting of the uneven surface of the road, shakes me awake and I smile as the ranch walls come in to sight. I can’t wait to see Hope.

  Isaac calls ahead and when the gates open, he drives straight through. It’s such a comforting scene. Music drifts from the kitchen where I can see Isaac’s mom preparing food. Two dogs laze in the shadows. The bright potted plants punctuate the red earth and brickwork. It’s beautiful here. A beauty I saw but ignored previously.

  Hope runs across the courtyard. “Momma.” She has something bundled in her arms. “Look, look one of the dogs has puppies. We found them in the barn while you were gone. Look.”

  She shoves her crooked arm toward me as I step out of the car. “And I can ride the pony now without anyone holding the rein.” Her eyes huge and alive with excitement.

  Isaac comes across and lifts both her and the puppy to me, whispering into my ear. “They’re actually three weeks old, but we didn’t want her and the other children fussing over them until now.” His other arm scoops around my shoulders and he pulls me into his protective cuddle.

  My heart breaks into a million tiny pieces.

  “And I’ve been helping make a special dinner for you both,” Hope says.

  “Really?” I ask, looking at Isaac who pulls his face into a surprised look.

  “Sounds cool,” I say, reaching over and kissing the end of her nose, before Isaac walks us both into the kitchen.

  His mom rushes straight over and gives us both a hug. “Perfect,” she says, leaving me guessing whether it’s our timing, our appearance together, or both.

  “Barbecue,” Hope shouts, the puppy wriggling in her grasp.

  My nose instantly recognizing the sweet, smoky notes of barbecued meat.

  “Come.” Isaac’s mom pushes in front of us with a large bowl of corn salad, followed closely behind by two maids clutching various dishes. “Put the puppy back, Chiquita. Its mother will be worried sick.” I know that feeling and so do mothers the world over.

  We follow her outside to the table under the Jacaranda tree where Isaac’s brother-in-law hides behind a cloud of smoke, basting a huge rack of ribs. Hope wriggles free of Isaac’s clutch and disappears into the neighboring barn, to take the puppy back to its mother and Elliot rises from his seat to greet us.

  Elliot’s smile says it all. Gone are the lines of worry and concern. He’s glowing, a reflection of the way Isaac and I are radiating our love for each other.

  I sit next to him and Isaac goes to help with the BBQ.

  “So, you and Isaac are good now, Chica?”

  “Yes. More than good.”

  “Excellent. I think this calls for a celebration.” He calls over a maid and asks her to bring the jug from the refrigerator. “They make the best Margarita ever here. The best Tequila and fresh limes.”

  “Better than Almo’s?”

  “Way better.” He laughs.

  The evening couldn’t be more perfect. With a full belly, a light-headedness from the cold, sweet-yet-sour cocktail and the loving hug of my man, I watch Hope and her cousins jump rope. Elliot holding one end and his sister the other.

  No-one is in a rush to wrap up the celebration and as the evening sun fires up, so does the music. Elliot surprising me by playing guitar. Fireflies stud the air in front of us and the cicada’s up their ante against the sound of Corrido.

  There are more people than I’ve seen at the ranch so far, sitting on chairs, low walls and tree branches, and a group of women dance on the dry earth.

  Isaac tilts in to me. “Coming to bed?”

  His rumbling voice vibrates right through to my core. “Hell yeah.” I sit up away from his chest. “But I need to put Hope to bed first.”

  “Don’t worry, Mamá will care for her.” He looks across to his mother who nods and smiles.

  Hope is in no hurry to follow us, even though it is late, so I let Isaac lead me on quivering legs to his room.

  The heavy wooden door clicks behind me and he lets go of my hand. Toeing off his boots, they clunk to the floor as he relaxes back onto the bed. “Come on then, Kitty. I think after everything I’ve put you through, you deserve to make me pay.”

  I laugh. “You sure about this, Raul?” extending the vowels in the way I know he hates.

  “Why you still talking?” he jests.

  With that, still at the other end of the bed, I turn away from him and unbutton my blouse, looking seductively over my shoulder as I free each button.

  Then, I unzip my shorts, and with my back still turned, shimmy my hips so they slide over my ass and down my legs.

  Shrugging my shoulders so the blouse floats down my arms and back. With one hand I unclasp my bra and fling it over my shoulder, giggling when I see it has landed in his face.

  “You gonna turn around now?” he asks.

  “Stay there,” I tell him, as he sits up.

  When he’s rested back on the pillows, I bend forward to touch my toes, my panties riding into the crack of my ass. I run a hand up my calves, over the back of my knees and thighs, and curl a finger into the lace, pulling it out from between my cheeks.

  “Fuck, Kitty. You’re killing me here. Turn around.”

  “Not until you’ve stripped.”

  I suppress my giggles as I hear him frantically ripping at cotton and denim, the clanging of his belt-buckle when his jeans hit the floor. I sneak an upside-down look through the opening between my legs and hitch a breath when I catch sight of him stretched out in all his naked glory.

  “Ready?” I ask, with my tongue firmly in my cheek.

  “Uhuh.”

  Slowly, I straighten and twist around, coyly looking at him through heavily batted lashes. I twirl outstretched fingers around both of my nipples at once. His already lengthened cock, jolts up from his belly. His hands ball the sheets at his side.

  “Now, should I keep these on? Or not?” I ask, fingering the lace triangle at the top of my legs, pulling on the elastic before letting it snap back into place.

  His eyes roll and he blows out a frustrated breath. Then he launches himself on to his knees and with a move I can’t react quick enough to, grabs hold of me and pulls me onto the bed. My head hits the pillows and hair clouds onto my face.

  “You know I’ve got no patience when it comes to you, Kitty,” he growls, kneeling over me and ripping my panties off like they’re made from paper.

  I giggle, like a stupid teenager until a hot, wet tongue hits my clit. The giggle stops and I gasp. Hard. The emotional switch has my core tied in knots. And I know which feeling wins. Hands. Down.

  It’s the first time we’ve made love wi
th total openness in our hearts. Every penetration, tremble, and moan are expressed without doubt.

  This is a start, a fresh start, to our life together as a couple and a family. And although I don’t know if it will be here or somewhere else, it doesn’t matter. As long as we are together and go where our combined hearts take us, we’ll do okay.

  Hope is a priority for us now and who knows maybe we’ll have more children someday but for now we need to rediscover each other and nurture us.

  34

  Cate

  I clap until my palms sting at the sight of Hope and Rio mastering their dressage routine. Rio’s not a dressage pony, but when Hope saw it on TV, she wanted to learn. And, commendably, for two hours every single day for the last six months she’s practiced. And, when she’s not actually on the pony, she talks about it, or sits in front of her laptop and studies the greatest riders in the world.

  She hops off Rio, and I let her puppy, Raul, bound toward her. Despite his best efforts, he fails to dig beneath the wire mesh Isaac installed around the corral. He whimpers all the time she is away from him and it won’t be long before he’s leaping over the fence.

  Hope was insistent on naming the dog, Raul. I don’t know where she heard the name but she couldn’t be dissuaded from using it. I choose to believe it wasn’t anything she heard from our bedroom, although Isaac threatened to gag me if I don’t stop. Now there’s a challenge.

  “Will Papa come and watch,” she shouts over, letting the reins flop down the side of the pony as she tries to scoop up the puppy who I’ve placed into the corral.

  “Okay, Sweet Pea. I’ll go fetch him. But you need to catch up on your schooling today. Uncle Elliot…” I say as I walk through the gate, toward her.

  “Eduardo,” she corrects me.

  I huff a laugh. “Okay, Uncle Eduardo, says you’ve not sent him your latest essay.”

  She rolls her lips and snuggles her face into the soft fur of the dog, behind his floppy ears. Resurfacing to argue with me. “It’s the time difference.”

  “How so?”

  “I fell asleep before he could come online.” Her eyes open wide with the lie.

  “Eh, no, there is no time difference between here and San Diego.” I prod her playfully in between the ribs.

  She jerks away from me and giggles. “But there is a time difference with grandpa and grandma.”

  I shake my head at her logic. “Yes, but it’s because they’re in New England.” Thinking to myself how even that’s not relevant because they’re behind us time-wise. Anyway, I’m not even going to go there, because it’s Hope’s favorite pastime with me right now. Spinning me around in circles with an unfathomable argument and logic. It’s how she avoids bath time and any school work, unless it field studies.

  I’ve still to decide on an International School for her. But for now, I enjoy having her home every day.

  She puts the dog down and gives me a hug. “Papa,” she says as if to remind me of which errand I now need to go on for her.

  “Okay, Sweet Pea.” I kiss her button nose and adjust the helmet strap on her chin.

  One of the ranch hands chases the dog around the sand, so Hope can safely mount the horse, and I jog to the ranch to find Isaac.

  I’ve not seen him since breakfast. He went for his run, ate breakfast with us and then disappeared for a shower, while I went to the weekly market with his mother. She doesn’t have to go, but it’s one of her favorite outings, sniffing the fresh melons and squeezing the avocados. We always stop for a Paloma in a cozy bar on the edge of the market. The sourness of the grapefruit a pick-me-up which helps us scoot around the rest of the stalls before the heat of the day builds.

  There’s always an armed guard following us. It’s something Isaac insists on. At first it was obtrusive, and I felt self-conscious, arguing it would only draw attention to us. But he said I’m very easy to kidnap, having proved it on two occasions himself.

  “Mamá, that smells delicious.” I reach over to pinch a stick of celery, from a pile of vegetables she’s making soup with, kissing her on the cheek on my way passed.

  “It’s my version of gazpacho. Very refreshing,” she says.

  It means it has heaps of chili in it. I’m still not used to the ferocity of the spice, unlike Isaac and Hope who lap it up.

  I skip through the covered part of the courtyard, crunching on the green celery and slow as I approach our bedroom door.

  With a hand on the wrought iron door handle, I pause, a buzzing sound from the other side of the wood making me halt.

  Is he shaving? I hope not, I’ve grown to like the abundance of chestnut curls he now has on his head and the beard which suits his gravelly voice.

  Then there’s a groan.

  Is it a sex toy?

  Enough already.

  I yank on the door handle and throw open the door, my brain taking a few seconds to catch up with what I’m seeing.

  Isaac is laid on the bed, his top off and a woman bent over him.

  She has one purple-gloved hand on his shoulder and the other holding a tattoo gun, buzzing color into the two outlined butterflies which flutter from the scripted namesake for our daughter.

  Underneath is a new name, raised from the skin in a show of red.

  Cate.

  I put my hand, clutching the celery, over my mouth.

  “Cate,” he says in between groans. “This was supposed to be a surprise.”

  “It is.”

  The tattoo artist steps to a side. “I’m done now, anyway.” She packs her implements into a plastic vanity case and sticks a dressing on to his shoulders.

  As she leaves the room, I leap on to his back. “I love you Isaac Winters.”

  “I love you too, Kitty. But for fuck’s sake will you move your elbow. You’re pressing right into the wound.”

  “I thought you liked it when I played rough. Do you know what I thought was going on when I heard buzzing from the other side of the door?” I laugh at the thought of it.

  “You’re crazy.” He kneels, launching me onto the bed and caging me with his body and arms.

  “No,” I say. “You’re the one who’s loco. Remember?”

  Other Books by Megan Hetherington:

  Wilder Bros Romance:

  Pump It Up

  Tee It Up

  Ramp It Up

  Paint It Up

  Standalones:

  Into The Light

  Bad Ink

  Novella:

  Love on an Island

  Angel Duet:

  Falling for his Angel

  Loving his Angel

  Author Profile

  I’m a wife and mom who loves losing myself in romantic fantasy. Writing is my passion and I do it listening music and drinking coffee (who am I kidding, more likely to be red wine). I also love to travel and places I've been often pop up in my books. When I've got a deadline to meet, I can usually be found gardening or watching historical romance films.

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  Sample Chapter - Into the Light

  Chapter One

  Rosa

  It flashes up at the top of my screen, hovers, then disappears from where it came.

  Such an innocent, insignificant missive.

  So much so, it could have been easy to ignore, or, if I was a little more naive, dismiss.

  But I didn’t and I’m not.

  I am slightly behind the curve when it comes to the workings of this new desktop and I’ve no idea what to click to bring the message back up. But actually, there’s no need. I know wha
t I saw and, if I close my eyes, it’s imprinted on the back of my eyelids in indelible ink.

  The blood drains from my head to my toes, leaving an unpleasant tingling over my skin. And my stomach clenches, threatening to lurch onto the twenty-seven-inch screen before me. Simultaneously, I’m burning up and freezing cold.

  While I know these things are happening to me, they are merely distractions; physical wrenches to deviate from the singular emotion which is overwhelming and clear. Loss. The very definition of that word can be applied in every sense to the shell I am now inhabiting.

  Then there’s the reply.

  A laugh erupts from my throat. Hah. Just one, not a belly aching, rolling off the chair, tear inducing laugh. No, just one, or perhaps even half of one. That’s what the reply I see has me doing. Expending half a laugh.

  Further analysis will explain this as hysteria; acknowledgement of stupidity or unworthy faith. Not humor, not unless it’s in the form of some sick and twisted black comedy such as Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.

  I leave my lair, the one which pathetically took months of design to evoke the right balance of creative stimulants. The photo of Mont Blanc, the fresh flowers, and the view of the picture-perfect, quaint, English frosted-over garden. I abandon the steaming bean-to-cup coffee, its anticipated effect completely unwanted now, and crawl under the duvet. Pulling it over my head and curling into a fetal position.

  The insulation provided by the goose feather and down, does nothing to mask the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  “Honey?”

  I seethe and draw my knees in tighter.

  “Honey, where are you?”

  I cover my upward facing ear with a flat, heavy palm.

  The floor boards creak and then the mattress dips.

  “I thought you got up already?”

  With clenched my teeth, I screw shut my eyes.

  “I’m going to work now. I’ll be home late—I’ve got so much shit to get through today. Don’t wait up for me as I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

  The side of the bed sags, threatening to roll me into him and I tense when I feel a weight on my shoulder; an act fraught with meaning, and I’m relieved when the bed regains its shape.