After talking for hours, and hanging out with him at the bar after the booths closed down for the day, I realized one upsetting yet oddly comforting fact about Jonas; there was absolutely no spark between us. No chemistry. No sexual tension. Just friendship. It was a damn shame really because I can openly admit, I would have loved a night spent naked, tangled up with Jonas in between his sheets. If there had been the slightest connection between us, I would have jumped him without giving it a second thought. There was no harm in a little no strings sex between consenting adults after all.
But alas, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Sadly, no matter how gorgeous Jonas is, or the fact that I am most definitely a red-blooded woman, in our case we were only ever destined to be friends. Not that I was upset at the prospect of having another friend, because God knows we could all use more of them, I was a little disappointed I couldn’t find it in me to be attracted to him.
We exchanged numbers, but honestly, I never expected to hear from him again. And I was okay with that. I figured he was simply being polite when he handed me a card with his personal cell info on it, but obviously, I was wrong. Because years later, Jonas used the slip of paper I’d scribbled my phone number on and changed my life.
Before that, though, I returned to work at, ‘Canvas’, the tattoo studio in West Hollywood where I’d been working for the last ten years. Canvas had actually been where I had begun my apprenticeship at the age of twenty-three, which lasted for two grueling years before I became fully qualified. The owner, Marc, said he appreciated my artist ability and offered me a full-time position as one of his lead artists. A job I’d remained in for the last eight years.
However, shockingly, Jonas did call end up calling five weeks ago. It was completely out of the blue, especially considering I hadn’t heard from him for months, but a pleasant surprise nevertheless. During the ten-minute conversation we had, he told me he was in desperate need of a tattoo artist with my experience and quality of work since his last female artist had moved on to greener pastures.
Apparently, his tattooist had moved to, Blackwater, a couple of hours drive from where his shop was located, shacked up with another tattooist and biker to boot, and wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. I couldn’t fault the woman for her choice, even though I had never met her. If I found a sexy, biker covered in ink, I’d probably make the same one. Being that his was the only shop in the area, it wasn’t as if Jonas could borrow an artist from another studio, albeit temporarily either. An option I suggested but was shot down equally as quickly as the words left my mouth.
When Jonas was trying to convince me to take the job, he gave me the phone number for a rental that had just miraculously become available in a small, but well-kept apartment building a five-minute drive from his shop.
On top of that, he offered to pay to have my belongings shipped to, Furnace, money for gas and hotels on the drive out, promised I’d have a base of steady clientele within a week of working there. It was all very appealing, but frightening at the same time. I’d been where I was for so long, I was comfortable there. I felt safe. However, the lure of a new challenge was tempting. Too tempting. Because incentives aside, I was ready for a change, one I made before I could overanalyze it.
Ten years at the same shop had become mind-numbingly boring, and although I love the people I work with, I outgrew Canvas long before I decided to leave. Marc, my boss, hadn’t made me believe I was indebted to him for training me, but that didn’t change the fact that I did indeed feel somewhat beholden to him. Hence, why I stayed so long.
That said, I still love tattooing. My clients give me ample opportunity to put my creativity to good use, but the underlying reasons for the pieces they choose border on the ridiculous these days. In L.A., it’s almost as if people are getting them just for the sake of it. Everyone was doing it, so? That isn’t the sort of clientele I want. I want to ink people who are as passionate about my craft as I am.
Part of the reason I’m so passionate is because my life was planned out for me by my parents before I could walk. I didn’t get to make choices for myself, and that’s not something I want experience ever again.
That was the motivating factor for taking Jonas up on his job offer of a job. It would give me the chance I needed break out of the cycle I had unwittingly thrust myself back into.
“You sure you wanna do this, Babe? I know I’m the one who’s been pushing for it, but I need to know you aren’t just agreeing because I all but begged you,” Jonas asked during our last conversation.
I was putting the final touches on the packing I’d been slaving over for the past week, and while I loved him for being worried about me, I couldn’t help but be a little aggravated he was asking me this now.
“Seriously? Are you having second thoughts, big man? Changed your mind already?” I snap sarcastically. “If you are, you need to say so now, because I’m tapping the last box shut as we speak.”
Grunting he replies,
“I haven’t changed my mind, Beth. Not even close. I need you here. Since Adelyn’s been gone, I can’t seem to get a handle on the amount of work I’ve got backing up. It’ll be good to have you here to take some of the pressure off, especially since a few of the Vengeance boys are getting their full patch soon. Work always picks up then. What with them coming in for their ink and all.”
Jonas had told me about his dealings with, Vengeance MC not long after we’d first met. Apparently, they were a motorcycle club who came to Jonas to get all their work done. They had been after Jonas to join them for years before he signed up with the Marines, but Jonas had declined the opportunity to prospect with them, choosing a different band of brothers instead. Jonas claims that he doesn’t regret his choice, he wouldn’t change it for the world. But I can hear the sadness in his voice when he recalls the group of men who had been like family to him.
Part of me believes, given a hard enough push, that he would throw his hat in the ring with, Vengeance. I know enough about MC’s to know that they are basically a brotherhood. Men who bond through a common set of ideals, different to that of civilians like you and me, but a value system nevertheless. Jonas needed something like that. A group of men who would look out for him the way he looked out for everyone else. I hadn’t had a lot of dealings with motorcycle clubs over the years, regardless of the fact that SoCal is riddled with them, but when I had, I’d been pleasantly surprised.
Focusing on what Jonas said instead of the wayward direction my thoughts had taken, I tape the massive box shut with a sigh.
“Well, it’s good I leave tomorrow then, isn’t it?”
“Sure is, Babe. I’ve got appointments booked for you starting the day after you arrive. I know it doesn’t give you much time to settle in, but your shit won’t be here for a few days anyway, so I figured what the hell. You’ll meet some people, get the word out there that I’ve got help again, it’ll be all good.” I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince, him or me.
“Okay, if that’s all I’m going to go try get some sleep before I have to head out in the morning,” I say on a yawn. “I haven’t stopped for days, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m looking forward to the drive just get the chance to unwind.”
“I wish you weren’t driving all that way by yourself, Babe. I could’ve had your car brought out later, you know?”
It’s true he did offer to have my car transported along with the rest of my stuff, but I couldn’t imagine being without it for a day, much less a few weeks.
“I’ll be okay. It isn’t the first time I’ve made a road trip like this. And, I’m a grown woman, Jay, I know how to take care of myself.”
“Got it,” he grunts. “Get some sleep, Beth. You’re gonna need it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
~ Beth ~
Road trip rule number one; Never ask, are we there yet?
- Life Hacks 101
Driving the long stretch of road between Richfield, Utah, and who knows where I’m stopping next, gives me
a lot of time to think about how I got here and where I want to go next. And I mean that in the figurative sense, not a literal one.
Born and raised in, Knoxville Tennessee, my parents were everything you’d imagine wealthy, self-centered, carbon copies of their affluent parents to be. My Mother, Philippa, was a true Southern Belle. Statuesque, perfectly coiffed hair, manicured nails, etiquette classes, good breeding and all class. She married well, lunched well, and catered dinner parties well. Anything else, like for example; raising her own daughter? That was left to the hired help. Who would want a little thing like a child to get in the way of tennis at the club or Martini Monday after all?
My Father, Donald, wasn’t much better. In fact, he was probably worse. He was always working or golfing with his colleagues from the law firm he was the named partner and owner of. With the exception of dinner parties my mother organized and mandated he attend, I never saw him.
If it was possible, he had less desire to raise a child than my mother did. Something that was made clear when, at the age of ten, he hadn’t been home for a single birthday of mine since I was four. I doubted he even knew when my birthday was.
I’d always been curious why my parents had a child in the first place if they were so opposed to actually acknowledging she existed. But my curiosity was quickly assuaged when my Grandmother, on my Father’s side, informed me that it was because it had been expected of them. You’re bred well. You’re groomed impeccably, socially and physically. You marry into money. You breed well. Cycle complete. Knowing that, how clinical my conception was, didn’t make things better. It didn’t do anything to ebb the acute pain that came from knowing for sure that I would never have anyone who actually cared for me.
I’m an only child, so I didn’t have any siblings to play with. My ‘circle of friends’ was made up of kids I was forced to socialize with who belonged to the women my Mother drowned her sorrows with every day at two. These children were vetted by my parents before I was allowed to associate with them because God forbid they weren’t of proper breeding and class.
This is why I despise pretentious, uptight assholes now. It also plays a major part in why I rebelled from, what my parents referred to as, my station in life. When you’re mandated to be around people like that night and day, year after year, one of two things happens. One; you begin to adapt, becoming like the people you once loathed. Or two, you recognize them for what they truly are, vapid.
Most of the girls in the friendship circles I was forced into were catty, spiteful, heinous bitches. And the boys, well, they were worse. On the rare occasion I dated, I’d had to endure what can only be referred to as some of the most boring dates known to womankind. The extent of the conversation they were capable of was centered on how wonderful they were, which Ivy League schools they were applying for, and who they knew. High society is all about name dropping.
If I could have gnawed my arm off to escape those dates, I would have. It was as if my Mother set me up with pompous, douchebags on purpose. At the time, I was sure my Mother didn’t know they were like that. How could she? But in hindsight, I realize that she wouldn’t have cared either way. As long as they were fulfilling their obligations as elitists, self-important assholes they were, my Mother probably would have sold her only daughter into slavery if she thought it would further the family name.
Forget the fact that most of the boys tried to grope me before we made it to dinner or a movie, let alone they were ugly as sin inside and out because none of that mattered. Appearances and good pairings were the only things that factored into the decision about who I would eventually marry. Well, fuck that. Why do you think I got the hell out of dodge?
One date, in particular, stood out in my memory. It went on record as the worst date in the history of dates ever. And just happened to be one my Mother organized. There was more to it than that, but for a long time afterward I refused to acknowledge how much more there really was. I don’t think I was trying to repress what had happened. I wanted to forget it that’s all. I wanted to erase it from my memory and pretend it hadn’t.
My opinion on whether or not I wanted to go out with Oliver wasn’t considered. But let’s just say – if I would have been asked, my response would be – I’d prefer to endure a trip to the Sahara with no water, food, or hope of rescue, and my corpse picked over by carnivorous animals before being forced to date an asshole like, Oliver Markham.
Simply put, Oliver is a world-class douche canoe. It really is a shame he can’t sail away down the longest river, floating out into the ocean to be eaten by a herd of passing Orca. Violent, maybe, but nevertheless true. He is a smarmy, self-involved prick, which I was used to, but Oliver took that title to a whole new level and owned it.
It was a Friday night when Oliver picked me up in his brand new Jaguar his Mommy and Daddy bought him. He planned to take me to Glades Country Club, a place I couldn’t stand. It was ostentatious and filled pretentious men and women who believed they were above the ordinary citizens who served them and cleared their plates. I had worked there as a lifeguard for all of one summer before I was told flatly by my parents it wasn’t a respectable job for a girl like me.
I would have preferred to go and grab a burger or pizza like the other teenagers our age did, but Oliver wouldn’t hear of it. He wouldn’t entertain going somewhere as common as, Larry’s Pizza Parlor on Grand. All of the seniors who attended the public high schools on this side of, Knoxville went there on Friday nights after their football games, and I for once wanted to be part of something like that. Laughing, joking, sodas and slices, but it wasn’t to be. The country club it was.
In retrospect, the date didn’t start off as badly as it could have. Oliver complimented me in front of my Mother telling me I looked fantastic, opened the car door for me, and made a half-hearted attempt at small talk on the drive to the country club, but those were the highlights. Everything went drastically downhill from there.
It wasn’t even Oliver trying to educate me on proper posture, which silver went with what course, or that it’s considered the man’s duty to order for his date that made the date an epic failure. Although, none of that helped.
The fact that spelling, b-o-r-i-n-g out in my head was more entertaining than his company made for lighthearted relief albeit he wasn’t aware that was how I was passing the night with him. Not even Oliver’s incessant chatter about how talented my Father is, how inspiring was all that bad. I mean, I didn’t really give a shit about his opinion of my Father, and if Oliver thought it would get him into Donald’s good graces brown nosing him when he couldn’t lap up all the attention, then he had another thing coming.
“You know, Bethany,” God, I hate it when people call me by my full name. I don’t say anything, though because what would be the point. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re planning on applying to Harvard Law to continue your family’s tradition.”
Say what? I have no idea where he’s getting his information from, but I have no intention, none whatsoever, to go to Harvard or law school at all. If, and that’s a big if, I decided to go to college I will be going to study art.
“Ah, who told you those were my plans, Oliver?” I ask knowing what his answer will be.
“I believe it was your, Mother who told mine, who later communicated it to me. Why are you asking? Does it honestly matter how I found out?”
Rolling my eyes, a very unladylike gesture, I reply,
“Because that’s not going to happen, that’s why. I haven’t even looked at a college application, let alone given where I would go any thought.”
“Why would your Mother say that if it wasn’t true? Surely you know it would be a good career path for you. Your Father has a lot of connections, your Uncle’s, Grandfather, and cousin too,” he states, scratching the back of his neck looking confused and annoyed.
Placing both of my hands flat on the table, I sigh heavily.
“Look, can we talk about something else? This isn’t a topic I feel comfortable ta
lking about seeing as I haven’t made any decisions about my future yet.”
An irrational flash of anger crossed, Oliver’s face at my words, and albeit he tried to hide it before I noticed, he wasn’t successful.
“Why not?” he demands. “You should have already made those decisions, Bethany. We graduate high school in less than a week, and anyone who wants to make something of themselves has already applied, and in most cases gained early entry to the college of their choice. Do you plan on sitting around like a pampered princess for the rest of your life? Because without a proper education, that’s what you’re going to be doing.”
I’m not sure where this guy gets off saying shit like that, but I’m glad we’ve already eaten because this date is over.
“Thanks for the advice, Oliver. I appreciate it, but I’d like you to take me home now, please.”
Throwing his napkin on the table, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, leaving some bills on the table, but not enough for a decent tip. Oliver doesn’t wait to see if I’m following him as he strides angrily from the dining room. Something that has me smiling, because I’m not sure if he knows it or not, but everyone is staring at his retreating form. Not very dignified if you ask me.
Vengeance MC Box Set - Volume 1: Call Me...Vengeance ~ Fury ~ Jonas Page 5
