by Racquel Reck
Bebe glances back and forth between us and bites her bottom lip. She’s hiding something. Grabbing the client call list, she brushes past me.
Oh no, she doesn’t. She’s not leaving me here with her brother when she knows perfectly well what I think of him. I grab her arm.
"Just have some clients to call." She jerks her arm free.
"Can’t they wait?" I wink, trying to give her the signal that I don’t want to be left alone with him.
"What’s the matter, Bay? I thought we could catch up." He leans against the counter and stares at an invisible crack in the marble. His old nickname for me is a play on baby, and Shay. I never liked it. He looks up with a half-hearted smile. The one I fell for when I was fifteen. I’m not fifteen anymore.
"I need to go over some things with Bebe." I grab her arm. "And I don’t have time–"
"We have time for that later." Bebe wrenches her arm free. She leans in and whispers, "Talk to him. Clear the air. You don’t have to be with him, but we need his clientele." She turns on her heels and heads through the beads.
Awkward. Okay, not so much that. My heart is shriveling like it’s a touch-me-not plant shying away from a human finger. I don’t want to face him, but Bebe’s right. We need him so we can keep his clientele to cover my overhead.
I spin and plaster on a fake smile. "Prison’s treated you well." I head toward my chair hoping he’ll go to his and not say a damn word until my client, who is about to be his client again, comes in.
Bending over I reach into the drawer to grab Sammy’s design, a skeleton riding a Harley out of flames. My muscles twitch and freeze. In the air behind me I can feel his presence as his shadow engulfs my work station.
"You haven’t changed a bit in three years." His voice is deep and rough.
No. I have. I’ve wised up.
"Still as determined and sexy as ever." He places a hand on my lower back.
My stomach rolls.
"I’m sorry, Bay. I’ve missed you."
Not falling for it. He hasn’t missed me; he’s missed the power he had over me. I stand, whirl on him and jab a finger in his chest. "You’re not sorry."
His brows shoot up.
Yeah, asshole. I might not have a dick, but I’ve grown a set of balls. "You’ve lied to me. Cheated on me. Left me and your son because you love heroin more. Don’t give me your pathetic excuses and false sorries. Save them for some naïve twit who might believe them. Maybe Paula."
His jaw drops. It closes and a muscle ticks in it. His fists clench and for once I don’t flinch. Anger blazes behind his eyes. Good, I want him angry. My heart beats faster, threatening to explode from my chest. Yes, I have a plan. Not much of a plan, but it is one. If he flips out, I'll have reason to call the cops. I could have him arrested for domestic violence, then he'll violate his parole. I have the power this time. Not him.
Taking a deep breath, he unclenches his fist. As he lets it out, the anger behind his eyes goes with it. "I’ve hurt you more times than ‘sorry’ can make up for."
I roll my eyes and resist the urge to gag.
He steps back, away from my personal space. He’s retreating?
His hands go up into the air. "You don’t deserve what I put you through. I’m the scum of the earth. I know it. There’s nothing I can do or say to take back the horrible things I did to you."
No.
No!
NO!
He’s not supposed to be saying this crap. It’s crap. I keep telling myself. You will not fall for his tricks. Only, he’s never admitted he was wrong before. I was always to blame.
"Three years in the pen changed me. I’m not who I was before I was locked up. I found God." He runs a hand through his blond shaggy hair. "I know you won’t take me back, and... I understand why. I just want to be there for you and Ben. I want to know my son and maybe we can be friends."
His blue eyes scream sincerity. Like they did before he got hooked on drugs, before he treated me like shit. In that brief year and a half window where our relationship was normal. I see the nineteen year old who stole my heart. My heart flips. No! It’s a trick. I shake my head. Prison doesn’t make people turn over their old ways. If it did, the prisons would be less crowded.
"I don’t know what game–"
"It’s not a game." He sits on my chair. "Didn’t you read my letters?"
"What someone says behind bars and what they actually do when they leave those bars, are two very different things, Gary. We’ve been down that pot-holed road before and frankly, I’m tired of being jerked around."
"That was when I only served three months here and there." He lets out a frustrated sigh. "I did three years, Bay. A lot can change in three years. Did you even read the first letter?"
I shake my head and glance at the clock. Ten minutes until Sammy gets here. I start preparing my station, filling the ink caps. "I shredded every letter you sent." I hope that hits him hard. I hope it rips his heart out. It won’t because he doesn’t have one. Not anymore. I look up.
His eyes seem a little misty, but he won’t let himself cry. I’ve never seen him cry. “So we’re done? You’ll throw fifteen years away because I got locked up?”
He wants me to remember the good times. Those memories carried me through the bad. But thirteen and a half years of bad outweighs the year and a half of good. It’s the bad ones I cling to now. The ones that give me the strength to kick his ass to the curb.
He clears his throat. "I wish you would’ve read them. Then maybe you wouldn’t feel this way. I sent one every day even though I never got one in return. You and Ben were all I could think about while I was locked up. All the horrible things I did to you ate at me. They still eat at me."
"You’re forgiven." I say this because I want him to shut up about it. I can feel tears blooming in my eyes, and I don’t want to be a blubbering mess when Sammy arrives. "But I’m not your friend, and right now I’m not even your baby’s mama. I’m your boss. Go get your station ready in case Sammy decides you’re better at doing the tattoo than I am." I hand him the paper.
He takes the picture and his eyebrows pinch. Then, as if he suddenly gets my meaning, he glares at me. Now that’s the Gary I know. "I am Ben’s father, and I plan on seeing him. He’s my flesh and blood."
Heat floods my veins and I get up in his face. Fury unleashes from somewhere inside me, somewhere where my maternal instinct is held. I want to show him my new skills. I want to beat the crap out of him like he did to me for so many years. I want to make him my bitch then toss his ass to the curb. But that would make me just like him. So I settle for a shout. "Over. My. Fucking. Dead. Body!"
His hands go up in defense. I don’t flinch and he doesn’t lay a hand on me. "Please, Bay. We could do supervised visits, if that will make you feel better." A tear trickles down his right cheek. "He’s my son and I want to know him. I’m sober. I’ll prove it. Time will. But please don’t take any more time from me. Prison took enough."
He never cries. Even though it’s only a tear, it dissolves my rage. Despite all the times he’s failed me, I want what he says to be true. I want that teardrop to be sincere. But is this false hope, or does he truly mean what he says? Can I put my son through knowing his father then being disappointed in what he sees later? Can I watch my little boy’s heart break and be there to pick up the pieces if this is all a selfish lie? No. I can’t risk my son. Before I can tell him to save the tears, the bell rings.
Sammy walks in and stops in his tracks. "Gary?"
Gary wipes the tear from his eye and looks over his shoulder. "Sammy, how the hell have you been?" He goes over and gives him a handshake, hug, and pat on the back.
Sammy stands back and eyes him. "Put on a little weight there, bud. The pen been good to you?"
Gary nods. "Yeah, it’s been an eye-opening experience." He looks back at me and gives me a weak smile. "Surprised to see how much has changed around here. Guess my gir–uh, Shay, has done a good job at keeping it going."
; That’s a change. He’s never complimented any of my hard work before. But again, it’s a trick.
"Yeah, and she even rivals your talent." Sammy sheds his leather jacket and shirt to show Gary the piece I’ve been working on. He’s going to ask Gary to finish it. I know it.
The bell rings again.
All our heads snap in the direction of the door.
Coming in as if he’s on a mission.
Morgan.
Thirteen
Morgan
All eyes are on me—the two dudes in her shop giving me a once over, and Shay's eyes are wide. Fuck, this was a bad idea. She’s been avoiding me for weeks, but we need to talk and I’m tired of being brushed off. She has customers and from the looks of it, Bebe and Tryst aren’t here. I should leave and get her at another time. No, this is my only opportunity.
"You’re busy. But we need–"
"Oh, Morgan." She slaps her forehead. "I totally forgot about our appointment today."
Huh? Appointment?
She nods over to her chair and winks. Her stance is stiff and she lets out a nervous laugh.
What the hell? Now she’s all gung-ho about talking to me?
The guy with shaggy blond hair and ripped up jeans places an arm around her shoulders. She allows it? What the fuck? I thought she was single. She couldn’t have gone out and got herself a boyfriend in the short time she’s been avoiding me, could she?
She flinches, then moves out from under his arm and shoots him a glare.
Okay, so maybe she didn’t. Then why in the hell does old dude over there think he can put his arm around her? My fists clench with the need to pound douche bag’s face in. She’s not yours. Even though I’m thinking this, my body still wants to go a round with the cocksucker who thinks it’s okay to touch her.
Douche bag’s frown turns into a smirk, like he knows something I don’t.
The black guy looks back and forth between all three of us. "Check it," he says. "You double-booked. No biggie. I haven’t seen my homeboy for a bit. He can do the tatt."
So douche bag’s a tattoo artist? She only moved away because I came by. Whatever. I’m not here to knock down that brick wall she put up between us. I’m here to find out if she’s pregnant.
Shay takes her eyes off me and looks at the fucker. "So you’re going to ink him?"
He smiles wide at her; his blue eyes are fucking sparkling. "Not stepping on your toes. Just helping out." He grins at her and she plays with the hem on her red and black T-shirt, then smiles and nods at him.
There is definitely something going on between them. Not why you’re here. So she went out and got a boyfriend. So she might be sleeping with him. So what? My thoughts are deceiving me. I want to beat the blue out of asshole’s eyes. Adrenalin knocks around my chest. All my muscles are tight, and if he touches her one more time, I’ll break his fucking hands so he can’t do it again. Whoa. Slow down killer—she’s not yours.
Asshole pats the black guy’s back. "Come on, Sammy. Let’s see what I can do about that tatt." He turns his back on us as he and Sammy head to a chair in the far right corner of her shop.
I glare at his back, taking deep breaths to calm the anger rolling around inside me. I need a blunt, because this shit just killed my high.
"Morgan." Shay’s voice cracks a little. Her eyes are wild like a rabbit caught in a trap and ready to dart the first time an opportunity arises. She nods in the direction of her chair, then heads over to it.
I follow close behind, getting a whiff of her sweet orange-blossom perfume. It engulfs me and washes away my anger. She’s sweet, sexy and amazing in bed, and I don’t want to make a jerk out of myself by putting Asshole in the hospital. Not mine. I’m not jealous. Not mine. The mantra only helps a little. It calms my temper, but it still simmers under the edge of my control.
Taking off my shirt, I flop down in her chair so she can work on the tattoo she outlined. "We have to talk."
She stops setting up her gun and glances at the asshole in the corner. Shaking her head, she looks back at me and whispers, "No, we don’t. We had one night. That’s all it was."
Her words are sharper than a razor, cutting worse than they should. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s right. It was just one night. Nothing to get upset over. Well, except the condom breaking. She has to know.
The douche bag in the corner doesn’t need to hear this convo, so I whisper, "The condom broke."
She stops mid-motion, fitting the needle onto her gun. Her face pales. "I don’t—"
"How are you feeling? Have you had your period yet?"
"That’s none of your business." She takes out my band’s logo and sets it up on a small easel on her desk.
"When I might’ve gotten a girl pregnant, it becomes my business." Watching her, I look for any signs that she is about to lie to me. She went through all the trouble to avoid me. I’m not an idiot; she doesn’t want anything to do with me. But I have a right to that baby she might be carrying, and I’d never abandon a child like my parents abandoned me.
She takes a deep breath and dips her needles into the ink. "I’m not pregnant. If I were, my boobs would be sore; I’d be tired and have the uncontrollable urge to pee. I’ve been pregnant before, I know the signs."
Not buying it because she still hasn’t answered my question. "And your period?"
She sprays my pec with some solution and wipes it, then clicks on the machine. The hum of her gun spreads out through the space in her shop as she dips the needles into the ink. Shaking her head she looks down at the tatt and begins coloring in the flames with orange ink.
The burn of a thousand bee stings radiates through my right pec and I grit my teeth. "So you’ve had it then?"
She wipes the blood away and without looking up she says, "It’s two weeks late."
Shit. "Shay–"
"But my cycles are irregular." Out of the corner of her eye, she glances up at me. "They’ve been that way for eight years. It means nothing."
"Fine, but I still think you should take a pregnancy test." She might know, but I need solid proof. And I have no idea where this is coming from, or why I’m pushing the issue. Her lack of concern is odd. Don’t women normally flip out when they think there is a chance they might be pregnant? And why isn’t she going crazy about it breaking? Isn’t she worried about STDs? "And don’t worry. I got tested. I’m clean."
"Clean?" She stops what she’s doing and I can see the gears working in her head. Her face loses its color again. "Shit, I was so caught up—I completely forgot—" she shakes her head. "I could have told you though, Gary is the only one I’ve slept with other than you, and I got tested right before he went to jail." She’s talking to fast I almost can’t keep up. She lets out a nervous laugh. "You know. You heard my convo with Tryst and Bebe behind Harper’s. He cheated on me with Paula and I’m sure she wasn’t the only one. Add heroin to that picture and, yeah, I always got tested. And I–"
"Slow down." Reaching out, I brush her arm lightly with my fingers. The constant yammering she’s doing is because she’s nervous. I do pay attention when she talks, but how can I understand everything when she’s talking that fast? "Breathe."
She inhales then blushes. "Sorry, I talk way too much."
I chuckle. "I’d say not enough. I mean. We need to talk this through. You need to take a pregnancy test. I need to know for sure 100 percent, if you are carrying my baby."
She lifts her gun and bites her lip, then glances over at the dude in the corner. He’s laughing with Sammy while working on his tatt.
"Why do you keep looking at him?"
She shakes her head, then goes back to inking my skin. "It’s nothing."
"Are you with him?"
Lifting the gun again, she freezes. "No. He’s nobody." After taking a breath, she goes back to her work.
I know she’s lying. She’s hiding something. I have no right to push the issue. There are so many things we need to discuss, but now isn’t the time to bring all that crap
out. So we fall into an awkward silence which makes the time pass at a miserably slow pace.
The bell rings and I glance at the door.
Ben comes running in with Tryst behind him. The kid spots me. He tosses his backpack on the bench and runs over to us.
"Morgan!" He stops just before he hits the chair. "I’ve been waiting on you to finish my drawing. I’ll go get my stuff."
I smile wide. Can’t help it, I missed the little dude. He’s a cool kid and reminds me so much of me at that age. Only his talent is art instead of music, and he doesn’t have a mother who’s forcing it.
"Ben." Douche bag in the corner stops working on Sammy and is headed in our direction.
He knows him? Damn, Shay must be hung up on this asshole. What kind of relationship does he have with Ben? Territorial instincts arise in me. The guy is bad news. And that’s not coming from my emotions toward Shay and Ben. I’ve seen douche bags like him before. The guy was an evil streak. The way he’s looking at Ben is the same look my mom gave me when she was trying to front on being nice. Warning bells ding in my head. I glance at Ben.
As Ben stares at him, his brows are narrow. He looks at Shay. "Mom, why is he here?"
Shay wipes my pec. She sets down her gun, and with a shaky hand, she grabs the ointment. "He–"
"I missed you, little guy." He ruffles Ben's curly black hair. "Didn’t you miss me?"
Ben stiffens. "Kinda hard to miss a dad who’s never around."
Douche bag's nostrils flare. His eyes widen and a flash of anger passes over them. Then, like he’s trained his temper, they soften. "I had some things to take care of. But I’m back now, and I’m going to make it up to you."
Ben looks at the floor, then to Shay, and over to Tryst.
Tryst has his arms crossed over his chest, his murderous gaze locked solely on asshole. The cold stare he always gives me when I fuck up can’t even compare to this one. He looks like he wants to bend the guy's spine in half. And maybe suck the marrow from his bones.
