by Olivia Chase
It feels so fucking good, so fucking right. And despite knowing that she and I could never work, despite knowing that this was supposed to be just sex, I can’t help but savor the feel of her as I drive into the night.
“Cheers,” Chris says as he raises his beer.
I clink mine against his, and we both take a deep swig. We’re in Outlaws, of all places. I don’t fucking want to go to Fugitives, and the only other decent bar around is Foley’s Sports Bar, which is filled with pretentious ass-fuckers. So here I am, in the bar that my cousins own, drinking their beer and trying not to think.
It’s been two weeks now since I started seeing Kendra, or whatever the hell we’re doing, and she’s eating up all of my fucking thoughts. It’s getting out of control. What was supposed to be simple sex has gotten complicated.
We’ve started sharing things with each other. Emotional things. Intense things. Secrets that no one else knows about us. This isn’t me. I’m not the dating kind of man. I like fucking ‘em and leaving ‘em, no strings, just fun and lust. Why can’t I seem to do that with her?
Because she feels different to me.
Because she deserves more than that.
And as stupid as it is, part of me wants to be the guy who is good enough for that. Good enough to be more for her.
I’m a moron.
“What the fuck is with you?” Chris asks bluntly. He tilts his head, his thin face pinched as he studies me. “You’re not yourself. I can’t figure it out.”
“I’m fine,” I answer automatically.
“Horse shit.”
I laugh and nod. “You’re right. I’m just not ready to talk about it.”
“It being a girl,” he muses with a smirk. “You look lovesick, dude.”
“I do not.” I reach over and slug him in the shoulder, which causes him to grimace and rub the wound.
“God forbid you’re human like the rest of us,” he says, shooting me a glare. “Axel, there’s nothing wrong with it. You don’t want to end up like—” He stops, looks away from me.
“Like what?” I say in a deadly calm voice. I finish my fifth beer and let the delicious buzz slide through me. Fuck it. I needed to get wasted.
“Like your father,” he says evenly.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I say. It’s a kneejerk reaction, a stupid comment, because deep down I know exactly what he means. At the end of the day, Butch only cares about himself. He views the people around him as tools to get what he wants. Nothing more.
“You’re right. Clearly I don’t have a clue,” Chris replies sarcastically, takes a drink and looks around the room, ending the conversation.
We sit in stilted silence.
I spot my cousin Smith, working the tables, and wave him over. “Another beer, por favor.”
He frowns. “You sure you need another?”
Is he fucking with me? Would he ask anyone else in this motherfucking bar if they needed another? No. He’s just busting my balls because I’m a relative, one he doesn’t particularly like. Bullshit. “I might not have as much bar experience as you, but I know that’s not the way to make money for your business.”
Smith rolls his eyes and crosses his brawny arms over his massive chest. “Just trying to talk, cousin. You have responsibilities. Getting wasted in here isn’t the best way to spend your time.”
“Fuck you,” I breathe, standing up. “You don’t know me. You just have a bunch of assumptions. You’re not my fucking father.”
“No, you’re right,” Smith muses. “He’s sitting in jail because he tried to fucking kill me. So thank fuck I’m not. He’s a horrible human being, not someone you should be modeling your life after. Grow up, Axel.”
I bristle and step toward him, shoving him in the chest. “Fuck you, Smith. You don’t know shit about me.”
“Now it’s time to go, before I toss you out on your ass,” he warns me.
But I’m not having it. I’m full of unresolved anger—about Butch, my brothers, the bar, even Kendra. Everything is boiling in my gut, along with the beer. “If I’m family, you shouldn’t be kicking me out then, should you. Shitty way to treat someone you’re related to.”
Smith’s two brothers, Jax and Asher, come up behind him. I can see my brother Jamison standing near the bar, eyeing me with narrowed eyes. Fuck them all. I’m the outsider, and I’m constantly reminded of that.
“I’m not leaving,” I declare. “I want another beer.”
“Axel,” Chris says with a groan. He stands with me. “Let’s just go.”
“No.” Belligerence sweeps through me. I’m tired of everyone telling me what to do. It’s constant, being ordered around by others who think they know better. But they don’t give two fucks about me.
Suddenly I’m swooped up and almost dragged out the doors of Outlaws. Smith’s brothers push me out and leave me sitting on the curb, dusting off my knees.
“I was done anyway,” I toss back at them with derision as they look at me and then close the bar doors behind them.
I sit there for a moment, anger swirling in my gut. All these emotions I’ve been feeling for a long time now…they’re just in me, unresolved, nowhere to go. Part of me wants to call Kendra, but I don’t want to drag her into my crap. To show her the poison deep in my soul that won’t go away.
I see the doors to Fugitives open across the street and spot Hale standing out in the parking lot, watching. Fuck him. Pretentious bastard. It sounds crazy, but part of me misses working there with him. At least I still felt like part of the family. Now I know I’m not. I’m just here. Floating.
“You’re a jackass and a traitor to the family,” I bellow. “I might be only half a Beckett, but I’m twice as loyal as you are to the name.”
I don’t know why I say that. I want to provoke a fight with him. I want him to come over and hit me, so I can hit him back. Work this aggression out somehow. My head is spinning, and I am little more than my blind rage at the moment.
It’s a dumb idea to provoke Hale, some part of my brain cautions. He trained as a boxer. But maybe I just need a good fight to get this shit out of me. Hale, however, doesn’t agree. He shakes his head, turns, and retreats back into Fugitives.
Dismissed. Again.
I’m shaking with my frustration, wanting to charge in there and scream at him. But something in me recognizes this would be stupid. What good will it do, after all? It won’t change anything. Just make me look stupid.
I need to go home. Sleep this off. I’m gonna be fucking busted tomorrow as it is; I can already tell that.
Chris comes out the door. He stops and sits down beside me on the curb. “You okay?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not. Everything is fucked up.” I try to keep the words casual, but I can’t help the emotion leaking into them, despite my efforts to sound cool. I shouldn’t care about the rest of the Becketts. I shouldn’t, but some fucking stupid, childish part of me does, even though I don’t want it to.
“Let me take you home,” he says, clapping me on the back. “Come on, bro.”
My head is screaming at me the next morning. I’m cotton-mouthed and miserable, and no amount of Tylenol will take away how stupid I was last night.
Going in Outlaws and challenging Smith? God, I’m a fucking idiot. I’m lucky that Jax and Asher didn’t beat the shit out of me. I was too wasted to defend myself well if they had. And I would have deserved it. Coming in there and being a dick. They didn’t do anything wrong; I’m just abrasive and raw.
My head is throbbing as I head to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I feel marginally less like shit when I emerge and dry off, dress. Head into the kitchen to wrangle up coffee and something resembling breakfast. Fuck, I need to go shopping. The fridge looks like a total bachelor’s pad—beer, olives, a few other small things here and there. Nothing that really amounts to a meal.
I should try sweating this off. Sometimes that helps with hangovers. I make eggs with cheese, force them do
wn, then go into the basement and exercise on the equipment I moved into there. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat soon enough, and my hangover starts to fade.
A few minutes after I get out of the shower, my phone is buzzing. A text from Kendra.
Hey, how’s your day? Have fun with Chris last night?
Not really. How much do I confide in her? Do I tell her what happened? Maybe she should know what a fuckup I am. That might scare her off, keep her at arm’s length. Then I can stop thinking about her as more than just a fuck buddy. Shitty, I write. My frustrations about my family boiled over. Got my dumb ass tossed from Outlaws last night.
There. Let’s see what she says to that.
I tell myself I’m not holding my breath as I wait for a response. When I see the three dots indicating she’s typing, my chest gets tight.
I’m sorry, she writes. It’s hard to find your place when you don’t feel welcome. I never go to my mom’s anymore because she always makes me feel unwanted when I do. Not to mention her new husband doesn’t like me. I hate going over there. Haven’t seen her since my graduation.
The fact that she doesn’t make me feel like shit, that she tries to connect with me about how I’m feeling, lightens something in my chest. I expected judgment, not empathy. It’s hard when you don’t feel welcome, I write back. Partly why I quit working at the restaurant. I can’t deal with the bullshit.
So what are you going to do now? she types. Have you thought about where you want to go from here?
I dunno. I pause. I…well, I used to do tattoo work, but I stopped because I got so fucking busy at Fugitives. Maybe I should pursue that again. Could be fun. After sending that, I realize how much I miss being creative, artistic. I miss the outlet of expression. Seeing my work on someone’s skin, knowing I gave them something beautiful to commemorate an important memory or event or whatever to them.
Oh? I’d love to see examples if you have any! she writes.
I dig through my photos to find some of my best work. There are a couple of sleeves I did previously that I send her, along with a massive leg piece of a dragon that winds down the calf and up the hip. Then I send a back piece I’m particularly proud of, a Japanese design that looks like art from the 1800s.
After a few moments, she writes, These are incredible! You seriously did them? I’m in total awe of your abilities. You should work at a tattoo parlor. Anyone with an ounce of sense would look at these and hire you on the spot!
I can’t help the warm flush working through me at her praise. It feels good to have my artistry recognized. I may not be good at a lot of things, but I have a strong eye and skill at ink. One thing I inherited from Butch. Something he was always proud of, that he’d brag about. “My boy Axel is a whiz with the tattoo gun. Get him to design a piece for you, and you won’t regret it. He’s a genius.”
There’s a tightness in my chest as I remember him saying that to people in the neighborhood, back before he got thrown in jail. Butch was never one for warm words, so those stuck with me for longer than they probably should have.
There is a tattoo parlor I’ve kept my eye on over the past year or so. It looks like a decent place; I’ve also considered getting some ink done there. Maybe she’s right—I should go over there, show ‘em what I’ve got. What could it hurt?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my portfolio, which I’ve been setting up for a couple of years now, hop on my bike, and head there.
It’s shocking how quickly I get hired on at the tattoo parlor. I showed them some of my work, and they asked me to sit down and do a test tattoo. I busted out a custom piece for a client wanting a memorial for her beloved dog, who died a couple of months ago.
I took my time, making sure I got the nuances of his face right, taking care with my shading, my line work. I know they’ll be looking at that shit, and I can’t fuck it up. I want to impress them.
But I’m an artist. I was born to do this work. That isn’t ego—it’s just that this is what I’m good at.
I’m hired on to start immediately. I can’t stop the glow of confidence in me when I text Kendra that I got the job. And her warm praise just makes me feel good about myself, about the direction I’m heading in.
There’s a lot of shit about myself I’m not facing right now. All the demons regarding my family. But in this moment, I can revel in a success. The fact is, I’m moving forward and doing something positive. Making money in a job I actually enjoy, not being a bitch for siblings who don’t care about me.
A small step, but a step nonetheless.
Kendra
There’s a broad smile on my face as I come home tonight. Work was grueling as hell—Daddy ended up leaving before I did, which pretty much never happens. But I had a lot of things to do—there were city council members to talk to about the mall project, plus a few follow-up visits to make to folks in the target neighborhood, among other things.
Axel and I still haven’t talked about this thing lingering between us, the issue of the mall project that brought us back into each other’s lives. At some point, we’ll have to face it, I know. But right now, I don’t want to.
I want to keep exploring our chemistry without the weight of our differences separating us. Though it’s becoming more than just lust which keeps me coming back to him. Much more.
Axel sent me a text message telling me about his first week at the new tattoo parlor he’s working at. A job he got because I encouraged him to pursue it. I can’t help but feel happy, proud, that I helped him go after what he deserves in life.
And I want to support his dreams and aspirations. I care about him.
Even if it scares me to care for someone who is ultimately so different from me, someone who I know my father would never accept.
I head upstairs and freshen up before coming down to dinner. There’s a wonderful spread out on the table to greet me, and I thank the cook, Bettina, with warm appreciation then settle into my seat. “Hi, Daddy,” I say in greeting—he’s sitting at the head of the gorgeous eight-person cherry table I’ve always found beautiful. Between us is enough food to feed a family much bigger than ours. At least I’ll have lots of leftovers to bring to work tomorrow.
“Evening, pumpkin,” he says, digging into his juicy turkey breast. He drizzles extra gravy across it, then dabs a dinner roll in the gravy. “Did you meet with everyone you wanted to today?”
“I did.” I beam at him and reach for my glass of pinot. “Things are progressing nicely.” I spend a few minutes outlining what happened in my meetings.
“Hmm, you’re awful chipper,” he muses, tilting his head as he scrutinizes me. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”
This is my opportunity to open up about Axel, the reason for my happy mood lately. Granted, Axel and I haven’t talked about being more serious. But we are certainly dating, that much I know. We see each other all the time now, talk frequently in text and on the phone, and we’re delving into learning more about what makes the other tick. It’s not just sex. It’s more than that.
And I’m glad. I want more.
I swallow and stab a piece of turkey with my fork. “Well. So, I’m kinda seeing someone.”
Daddy pauses mid-bite, then swallows his food. “Oh. Is that right.” It isn’t a question. He sounds too carefully neutral. “Who is he, and where did you meet him?” He’s always been suspicious of anyone I date because of being so protective over me, so I anticipated him being less than enthused.
Here it goes. I straighten my back and look him square in the eye. “It’s Axel Bennett. The guy we, uh, met when we went to his neighborhood, regarding the mall project.”
“Yes, I remember who he is,” my father says in a clipped tone. The sudden shift in his attitude from wary to hostile is drastic and makes my stomach lurch. I put my fork down. “I’m also pretty sure I warned you about seeing guys like him.”
I draw in a slow breath through my nostrils, then exhale. “I heard you. But this is different. He isn’t like that�
��we enjoy being around each other, and he’s really sweet to me.”
“So you’ve been seeing him without even bothering to tell me.” His voice drips with disdain now. “I wonder why you even bother to bring it up to me now, if you’re so determined to do whatever you want.”
My eyes start to sting at the chastisement in his voice, and my chest is tight. Why does he have to be so rude about this? I’ve spent so many years doing everything I can to please him. But I meet one man who makes me feel amazing, a man he doesn’t approve of, and it’s suddenly it’s like I’m stupid and stubborn. Like nothing I’ve done to this point matters. “This isn’t about you. It’s about what I think is good for me. I’m an adult, and I can decide.”
“Ah, yes.” Daddy dabs his mouth with his cloth napkin, then drops it back in his lap. “The adult, freshly graduated from college with a serious job she got from her father. Yeah, tell me more about what a grownup you are, will you?”
I stand up and shove my chair back. “You’re being a jerk.”
He stands and stares at me, clapping his hands hard on the table. The sound echoes between us. “And you’re not thinking straight. Guys like this, they are nothing more than users. He’ll use you and discard you when he’s done. He doesn’t contribute anything to society.”
“He’s not a user. He likes me for who I am. And he does contribute. He’s an artist,” I say. “You should see his work. He does amazing…” I drawl off, trying to find a way to tell him that Axel does beautiful tattoos without it sounding like a negative. Because I know Daddy will judge it. He’ll probably see it as more proof that Axel is just a dirty lowlife. But perhaps if he saw the designs Axel showed me, he’d think differently.
Axel is so skilled that anyone with two eyes can see he has a gift.
“Kendra.” Daddy sighs heavily. “You’re young and beautiful, and you come from money. Of course he’s going to be interested in you.”
And the bitter tears come out now—I wipe at them furiously. My heart stings from his words. “So you’re saying I have no other qualities to offer beyond what I can do to advance someone else, or my looks.” That’s shitty. Why would he say that?
