Hellion

by Rhys Ford

  “Why would a case file about homicide with one guy talk about what his brother did on the side?” Maite poked. “Not unless you did a little digging yourself.”

  “A little bit,” he confessed. “I also gave him my card and told him to call me.”

  Maite nearly choked on a mouthful of food, laughing as she spat out her words. “I don’t know what alternate universe I just fell into. The Nicholls I know would never hit on a guy during a condolence call, much less hit on a guy to begin with. What the hell got into you?”

  “I really wasn’t hitting on him. Mostly—I don’t know—I felt something. And it was stupid. And he probably won’t call, because there’s no worse bet than dating a cop,” Ruan reminded her. “Bet you he’s not sitting in a car watching people play frogger across a four-lane street at oh-dark-thirty.”

  “Yeah, our days tend to go long,” Maite murmured. “But let’s face it, you and I don’t have any life outside of the badge. Not like either one of us have anyone to go home to. Hell, my cat has an auto feeder. Bastard doesn’t even need me to open up a cat-food can for him.”

  “Here we are, way past the end of our shift, eating sandwiches on the side of the road.” Ruan saluted her with a limp french fry. “Maybe we should wrap all of this up and head home.”

  “I’m going to eat this while the cheese is melted,” she protested. “You hardly let me drive, and we’re always eating on the run. I think you’re just trying to avoid talking about that tattoo shop guy. Decker said you clammed up like an eighth-grader asking a girl to dance.”

  “Decker needs his nose broken.” He took a bite of his sandwich, getting a spurt of spicy brown mustard on the roof of his mouth.

  “Decker said he was pretty.” Maite’s words stabbed at a sore Ruan didn’t even know he had. “And you know Decker thinks Joyce down in accounting is hot. So tell me, is this guy Decker-hot or actually mouthwatering, ‘too pretty to take home to your mom because she’ll hit on him’ hot?”

  “His name is Ivo, and why are we even talking about him? I gave him my card, told him to call me, and chances are it’s now little pieces on the bottom of a trash can.” He eyed her from across the car. “Besides, you don’t even like pretty boys. You prefer them huge and in SWAT tactical armor.”

  “Yeah, but the one that I have a crush on is married and way out of my league.” She shrugged, pulling a carrot out of her bag. “And his husband’s gorgeous—a rock star and very sweet—so that dropped my chances into the negatives.”

  “Like you’d chase after a married guy,” he snorted. “You’ve been on the other side of that.”

  “Just like you.” This time she was the one doing the saluting, but with a gnawed-on baby carrot. “We’ve got to date a better class of guys. Actually I have to date a better class of guys. You just have to date.”

  “You know my track record. They’re assholes, then they’re criminals.” He wrapped the sandwich back up, his appetite fading. Shoving it into the bag with his cooling fries, Ruan reached for his bottle of water. “Seriously, he’s not going to call, and I don’t blame him. I just told his brother his asshole father who tried to kill him was murdered, and all I could think about was wondering how he’d been over the last few years.”

  “You just gave him your card and told him to call. You guys have a slight history, so not totally inappropriate,” Maite said, then chuckled. “And I know you. You worry about people. You come off all gruff and stern, but you’re a marshmallow. I’ve seen you cry watching a movie. You can’t hide that gooey center from me, Nicholls. I know all your tricks.”

  “Truthfully? I was really worried about him that night. Seven years ago, I picked up a kid in heavy makeup and high heels wearing a naughty schoolgirl’s outfit and bruises on his face. He’d just kicked the shit out of a guy nearly twice his size, and there was just this resignation in his eyes when I started to question him. I didn’t believe him when he told me he was safe at home. I even wondered if some of those bruises were there when he left his house earlier.” Ruan took a sip of water, tightening the cap back on when he was done. “But you should’ve seen his brother’s relief when I pulled up with him. It was like something out of a badly written movie where everyone wakes up one Sunday morning singing and having pancakes for breakfast. I think some part of me just wanted to find out how he was doing now.”

  “Was he wearing heels? The other night, I mean.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t even look,” he confessed. “I didn’t even know what I was thinking. I don’t want to date. And he’s not only out of my league, we don’t even play in the same era. Probably doesn’t even know what a closet is, much less had to live in one.”

  “Did you ever think maybe it’s time you went looking for more than just a quick fuck from some guy you pick up at a club?” She met his glare straight on, not quivering one bit. “I’m serious. If the pretty tattoo guy did something for you, maybe you should go see if he’s interested. What’s the worst that can happen? Not like you’re tearing up the dance floor now.”

  “What I’m not interested in is a relationship,” Ruan denied, shaking his head. “I was insane to give him my card. He’s too much for me. I don’t know if I’m just old-school or something. Some days I feel like I didn’t stand in line long enough to fill up my gay card. Kid like that’s grown up in a totally different world.”

  “Maybe he makes you feel uncomfortable because he doesn’t give a shit about what people think about him and you grew up making sure no one thought about you being gay,” Maite prodded again, finding another tender spot. This one ran deeper, delving into shadows Ruan had buried a long time ago. “Maybe he’s exactly what you need, Nicholls. Maybe you need someone to shake you out of that rut you’re in and pull you into this century. Things have changed a lot since you first put on that badge. Maybe it’s time you change too.”

  “Yeah, last time I did something different, someone died because of it,” he reminded her. “Why don’t you finish up that sandwich so we can head home? Today was a long day, and tomorrow’s not going to get any shorter.”

  Three

  THERE WAS no place like home.

  And for Ivo, home didn’t just mean the house he and his brothers patched together over the years. The first time he walked through the creaking front door of a corner storefront across of Fisherman’s Wharf, the skin on his arms prickled. It was an ugly space—its peeling walls were in terrible shape, a pea-soup green mottled with water damage and the occasional hole probably caused by someone’s fist. The interior was a long space, shotgun-style and oddly angled to accommodate the champagne lounge next door, and the shared wall sloped inward toward the back alley, giving the next shop some space to put in a bathroom. The floors were shit, large chunks of linoleum plastered on top of tile, grouted to an uneven cement slab riddled with cracks and leaking pipes. An enormous picture window took up most of the front wall, and rain had gotten in around its frame, softening the sill.

  He’d been a kid and pretty new to the family, having finally broken free of CPS’s hold on him, but Ivo knew at that moment, crossing that threshold, he was home and he’d be the best damn inker the family had.

  Other than his brothers, Ivo’s one true love in his life was 415 Ink. He’d spent a good portion of his life perfecting his art, both on paper and on skin, and the shop was the ultimate gallery for what he loved to do. There was nothing that held his passion more than laying down ink, the buzz of a finely built machine and the tang of green soap on someone’s body when he wiped away the last of the spent grit to reveal what he sometimes spent days bringing to fruition.

  415 Ink wasn’t just his legacy, it was also his gallery and where his clan gathered—even Mace, who couldn’t tattoo a solid line on his best day.

  They all knew Bear lucked out finding the shotgun-style pier-facing storefront. The owner of the building was a friend and cut Bear a deal on a long-term, low-cost rental agreement guaranteeing the brothers’ shop would be there for years to come.
Sitting on a corner between a kitschy souvenir shop and a cheesy-yet-popular champagne lounge, they’d renovated the space, polishing its poured-concrete floors to a high sheen and painting its high ceiling a glossy black, mostly to hide the occasional piece of ductwork. The shop’s creamy walls were a great backdrop for their art—framed inked pieces on paper or glossy professional photos of their best work. Their individual spaces were framed out like stalls, with solid half walls and hospital-bed-style tracks set into the upper beams so curtains could be drawn around the booths to give the clients privacy if they needed it.

  He’d been as proud as hell the day Bear put his name on his favorite booth, cementing Ivo’s place in the shop, not only as one of the owners but also as a featured artist. Other booths were earmarked for Gus, Bear, and now Rob, Mace’s almost-husband, while the others were left open for guest tattoo artists and the shop’s supporting inkers.

  Their blood, sweat, and tears went into building the shop from the ground up, straining their bonds at times during lean months. He and his four brothers worked their fingers to the bone, falling asleep in the back rooms more times than he could count, logging in twelve-hour days when they were struggling to get the shop up off the ground. Their reputation was something they’d cobbled together with talent and sheer obstinance, refusing to cut corners or slap on an overpriced, half-assed flash piece just to fill their cash register. They’d all agreed on one thing—anyone coming through 415 Ink’s door would get the best work possible, even if it was a simple nautical star on their ankle.

  Not unlike the nautical star the five of them drew together—a slightly wonky thing Ivo was proud to call his first tattoo. Even if he’d been slightly underaged when it was put on his shoulder.

  He’d come in early for the peace and quiet while he worked out a few designs for a custom piece. The early morning hours on the pier were pretty much for locals, either setting up for a long busy day with tourists or using the long stretch of shoreline to run or bike down. Most days he would’ve stopped for coffee, but instead he’d brought a gold foil package of ground beans he’d ordered from a coffee plantation on the Big Island, intending to brew a large pot and hole himself up in the back room they’d set aside as a quiet place to do artwork.

  Or at least that was his plan before he realized whoever closed down the night before hadn’t done a good enough job cleaning the floors. Checking the schedule, he found a Post-it note with an apology from Missy, informing the brothers yet another shop worker walked off the job, frustrated he wasn’t tattooing after a couple of weeks of filling in pots and cleaning up after the artists. Left to close up by herself, she’d done the best she could but had to be out by two, giving her enough hours of sleep to make her morning classes.

  “Shit, another one. If they’re not assholes, then they’re lazy.” Ivo scowled to himself. “How fucking hard is it to find somebody who wants to work? It’s not even that difficult of a job.”

  Sweeping the whole shop ate up a good half hour of his drawing time, and after putting away the push broom, then starting the coffee, Ivo walked out of the lounge only to spot a suspicious mottled-blond clump on the floor at the front of the shop.

  “Crap, I missed a big chunk of Earl’s hair on this rug.” Ivo bent his head down, craning to see under the heavy coffee table they’d plopped down on an old Persian rug Luke found at a swap meet. Crouching, he reached to pluck a tangle of brindle-hued fur from the rug’s nap. “That dog sheds everywhere. We’ve got to brush him more. Place looks like we’re running a black market tribble farm.”

  “Well, I’d tell you not to bother picking that up because I brought the old bastard with me,” Gus announced loudly from the back door. Their enormous multihued shaggy mutt gamboled toward Ivo at a full trot, his lanky legs eating up the distance in long strides. By the time Earl reached Ivo, Gus had the back door locked behind him and was headed toward the coffee machine to get his first cup of the day. “Hey! What did you brew in here today? Smells chocolatey.”

  Ivo caught Earl before the dog’s large head could slam into him, twisting the canine slightly so he could scratch at Earl’s back, sending the dog into contented spasms. His long red tongue dripped with drool, flinging around specks of saliva as he tossed his head about, and Ivo sighed, resigning himself to sweeping up more fur from the floor.

  “Pumehana. Came in yesterday,” Ivo called out, grinning when his brother emerged from the lounge with two cups of coffee. “Thanks for grabbing me one.”

  “Not a problem,” Gus replied, setting Ivo’s favorite mug at his station. The twenty-ounce porcelain monstrosity shaped like a stack of tilted ceramic teacups embellished with a Cheshire cat and a top hat was a gift from Rob and Mace, carted up from Los Angeles after one of their weekend trips. “I had to go by color for the cream, so if it’s too milky, go fuck yourself.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Ivo lightly thumped Earl’s side one last time, then retrieved the small broom from under the reception counter. “Seriously, we need to do something about his shedding. Someone’s going to kill themselves slipping on his fur.”

  “Just you and those fucking shoes you wear,” his brother shot back. “Remind me to take out a life insurance policy on your ass, so when you break it and your neck, my kid’s got college money.”

  “If you tattooed better, you wouldn’t have to worry about Chris’s college money, because people would actually want your shit on their skin,” he sniped, trying to corral the dog hair with a tiny broom. “Shit, I’d have better luck trying to find a straight line in one of your tattoos than sweeping with this crap. Don’t know why I even bother.”

  Only a few years separated Ivo from Gus and his now-deceased twin, Puck. They’d lost their older brother to their mother’s insanity when Ivo was very little, and other than a few vivid, nightmarish moments, he didn’t remember much about Puck. Torn apart by CPS, Gus and Ivo were placed in homes without their older cousin, Bear, who’d come to live with them following his parents’ death. They’d fought to be back together nearly as soon as they were out of each other’s sight, and despite spending a lot of his childhood separated from his brothers—both blood and adopted—Ivo had more than enough time to get to know Gus very well.

  In some ways they were a lot alike, driven by a passionate love of art and the intricate canvas of skin. They looked alike, although Ivo was taller, mostly because he had longer legs, and when Ivo’s hair was its natural color, it was the same gold-streaked dirty blond Gus wore in a disheveled mane down to his shoulders. Neither of them knew who their father was, although sometimes Ivo suspected they were full brothers or their mother’s genetics were too strong to be overcome. That theory held until he looked at Bear, who was their cousin on their mother’s side and had stood in the brawny muscular line at birth and possibly went back for seconds.

  Their differences lay usually in how they viewed life and how they presented themselves to the world. Up until a year ago, Gus spent every waking hour running away from the horrors their mother left in his memory and Ivo plotted every moment for the chance to run toward his stitched-together family. Gus was gentler than he was. For all of his acerbic nature, August Scott was the most tender of their clan, even more so than Bear, but he always rose to the occasion whenever one of them needed to be protected.

  Unfortunately for Ivo, the brother who everyone felt needed the most protection was Ivo.

  So when his older brother turned around and held up the business card Ivo left at his station, he knew there would be trouble… or at least complications, because he knew that look on Gus’s face. He’d seen it a thousand times before on Bear’s, Mace’s, and even sometimes Luke’s. The best thing to do in that instance was to go on the offense and cut any argument off before it even started.

  Sadly, Gus beat him to the punch.

  “What the fuck is this? Who the fuck is Detective Ruan Nicholls?” Gus flicked the edge of the card against his nail, catching Earl’s attention with the clicking sound. “Are you in trouble?
”

  “I am not in trouble.” He had a lot of regrets, mostly centered around his footwear because striding across the shop’s cement floor in a pair of old Converse didn’t quite have the same effect as the snap of the stiletto, but Ivo did the best he could. “He’s just somebody I met a couple of times.”

  Problem with being close in age and alike in so many ways? Gus was always the first one to call Ivo out on his bullshit. Evading Ivo’s grab, Gus turned his shoulders, tucking the card against his chest. It was weird sometimes seeing his own expression on his brother’s face, but it also gave Ivo a heads-up on what Gus was thinking.

  “Huh.” Gus’s reply was succinct but heavy with doubt.

  “It doesn’t mean anything. Just a guy,” Ivo explained, reaching around his brother to grab the card. But Gus was too quick. “Don’t be an asshole. Give it back. You’re a father now. You’re not supposed to be playing games.”

  “I’m not playing anything,” Gus replied. “I’m just wondering what kind of game you’re up to. You thinking about dating him?”

  “I’m thinking you should mind your own business,” Ivo growled back, stepping away from his brother. Earl bumped up against the back of his shins, probably reminding Ivo breakfast was a long-distant memory in his belly and the dog could use a snack. “Go lie down, Earl. Quit pushing me.”

  “You talking to me or the dog?” Gus leaned up against the shelves in Ivo’s stall. “There’s something going on with you the last couple of days, and now I’m wondering if this cop isn’t the reason you’re a bit squirrelly. We’ve got a couple of hours before we open, so I’ve got time to wait. The sooner you spill your guts, the sooner I leave you alone.”

  Ivo didn’t know what to do with a clocked-in Gus. Out of the five of them, Gus was the most responsible and usually the most obtuse, but discovering he was a father of a three-year-old boy and throwing himself fully into that role seemed to have changed him. The only true father figure they had was Bear, so it came as no surprise to Ivo Gus’s emotional growth looked a lot like a bearded, gentle-voiced older brother.