Marked

by Drew Elyse

  “Yeah.”

  She nodded. “Send it to me. I’ll add it to the site and the slideshows.”

  It seemed I wasn’t the only one that thought that tattoo had kicked ass. An anchor wasn’t the sort of design that I thought right off the bat as standing out, but the wear she’d said she’d wanted on the metal surface gave me a lot to work with. The slideshows played on a couple flat screens right in the front of the shop, and it wasn’t every day a piece got added to the mix. Jess had carte blanche over what made it in. Her picking something to add to them was a huge compliment.

  See, Sailor’s Grave wasn’t just any shop. I’d worked in my share of places. Most, before now, had been the sort of wander in and get some bullshit tatt from the wall or replicate some trend on the internet type places. It was that lack of respect for the art that usually had me moving on as soon as I could afford to. If customers wanted that shit, that was fine, but tattooers that couldn’t hack anything else was something I couldn’t take.

  Sailor’s Grave was different.

  Sketch, the current owner, and Carson, who’d run it before him, didn’t take tattooing lightly. They also didn’t bother employing anyone who did. It was that mentality that had made the shop that was well off the beaten path into a fucking Mecca in the tattoo world. That it was in my own hometown had made it the pinnacle to me since I’d really gotten into art in high school.

  I’d met Sketch at a convention just over a year ago. It’d been rough to keep my cool when he’d approached and started thumbing through my portfolios while we chatted. When he’d asked for my card, I’d about shit myself. He offered me a job that same weekend, and I was on the phone with my mom planning out a stay with her until I found a place ten minutes later. It was the best decision I’d made since learning to tattoo after art school.

  Jess, as always, didn’t linger on the praise she’d just offered. She may have looked and dressed like the ultimate tattooed pin-up girl, but she was far beyond eye candy around here. She ran a tight ship, and she kept all of us in line.

  “Your next appointment canceled; he said something came up at work. He’s on the schedule for next Thursday when you had that gap,” she reported.

  Seeing as my next appointment was supposed to be with a firefighter I’d been doing a huge backpiece for, work was a pretty fucking good excuse to cancel.

  “Guess that means I’ve got some time to kill.”

  “Your next appointment is at five-thirty.”

  I was already heading back to my station. “Yes, Mom.”

  “Fuck you,” she called after me.

  After getting everything clean and sanitized, I went to leave when she stopped me with, “Where are you going, young man?”

  Pulling up short at the door, I gave her a look. “Grabbing food.”

  “Ooooh,” she teased. “You’re going to get cupcakes. Of course.” I shot her the finger as I stepped out, hearing her call after me, “You could at least offer to get me dinner!”

  I didn’t bother to stop and respond. She knew I would, which was why my phone buzzed in my pocket a minute later with her order.

  Jess lived to give me shit, and she knew my frequent trips to Sugar’s Dream was an easy target. She wouldn’t be laughing if I scored some of the lemon cupcakes she loved, though. Especially when I didn’t share that shit—or at least pretended not to for a few minutes.

  I was right down the street to the bakery when my phone rang through the car speakers. With a quick glance at the display, I tapped the button to answer.

  “Hey, Momma.”

  “You’re the favorite today. You will not believe what your sister did.”

  Ah, so this was that type of phone call. It was probably ridiculous that I still enjoyed these kinds of rants from my mom at thirty-two, but I wasn’t about to pretend I didn’t. Tracy, my little sister, had studied law at UCLA and now worked at some hot-shot office up in Seattle. I loved her to death, and we were fortunate enough that we’d grown up in a home where being a tattoo artist didn’t make me the black sheep bum by comparison while she was off being exceptional, but it didn’t hurt to have something over Tracy once in a while.

  “I’m always the favorite. I’m your first born.”

  “Yeah, before I knew how magical epidurals were.”

  “It’s been three decades. Let it go.”

  “Never.”

  I sighed. Mom would be in a nursing home lamenting over my abnormally large newborn self to the nurses while they passed out the meds and applesauce.

  “I thought I was the favorite today,” I reminded her.

  “You are,” she agreed, which surprised even me. Usually, that status went out the window any time Mom was reminded of how I came out at a hulking ten pounds, eight ounces.

  “What did Tracy do?” I was gearing up to either revel in whatever I was about to hear or come to her defense. With how Mom often overreacted to stupid shit, it could go either way.

  “She has a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, no. Will the horrors never cease?”

  “That’s it. Connor is my favorite now.”

  That wasn’t surprising. Of course, Connor was actually always the favorite. Not just Mom’s, but mine and Tracy’s, too. Even Mom saying I’d been the favorite was just a game of second place.

  I pulled into a spot outside of Sugar’s Dream and parked, knowing I wasn’t going anywhere until she got whatever this was off her chest.

  “Why are you pissed Tracy’s dating someone? I thought you were bitching on Easter that she needs to stop spending so many hours at the office and start getting out more.”

  “Well, she does!”

  “Well, it seems like she is,” I shot back.

  “They’ve been seeing each other for two months. Two. Months. And I’m just hearing about this today.”

  Damn. Bad move, sis.

  Tracy talked to Mom as much as I did, which was to say multiple times a week. That much time on the phone and no mention of something like that was bound to incite this kind of reaction.

  It seemed it was big brother to the rescue time after all.

  “With the hours she pulls, that probably means they’ve been on all of two dates.”

  “No, this is different. She’s serious. She’s going to call me again in another two months and they’ll have done something crazy like flown to Vegas to get married.”

  Let it never be said that my mother wasn’t dramatic.

  “Mom, you’re acting crazy.”

  As if on cue, my phone buzzed, and I checked it to see a text from my sister.

  Munchkin: Mom’s freaking out.

  Me: You don’t say.

  “If I am, it’s because you kids make me that way,” Mom insisted. “You’re thirty-two and not giving me grandbabies. Tracy has a secret boyfriend. And Connor’s now talking about how he wants to get a tattoo from you.”

  “Connor wants a tattoo? Fuck, yeah, I’ll give him one.”

  “You aren’t helping!”

  Another couple texts from Tracy popped up.

  Munchkin: I knew she was going to call you.

  Munchkin: It’s not a big deal. It’s just casual right now.

  “Mom, Tracy’s an adult. She’s dating. Two months isn’t a big deal, particularly for someone as busy as she is. Odds are, this guy’s some hotshot with a crazy work schedule, too. And Connor’s twenty-two. By his age, I had nearly a full sleeve already.”

  “We both know Connor’s situation is different.”

  She wasn’t wrong there.

  When he was eleven, Connor and my dad were in a car accident. Connor suffered a traumatic brain injury that impaired his motor and cognitive skills and stunted his emotional development.

  Dad didn’t make it.

  The reminder of how our family changed that day still felt like a blow to the chest.

  “You know I’d never let Connor do something rash or stupid,” I reminded her. “But he’s come a long way. It’s not like I’d sit him in my chai
r tomorrow and tattoo him, but we can start a conversation about doing something down the road if he’s truly getting that, it will never go away.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry, honey.” There was a tiredness in her voice that I hated. She’d shouldered a lot on her own for us, and Connor was likely never going to be capable of living on his own.

  “It’s okay. I’m not working tomorrow. Why don’t I come by and hang with Connor? You and Derek can have a date night.”

  “You’re just trying to be my favorite again.”

  I laughed. “Is it working?”

  “You know it is. Though, grandbabies would keep you there longer,” she pressed.

  “I get it. Go out and impregnate a woman. Damn. I’ll take care of it.”

  It was more than a bit disturbing that I didn’t catch any flack for that comment before she gave me an “I love you” and said goodbye.

  When we were done, I checked my phone again to see Tracy had been busy.

  Munchkin: It’s not anything yet. Not really.

  Munchkin: Maybe it will become something.

  Munchkin: I mean, he says it’s something.

  Munchkin: Why aren’t you responding?

  All right, maybe Mom was onto something. There was definitely something more than “casually dating” happening if it had Tracy on such a defensive.

  Me: Stop hyperventilating. Shit.

  Munchkin: You’re an ass.

  Me: That’s no way to talk to your big brother.

  Munchkin: Did you deal with her?

  Me: I did what I could.

  Me: A little worried Mom’s going to kidnap one kid if one of us doesn’t make one soon.

  Me: You going to jump on that with your Mr. Casual?

  Munchkin: Fuck you.

  Me: What’s his name?

  Munchkin: Aaron.

  Me: You going to give me more than that at some point?

  Munchkin: Yeah, when we’re there.

  I had the sneaking suspicion they were already “there,” but Tracy wasn’t one to open up easily. Whoever this Aaron was, he had a battle ahead of him. One he’d better be prepared to fight fully if he wanted my sister.

  Knowing that was all I’d get out of her for now, I pocketed my phone and turned off the car. I took a deep breath. My trips to Sugar’s Dream were the sweetest form of torture that had nothing to do with the food behind the counter. It was all about who was behind it.

  If she was in, it was going to be the highlight of my day and the ultimate test of my will because she was definitely off-limits.

  Chapter Three

  Kate

  “Jesus, that ass would drop a ticking time-bomb in me,” Avery groaned as she came back into the room.

  It lacked the usual vigor her digs at Daz held, but it wasn’t surprising since she’d just been in the bathroom for half an hour getting sick. Apparently, it was not going to be an easy road at least in the early days of this pregnancy. Morning sickness had been a real bitch to her thus far, cropping up daily, and at all hours.

  “Feeling any better?”

  She didn’t answer, just dropped onto one of the stools she had for when she was decorating cakes and lowering her head to the workbench.

  “Have you tried the lemon thing?”

  When I was carrying Owen, I miraculously stumbled onto the suggestion that the smell of lemons could help the nausea pass. It didn’t hold back the horror show every time, but the times it did was enough to be thankful for.

  “It helped a bit.” Her voice was muffled into the table, but she didn’t move. “We’re going to have lemon on the menu from now until I’m done with this shit.”

  Truthfully, we had lemon on the menu nearly every day as it was. It was popular. I just hoped she didn’t get too attached to using lemon to the point of filling the whole display case with it. One of the best things about working here was that people rarely got testy when they were surrounded by sweets—except dieters, but they usually just avoided the shop like the plague. I didn’t want to test if that would still be true if we had no chocolate to offer.

  I’d worked a lot of different jobs over the years. My first was in high school, bagging groceries. Then, I moved on to cashier, waitressing, housecleaning, sales clerk, call center rep, administrative assistant. Some were worse than others; none were particularly great.

  Working at Sugar’s Dream was the best by far.

  I had watched from the sidelines as Avery had stopped stripping, then quit being Daz’s manager at the strip club the Disciples owned and he ran. I’d rooted for her in my quiet way while she got this place up and running. What had surprised me was when she’d offered me a job. It had been about a year after Joel passed, and I hadn’t worked in that time. After losing him, Daz had moved me and Owen to Hoffman and into the club’s farmhouse. He’d insisted on taking care of us, and I’d been too much of a mess to do anything but let him.

  Then, Avery asked if I would come help her. She’d made it sound like she needed me, something no one but my son had made me feel in a while. Maybe she actually had, or maybe it was a ploy they came up with to try to get me moving forward.

  Whatever it was, it worked.

  Well, it got me out of the house and working, and in a place I actually ended up enjoying. Moving on was another issue entirely.

  Avery, still face down, groaned again. I wouldn’t say it to her—not out of fear of losing my job, just because she was my friend and sometimes that meant holding certain truths in—but the hormones seemed to be making her a bit dramatic. This manifested in a lot of ways from the current display to the fact that she’d threatened Daz with castration the other night. Now, I wouldn’t have thought that last was all that out there from the way she and Daz had always goaded each other, but the fact that she’d been pointing a chef’s knife at him was extreme even for the two of them.

  “Why don’t you head home?” I suggested. “I can finish off the last few things here and handle everything until close.”

  That got her head up. She always had pale skin, but the green tone to it made me even more certain my offer was for the best. “You sure?”

  I nodded. “I’ve got things here.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  I watched as she lowered her head back to the bench. After a minute of loading a piping bag with frosting, I saw she’d still not so much as moved an inch.

  “Do you need me to call him to come get you?”

  “Mmmmmm.”

  I was going to take that as a yes.

  After a quick peek to make sure no customers had come in that I’d missed, I pulled out my phone to get Daz on the line.

  “Hey, sis,” he greeted. Sometimes, I wanted to scream into the line that I didn’t want him to call me that. I never did, though. I never would.

  “Hi. Your beloved baby-momma needs you to pick her up.”

  “But she drove there.”

  “Yes, and she’s been driving the porcelain express all day. You’ll be lucky if you can get her to walk out to your truck on her own.”

  “The truck?” he said it like the idea of taking the truck when the weather was good enough for the biker was horrifying.

  “I can guarantee you she’s not in any state to get on the back of your bike.”

  “Shit. All right, I’ll be there in a few.”

  He clicked off. I don’t know who taught the Disciples to talk on the phone, but none of them seemed to like to say goodbye. It was vaguely irritating at first. At this point, it just felt normal.

  “He’s coming,” I told Avery.

  “Nu-uh. Not once this baby’s out. Not without wrapping that fucking thing.”

  I walked away. Avery and I were close, but Daz was family. I didn’t want to hear anything about “that fucking thing.”

  An hour later, Avery had been picked up—literally—and carried out by Daz and I was busy piping mounds of her mocha frosting onto chocolate cupcakes. There was a station for frosting and decorating right behind t
he counter, a bit of a show for customers while keeping the real mess of the baking in the back. That was an area I did precious little in. I could frost with the best of them now, and I’d taken on a good bit of the bookkeeping and inventory, but I wasn’t about to go back there and bake things. Ovens and I weren’t all that good together.

  No, I was better in the front, which surprised even me. From the start, I’d had no problem putting on the fake customer service smile. It was easy, predictable. The fact that the bakery actually turned out amazing stuff, so there were almost never people coming in to bitch at me over something, only made it easier.

  Plastering on a smile for work had been an important step.

  It hadn’t begun as a deception, necessarily. It was a habit to keep a smile on at work, even when Daz, the Disciples, or any of the club families came in. And then, I’d realized how powerful it was.

  “Working here agrees with you,” Daz commented.

  He was here to get me and Avery once we closed down. The three of us and Owen were going out to dinner.

  “You look more like your old self,” he went on.

  Did I?

  I didn’t feel like my old self. I felt the same as I had for more than a year.

  Empty.

  My eyes flicked over to Owen, who was munching on a giant cookie even though we were about to go eat. All right, maybe I wasn’t entirely empty. I had my son, and he was my world. My little, smiling, crumb and melted-chocolate-smeared world. There just wasn’t anything else, and frankly, I wasn’t looking for there to be.

  I kept the smile that he seemed happy about on my face because I wasn’t sure what to do or say.

  “It’s real fuckin’ good to see, Katie.”

  That was it. Just a few offhand comments and I realized something pivotal.

  Everyone had been pressing me to start the process of “moving on.” I even had a shrink trying to talk me through the steps to somehow letting go of the fact that I’d lost half my world in the blink of an eye. They wanted to see me doing better.