A couple of hours until I see her again.

It’s crazy how my life has begun to evolve into certain time delineations. When I’m not with Kendra, I’m home, usually doing stuff around the neighborhood and futilely attempting to convince the residents that they shouldn’t move, shouldn’t cave to this mall idea of selling their souls for short-term cash.

Chris thinks I’m nuts for trying, that it’s a foregone conclusion, but I don’t care. I want to do one last thing, see if I can have any impact at all.

It isn’t working so far.

Why must everyone leave? Why must everything change?

I stretch out on my bed and stare at the ceiling. The fan is whipping fast above me, sending warm air cycling through the room. Summer is descending hard and fast on Rock Bridge.

Used to be, my brothers and I would hang out together in the family room right above now, drinking beer and talking shit. I’d often be in the corner doing a tattoo—haven’t done one in months, sadly, because I was stupidly busy at Fugitives. We’d talk about everything and nothing, just chatting, just being in the moment. And for chunks at a time, I could escape into it and imagine I had grown up with them. That I was a part of their family, a full-blooded Beckett boy.

What a fucking fool I was. They all left me behind without batting an eye.

My stomach turns, and I flip onto my right side, and let out a harsh breath. I don’t care, I chant to myself. None of that shit matters anymore. It’s in the past—Chris is right, I do have to stop living back then, wishing things were different. I can’t change what was, but I can change what will be. I just have to stay dedicated.

There are several other residents who, like me, haven’t yet caved to the demands. I won’t give in; Butch at least would appreciate my dedication toward keeping our neighborhood intact.

I need to find another job, too. The little money I have socked away is going to disappear soon enough. I just gotta figure out what the fuck I’m going to do next. I don’t wanna work in the restaurant business, that much is sure.

Nothing else really appeals to me except my art. Tattooing. I don’t know if that’s even a viable option for me though. Where the hell could I work? With almost no legit work experience and a last name that comes with all sorts of preconceptions, it’s hard to know if anyone would hire me…

My phone buzzes, and I grab it off the bedside table, shoving aside my thoughts.

Ugh, I need a drink. Work sucked today. I hope your day went better.

I can’t fight the smile at the sight of Kendra’s text. We’ve been talking for about a week now, and seeing each other as often as we can. After I snuck into her dad’s massive fucking mansion and fucked her senseless in her bed, I lingered as long as I could and didn’t leave until dawn was peeking over the horizon.

Now I can’t get enough of her.

My day is better now, I type, knowing it’s dangerously close to sounding emotional, but sending it anyway. It’s true, I argue with myself. Doesn’t mean it’s anything beyond physical. We’ve fucked like crazy. Neither of us has brought up anything beyond what we’re doing. Which is good. I don’t want to do more than fucking.

Right?

Aww, is someone getting sentimental on me? she writes back, teasing me and making me feel an embarrassed flush. The comment is too close to what I’ve been concerned about. JK. You hungry? Let’s get a burger and beer. My treat.

I’m in. But my treat. There’s no way I’m letting her pay while we’re out. It might sound old-fashioned or weird, but I can’t. Even if it makes us cross dangerously close to dating territory.

Is that what we’re doing? Are we dating? I can tell myself all I like that it’s just physical, nothing more. But truth is, I look forward to hearing from Kendra almost as much as seeing her, being inside her. Getting a message from her is the highlight of my fucking day.

I’m in trouble.

She writes back, You’re stubborn. :-P

You’re not the first to say that, I type, laughing. It’s one of my better qualities, or so I tell people.

I hope I see some of your better qualities tonight, she writes, then sends a winky face. I like how flirty she is. Kendra might have been a virgin before me, but she isn’t scared of being sexual or having dirty cravings. She isn’t prudish, shy about her desires. She’s open and honest.

And it’s been amazing exploring those things with her. Delving into our fantasies. She loves being tied up, I’ve discovered, so I make sure to have something handy that can bind those sexy wrists or ankles of hers. Having her submissive below me, pliant, eager to please…it makes me want to do corrupt things to her. I’m so fucked up, and I don’t even care.

You will. I have a new idea tonight, I write back. I hope she’s amenable to it.

Oh? Sounds promising.

We text about where to meet. I do a workout, take a shower, try not to think about how much I’m eager to see her again. Fuck. What is it about her that has dug under my skin? I’m reminded of how my brothers fell so easily into a similar trap. I won’t be like that.

I can still do this with her and be safe.

It’s just fucking. Nothing more.

Even if I savor the feel of Kendra in my arms after she’s come, how warm and soft she is against me. The rich smell of her hair, her skin. How she sighs in her sleep, her lips delicate and parted. The way her fingers twitch to touch my skin when she’s deep in the throes of sleep. Like she’s unconsciously reaching out to grip me. Vulnerable. Sweet. Beautiful.

Or the fact that lying with her, I sleep better than I have in months. Maybe even for fucking years.

I drop to the ground and do as many push-ups as I can until I break out in a sweat. Focus on that, I tell myself. Not on anything else. She’s just a girl.

Just a girl.

Yet I get in the shower again to make sure I’m fresh and clean before I go meet her. And when I do see her, my hands are drawn to her, my mouth, and I can’t stop myself from reaching out and touching her. Claiming her.

Those sexy-as-fuck curves of her hips. The roundness of her ass. God, I want to take her right here in the middle of this damn burger joint. I don’t even care who sees. I’m going crazy for her.

“Well, hi,” she says with a giggle as I nuzzle her throat. “I’m glad to see you too.”

“Are you sure we need to eat?” I growl against her delicate skin. “Because all I want to taste is you.”

She pulls back and eyes me. Her fingers stroke my Adam’s apple, which jumps under her touch. “If you don’t want me to pass out tonight, you should feed me.”

“Oh, I’ll feed you, all right,” I say.

She laughs and swats at me. “Not that.”

We get a table. Check out the menu. I force myself to look at the burger selections, not at the beautiful woman across from me who somehow becomes more stunning with every damn second that passes.

She sweeps a strand of hair behind her ear. “What are you getting?”

“The double burger with extra cheese,” I say. “And the cheddar fries.”

Kendra scowls. “How the hell do you eat all that and stay as fit as you are? If I did, I’d look as big as a house.”

“Not likely, given how much I’ve been fucking you. That’s gotta count as exercise.”

Her face explodes in redness as she gapes at me. “Oh my God, you’re…”

“Always ready?” I offer, enjoying her slight discomfort at innuendos.

“You’re too much.” She swallows and chews on her lower lip. “You think I’d be used to your boldness by now, but I guess it takes time.”

And then my stupid brain is running with that, wondering what things would be like between us a month from now. Would I be sated on her taste, her smell, the way she feels? Would I grow tired of her and be ready to move on?

Or would I just grow more addicted? Ache for more of her, until it isn’t enough to see her without being able to sleep by her every night?

Our waiter thankfully comes over to save me from myself and my thoughts. We place our orders. He brings us beer. We toast and drink.

I can’t stop staring at her.

She looks ripe and womanly, her breasts full and barely restrained in her white professional dress shirt. Something about seeing her like this makes me want to sully her. Make her less pure so it feels like I’m good enough for her.

Enough of that shit. I drive that thought out of my mind. I don’t have to be good enough for her if we’re just fucking. This is just physical, even if my stupid brain sometimes tries to think it’s more.

“So, you have brothers?” Kendra innocently asks as she sips her beer. “Tell me about them.”

I draw in a slow breath. “Yeah, I’m the youngest of five. Well, they’re my half-brothers, anyway.”

Her eyes drift to look over my shoulder. “I don’t have any siblings. I can’t imagine what it was like, growing up with that many.”

“I didn’t always,” I say.

Her gaze snaps to mine. “Oh? I’m sorry. I made assumptions.”

“It’s fine.” I wave her comment away, drag at my beer, acting like nothing matters. “I was bounced around for a while until Butch took me in a few years ago. By then, it was too late for me to be…fully accepted, I guess.” I shrug. “They already had grown up together, and I was just added on out of nowhere.”

Kendra tugs her lower lip between her teeth. “I feel like I should say I’m sorry, but that wasn’t really your fault. Sounds like they should have been more accepting of you though. You were in the hard spot, being the odd guy out.” She pauses. “My mom and dad divorced about ten years ago. I chose to live with Daddy. My mom never forgave me for that—we never talk anymore because of it.” The words are delivered with a light air, but I can hear more emotion behind them.

It’s funny to hear her call her old man Daddy. I call mine Butch.

She really is a good girl—perhaps too good for me after all.

I’m torn. Part of me wants to reach out and comfort her about the shitty divorce she lived through. The other part wants to fucking take off and run from this conversation, because this is digging into serious territory. “That sucks,” I offer, finally.

She gives a halfhearted shrug and looks over at the crowd of people in the restaurant. “Whatever. I don’t care. She’s the one missing out.”

“Yes, she is.” The sincere words spill from me before I can stop them.

Our burgers arrive, interrupting our conversation, thankfully. Shit is starting to get too deep; I’m not ready for that. The discussion turns to lighter things—by silent agreement, neither of us is discussing the mall project. So we talk about random things—high school, funny childhood memories, and so on.

And then suddenly, I’ve had enough of light conversation and burgers. I need her. Right now.

“Finish your food,” I say in a gruff voice.

Thankfully she’s picking up on what I mean without question. We down the rest of our burgers, and I toss money on the table. We swig the last of our beers. And then we’re outside, and I’m pressing her against the far side of the building, where there are no cars or people. Just a fence and some trees.

I can’t wait. “I want you. Right here.”

I can hear her audible gasp. “That’s wicked, Axel.”

When my fingers delve beneath her skirt and touch her soaked pussy, I can tell she’s into the idea, despite her shocked words. “Your body tells me what you crave, dirty girl. You want this too. Don’t deny it.” And then I’m withdrawing my cock from my jeans, wishing I could just slide right into her, bareback. I manage to keep my right mind and put on a condom.

There’s no warmup, no foreplay. We’re both horny and aching for each other. I thrust into her, and our groans mingle in the darkness. One of her legs reaches up and wraps around my hips, and I grip her ass and fuck her up against the brick wall.

My kisses pepper her skin as she clings to me, and her juices are covering my dick. I can feel her softening and soaking for me, and it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever felt. This woman gives herself to me without thought. I reach up and grip her hair, forcing her head back, and bite her throat. I need to be primal. I need her to be mine. It’s a ridiculous thought, but it’s there, and I give in, just for this moment. “I fucking love this pussy,” I tell her, though I want to say more.

“Yes, please,” she mewls, her fingers scrabbling to maintain a hold on my shoulders. She’s pushing against me as hard as she can, and I can hear her orgasm coming. I already know her body as intimately as I know my own. So I grip her ass and thrust myself into her until she’s off the ground, both legs wrapped around me, my cock plunging that wet pussy so deep.

“Come for me,” I breathe against her, moving up to capture her mouth. I need her orgasm more than any other motherfucking thing I’ve ever needed in my entire life.

She stiffens, arches, then cries out, and I swallow her sounds of pleasure with my mouth as her pussy milks my cock with her spasms. It’s erotic, it’s heady, it’s the most intense feeling ever.

I’m not long after her. My balls are tight, aching to explode, and my cock is a hammer still battering inside her, and then I’m coming too, spurting into her. I don’t know that I’ve ever come this much in my life.

Our foreheads are resting against each other as she slowly lowers her legs. I’m still inside her. I don’t want to pull out. I want this amazing creature here pressed against me, and it’s almost embarrassing how badly I crave that.

But I shake that off and make myself pull out. Toss the condom and tuck myself back in. She straightens her clothing, not looking at me.

After a couple of painful moments of her avoiding eye contact, I tilt her chin until she’s forced to eye me. “Hey.”

She sucks her lower lip between her teeth. “Hey.” Her eyes are loaded with questions I can’t answer. Questions I can’t even let myself think about.

This is way too fucking intense for just sex. I don’t know what’s going on, but this woman makes me feel stuff I never thought I would. And I keep telling myself it’s nothing more, but it is.

Problem is, I don’t know what to do with this.

“Want some ice cream?” I ask. It’s shitty, but I gotta lighten things up here. I’m not ready for this.

She takes the bait, beaming, and bastard that I am, I’m grateful. “Oh God, that sounds so perfect.”

I lead her over to my bike, and we take off down the road. She wraps herself around me, resting against my back, her arms around my waist.

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 down, 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.