Chapter Eleven
Brando
My keys felt heavy in my hand.
It had been too easy. All of this had been too easy. Leaving Cat should have been impossible. But something had paved the way, and I couldn’t help feeling like I was walking toward every single wrong choice I would ever make. I thought I was doing the right thing, getting out of her life, but the moment I was alone in my empty apartment, I felt upside down and lost.
She had so much more to give the world than I had to offer. Cleaning my wounds and helping to dress me wasn’t her obligation. She had a life. She didn’t need me bringing her down.
My apartment was on Nineteenth Avenue, third floor, one bedroom. Busted elevator; I had to take the stairs. Psyching myself up, I made my way downstairs and spent the next half-hour hauling my safe up the stairs. The moment I made it inside, I ran to the kitchen and puked in the sink. My head swam with pain, and I sagged to the floor, clenching my eyes shut against the dark torment twisting in my brain.
I’d have to start over, but pretenses didn’t mind.
I crawled to my bag and dry swallowed two pills. Then I struggled to my feet and made a bed on my bedroom floor out of dirty clothes. I passed out, waking up to searing silver light. Outside, it looked like snow. Every single part of me felt encapsulated in pain. But I fought myself. I showered, trimmed my beard, and dressed warmly, choosing black jeans and a black sweatshirt over my plain white shirt. I gritted my teeth and tied my boots, slid a palmful of water through my hair, and then I faced myself in the bathroom mirror.
Other than my red eyes, I looked presentable. I pocketed my wallet and cell and then I took off for Guns & Ink. I parked the Charger in the back like Klay instructed when I called last night. He hadn’t mentioned Cat, and I didn’t deserve to ask. His truck was parked a spot over. The back door to the shop was unlocked when I tried it, entering into a small hallway.
I kept down the hall, finding another door after spotting a bathroom. That one was locked when I tried it. Before I pulled out my cell and called Klay, the door opened, and there he stood, grinning knowingly.
“This door’s locked by a code.” He waved me into the building and pointed to a small keypad I missed above the handle. “Keeps the stragglers out. Code’s seventeen-ten. Cat will hook you up with keys and shit. She’ll be in soon. Let’s go in my office.”
I followed him into a new hall and he opened a black metal door on our left. I was slightly familiar with the shop the one time I visited. I knew the door opposite his office and two over was the breakroom. I recalled my visit then, when I came to inform Madison that her attacker had been caught and killed by yours truly. It brought a wave of relief at the same time it unnerved me. That wasn’t even four months ago. But it felt like a lifetime.
The last time I’d sat across Klayton, I’d been a detective.
“First thing first, you should probably nix the sweatshirt.” He lifted up both his arms and nodded at his tattoos. “It’s good ink, and it’ll be nice for your new clients to see. Most people don’t want to be guinea pigs for a tattoo.”
It was second nature to hide my stories. That’s what my tattoos were. Sketches that told the truth when my world imploded. It felt freeing and dangerous to mark my body with the truth when my heart sought out every lie to cover them up. “Makes sense.”
“You’re,” he made air quotes, “interning. Getting your hours. Rules are pretty simple. Sixty/forty per job. As soon as you get a blood borne pathogen certificate, you can start inking. My suggestion is, you work your ass off and don’t say no unless they’re under eighteen. It’s hard as hell to get new clients to trust an intern, and you need at least fifty jobs under your belt to get a license. Lucky for you, we have to renew our certificates every year. I hired a specialist to come in tomorrow morning. Cat will get your new hire paperwork started when she gets here.” He looked away when he mentioned her name. “If all goes according to plan, you’re an employee at Guns & Ink.” He extended his hand and gave me a humored look. “Never thought I’d ever hire a cop.”
“Never thought I’d work for a felon.” I grinned.
He winked. “Funny how shit works out. When Cat gets here, she’ll set you up. But until then, the parlor needs sweeping.” He clapped twice, a wide arrogant grin on his fucking face. “Snap snap, Detective.”
I refrained from sending my fist into his jaw. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
He chuckled. “You still have your gun?”
“Not on me.” I could still hear him laughing when I slammed his office door.
Starting over had its drawbacks. I tore my sweatshirt off and tossed it in the breakroom, draping it over one of the chairs at the table. Cleaning supplies weren’t hard to find. They were in the supply closet. I decided that if I were going to start over, I might as well do it right. I pulled out the push broom and drug it after me into the main parlor.
The floors were gunmetal gray, with black grout. Tattooing stations were set up around the room, and there was a Guns & Ink mural hanging up in the waiting area where five people sat, faces bored. Getting up at eight for a tattoo? That was either concerning, or Cat wasn’t the only one seeking out magic. I wondered how many of us missed the wonder, bypassed the burn of life, in exchange for moments that would never matter.
Madison was sitting at the register, tongue ring between her teeth in concentration as she studied what looked like a textbook. When I came in, she glanced up curiously, and then smiled wide when she saw me.
Damn thing was cute. I couldn’t help giving her a small smile back. “Morning, Madison.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can call me Mad, Brando. For the hundredth time.”
I chuckled, studying the artists at their stations. There were two of them, both young, probably in their late teens or early twenties. One female, one male.
“Klay already put you to work?”
I shrugged her worry away. I wasn’t opposed to hard work. I began sweeping near the register, winding the broom between the legs on her stool to get the dirt there. I did my best to ignore the pain in my back and side. Focusing on the quiet brush of the broom on the tiled floors.
“Studying?” I asked.
“Online courses are a lot more demanding than university.” She didn’t sound put-out, however, and I assumed being abducted from a college campus would make studying online a walk in the park.
“Condensed academics,” I stated, smirking when she nodded seriously.
I’d moved on to the window area when I heard her speak again.
“You hurt her, Brando.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, hands still moving. I opened them and kept on. “I was trying to do the right thing, Mad.”
“Which is what?” she asked but continued speaking before I could answer. “Not being a burden?” Her voice became sad. “I know that feeling, unfortunately. Not wanting to be a burden to the people who open their homes to us. You want to know how I stopped being a burden?”
“How, sweetheart?”
“I switched places. If I were Klay and Klay was me, would I want him to feel that way? It’s pretty simple when I think of things like that. Put yourself in her shoes and she in yours. Things might make a little more sense.”
I shook my head in wonder. “Things should make sense for you.”
“There’s all kinds of burdens, Brando. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”
Thankfully—for many different painful reasons—Cat came in then, turning the corner from the back with leery, beautiful eyes. She looked for me. I wasn’t being presumptuous. Her eyes skirted around the room and they didn’t look anything but angry and hurt when they landed on me. She wiped her emotions clean quickly, but I saw her emotions long enough to know I’d put them there.
She didn’t acknowledge me at first. “Are all of them waiting on me?” she asked, walking over to a binder and flipping it open.
“Yep. I called your clients last night. You’re booked out for the next two weeks solid. First guy’s name is Mike. He said you drew his piece two and a half months ago.”
“Thanks, kid.” She ruffled Mad’s hair and walked around the counter for the waiting area, mumbling, “Morning, Brando,” along her way.
“Morning, Catherine.”
Her shoulders stiffened at my use of her full name, but she didn’t say more. It twisted me up how easy we became strangers. Two nights ago, we’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, and now I barely got a hello. An uneasy feeling burned in my gut, but at that point, pain was everywhere. I endured it, sweeping the ever-loving-shit out of that tattoo shop. I grabbed the dust bin and dumped it in the trash can in the breakroom. The trash was full, so I took it out back and dumped it in the alley, returning as Klay exited his office.
“Cat’s been a prissy little shit since you left.” He slammed his door and headed into the breakroom.
I followed him. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Look, I get it. I don’t blame you for wanting your own space. For wanting to be alone. Been there.” He got two paper coffee cups and filled both. “But you’re not pissing off a sweet little saint. You’re pissing off Catherine Abbott. You have to be prepared for broken bones and a fight.” He handed me one of the cups and then set to making his, pouring a stream of powdered creamer into his.
I ripped open two sugar packets I plucked from the bin. Instead of taking heed to his warning, I found it strangely intoxicating. Dangerous. Fighting a woman like Cat would leave one hell of a beautiful scar. “I think I can handle her.”
He laughed uneasily. “You’re probably the only one.” He patted my back on his way out. “Come with me.”
I put a lid on my coffee after stirring in the creamer, and then followed him into the parlor, and over to the register. “I have a consultation today. Her name is Gloria. It’s an important piece. Take her over to my station and hear her out, and then draw her piece. Don’t fuck it up.” And then he turned to Madison, his rough persona fading in exchange for a soft smile as he bent to kiss her lips.
Looking out over the tattoo parlor, the buzz of the guns in the air, the faint hint of ink and leather in my nose, I felt the burn of something living and heavy.
“Gloria?” I called out.
A short brunette with gauged ears and bangs jumped up, grateful to not be sitting anymore. She wore a tie-dye tunic shirt and jean shorts, her pale legs covered in tats and commando boots. She was so colorful, I blinked when she smiled at me.
I held out my hand. “Brando.” She shook my hand, her cheeks flushing the color of her garnet eyeshadow.
She studied my right arm as she shook my hand, tracing the flames on my inner wrist. She followed the flames up to a pair of aces, stopping in the middle of my piece to bite her lip at me. “These are super badass.”
“Uh, thanks. You want to follow me?”
“Did you draw them? My brother’s an artist. He draws all of my pieces, but he’s overseas right now, and I thought I’d get a tattoo in honor of him.”
“I drew them all. What branch is he in?” I settled in Klay’s seat and nodded for her to take the chair.
“Army. Second tour.” She visibly paled, but I saw the burn of hope in her eyes and knew that I’d do my absolute best to get her piece right. “He’s like my whole world.” She swung her feet, staring at her boots.
I wasn’t a comforting man. My hand hovered awkwardly over hers before I settled mine on hers and squeezed. “Let’s make him proud, yeah?”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
I grabbed the sketchbook off Klay’s station, and pulled the sharpened number two pencil between the pages free and turned to a fresh page. “Anything in mind?”
She kicked the toe of her boot against mine. “I wanted something that represented him, like his life in the Army, but also me, my life without him. My fears, my strength—I have to be strong. I want this tattoo to remind me of that.”
I took a deep breath and then I did something I hadn’t done in years. I opened the vault on my emotions and did the only thing that had ever made sense to me. I drew. My right hand flew over the fresh page, incorporating her suggestions and her pains with my vision. Halfway through, there was too much pencil, gray and black, I needed more color, more vividness.
“Here.” A box of colored pencils appeared in front of me.
“Thank you.” I took the box and gave Cat a grateful smile, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at my sketch. And all the life in the world burned in her gaze. Her eyes shot to mine, and she gulped. She didn’t say anything. She went back to her client and put on fresh gloves, bottom lip between her teeth.
I dumped out the colors and spread them out, holding up the sketch. “What do you think?” I asked Gloria.
“I don’t know. You pick. You’re blowing my mind.” She rested her head on my shoulder, peering down at my sketch with glimmering eyes.
I plucked the purple pencil and added shading around the edges where it needed it, and then I produced the blue, blending the colors together until I had it right.
“Okay, I think that’s it.” I handed the sketch to Gloria, who sat back gripping the sketchbook, her tears brimming.
A single purple protea flower blossomed out of her brother’s army helmet. There was a doll that looked like her on the ground, limbs bent at misplaced angles like doll legs. The doll had dark bangs and combat boots, and though there was a smile on the little dolls face, tears streamed down her face as her little fingers reached for the protea flower. So she’d remember to smile, remember that it was okay to cry, remember to always reach for her strength.
Klay walked over, Cat too, peering over Gloria’s shoulder. Both their faces were slack, and then they met each other’s eyes. Cat’s lips lifted in a smug grin and Clay gave her a nod.
“What do you think?” Klay asked Gloria.
“I think it’s stunning.” She shook her head, an embarrassing amount of gratitude in her eyes. “It’s everything I ever wanted. What does this flower represent?”
“Courage and strength.”
She smiled, teary eyed at the sketch. “It’s perfect.”
“Trace this exact design minus the shading onto transfer paper. Place it where she wants, and I’ll get to work.” Klay waited patiently.
I’d gotten enough tattoos to know how this process worked. I took my time, transferring the sketch until it looked identical minus the shadowing and color. “Where would you like it?” I asked, grabbing a pair of black gloves from the pack on his station.
Gloria gave me her left arm, pointing to the inner skin. “Right here.”
I felt at home, spraying the area with alcohol and using sterile wipes to clean her skin. After transferring the sketch onto her skin, I pushed away, examining the placement. Any time she needed strength, all she had to do was look down.
“Interesting fact. My machine’s empty. If you want to fill it up with sterile needles and fresh ink, I’ll be right back.” Klay sauntered away, a suspicious glimmer in his gaze.
Excitement burned in my blood. Maybe covering up my ink wasn’t about hiding from everyone else. Maybe it was more about hiding from myself. I knew how to load a tattoo machine. I knew how to keep things clean. I knew how to test for strokes, which needles worked best for shading and which worked for outlining. I’d never given a tattoo in my life, but I watched my father give out millions. Black ink ran in my DNA.
I hated how alive I felt powering on the machine. The buzz rattled my teeth, sent my heart into overdrive. I was a teenager again, and danger thrived all around me. Before it all went to hell.
I lost my cool, but when I looked up, Cat was watching me. “You can do it,” she mouthed, giving me an encouraging smile.
Even mad, she was supportive. Even hurt, she was on my side.
I swallowed my emotions and met Gloria’s eyes. “You ready, babe?”
She beamed through her tears. “Yes.”
For the next two and a half hours, I lived. A rush of life rained down on me, saturating me in purpose. Reason. Everything mattered with my ears rattling with the buzz, with the smell of ink and the smear of purple on pale flesh. It was second nature, like picking up a legacy. The Hard Riders’ blood flowed through my veins whether I liked it or not.
Gloria cried as she studied her piece in the mirror when I was done. Silent tears trailed down her face. Her flesh glowed, raw from the needle, but the finished product shimmered purple, blue, and black, with a slight 3D shading, like the piece was rising off her arm.
The moment I turned off the tattoo machine, reality slammed back into me. The sounds of the shop came back, and I was an ex-cop with bullet holes in my back, and no clue at all how I was going to make it.
But at least I had my revenge.