The gym is packed. Most of the guys are here. Rafe is showing Shane some kickboxing moves, while the others are in pairs, practicing what he taught us today.

Dylan is facing me, sweat dripping off his face, his bangs plastered to his forehead. “Come on,” he mutters, hopping from foot to foot, full of restless energy. “Come on.”

He feints, and I take a step back, raising my fists. He swipes his leg, aiming at the back of my knee, but I twist and block. He throws a punch at my jaw, and I thrust my arm up in the last moment, stopping the blow.

“Wake up, Z-man,” he crows and punches the air with his taped hands. “Move it.”

“And you calm down,” I growl. I’m trying to get into it, but I can’t, not tonight. My heart ain’t in it.

What I want…

Dylan aims a kick at my shin, but I see it coming, and step back. Avoid as many hits as possible, deliver as much damage as you can. I move into his defenses and throw a punch at his jaw, which he blocks with his arm.

We both backtrack a little, lower our fists. Voices buzz around us, the smell of sweat is strong on the air. It’s summer, and it’s too hot in here. Too many guys, too many bodies, too many fights.

What I really want…

“Watch out,” Dylan snaps, but it’s too late. The punch catches me in the stomach, and I stumble back a few steps. I can’t draw any air, and I double over, gasping.

“Zane, dammit.” Dylan plants a hand on my shoulder, his blue eyes wide. “You all right? Why didn’t you block?”

Because my mind is elsewhere. Because I haven’t been able to focus on anything for weeks. Because the other guys have noticed, and take it easy on me, but Dylan is too caught up in the downward spiral of his own life to pay attention right now.

“You okay, man?” Rafe is in my face now, pulling me upright.

Fuck. I push down the pain, even as I struggle to draw breath. “Never been better.”

Rafe’s shoulders relax marginally. “Take five, you two.”

Dylan shoves a hand through his bangs, jaw clenching. Shooting me one last glance, he stalks off to the benches.

I think Dylan probably cracked a rib or two. They hurt like a bitch. I won’t be telling Rafe this, though, because the guilt will kill him. Training us was his idea, and he feels responsible for anything that happens to us here.

I’d take a bullet before I cause Rafe worry. He’s the reason I survived until Emma found me. He began my initiation in the world of ink, secured my apprenticeship for what would later become my profession. I worked at the tattoo shop in the afternoons. Later, after the murder of his parents, he bought the shop and changed the name to Damage Control.

Fitting.

“Zane.” Rafe shoots me a knowing look, and I want to punch him in the face. I so don’t need this right now.

“I said I’m fine. Shit happens when you train.”

“He caught you off guard.”

“As I said. Shit happens.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Have I grown tits or something? Do I look like a chick? No, I don’t fucking wanna talk about it.” I rub my stomach where the punch landed. Pain radiates outward and down. My whole chest feels as if it’s burning from the inside. “Go train Shane. Fucker’s useless with his fists.”

Rafe shakes his head and rubs a hand over his face. “You want me to back off, I’ll back off. As long as you get your shit together, and don’t let random guys punch you in the face.”

“It was in the stomach,” I mutter, just to say something. “Not the face. And he wasn’t a random guy.”

He gives me a long, hard look. “Sooner or later, Z-man, you’ll have to take your own advice.”

“Yeah?” I scowl at my reddened knuckles. “And what’s that?”

“Talking. Communicating. Letting others in. You think I don’t see you’re wound up tighter than a spring? Think I don’t know something’s wrong? Suck it up, and let your friends know. We can help.”

I swallow the curses that come up my throat like vomit. How the fuck can anyone help? “Why don’t you talk to Dylan, if you’re so set on having girly talks? He’s sure going through something bad. Today he thought he was punching a wall. That punch, man, that was like a freight train. I think he forgot we’re just training.”

“Oh, I’ll talk to him.” Rafe grunts. “He’ll probably open up as much as you have, which is not at all. You’re the only one who really gets to him. You know that.”

I do. He’s damn right. I should talk to Dylan. Out of the whole Inked Brotherhood, I’ve always thought Dylan was the most likely to turn out fine. We’re all fucked up in the head, screwed over by our pasts and our families, but Dylan’s past ain’t as shitty as Rafe’s, or Asher’s, or Tyler’s… Or mine.

So I should grab him by the scruff of the neck and demand to know what the hell has gone haywire this past month. Shake the truth out of him, if I have to. Demand he get out of the rut, and be okay. Just be okay.

Shit.

Everything is spinning out of control, and panic lurks in the corners of my mind, waiting to pounce. The one thing I can’t fight, that I can’t take, is about to happen, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Emma… I want her to get well. I want a miracle. I want things to go back to how they were a few months ago. I want…

It doesn’t matter. What I’m gonna do is what I usually do as of late. I’ll walk into a bar and drink until I’m shitfaced. Until I can’t think anymore, and my fucking head is empty.

How the hell am I supposed to look out for anyone when my world is crashing down?

* * *

“Found someone?” Tyler asks the next day as I enter Damage Control. He’s manning the reception desk and entering appointments on the computer. The desktop background is a photo of his son, Jax, who has to be a clone. Nobody can look so much like their dad at the age of four, honest. Asher calls Jax ‘Mini Ty.’

“Come again?” I grab the book of appointments to check who to expect today. “Found who?”

“A new roomie.”

I blink stupidly at him. I’m hungover as hell, and my head pounds like a war drum. “Roomie…” Oh right. Erin, my current roommate and Tyler’s girlfriend, is moving out. Moving in with him. Which leaves me in the pleasant position of having to look for a new roommate. “I, uh…” I scratch the back of my head, and try to think through the headache. “Not yet.”

“Have you started looking yet?”

“Nope.”

“You realize she’s moving out tomorrow, right?”

Tomorrow? Hell. “Time flies, doesn’t it?” I say darkly and move to my booth on unsteady legs. Fuck, I’m still drunk. Just how much did I have to drink last night? I can’t remember the end of the evening. Or the last bar I visited, after I was thrown out of the previous one.

Christ.

I dig into a drawer and find aspirin. I swallow two, dry, and rub my itchy eyes.

Shit, Erin is moving out. I should put up an ad on Craigslist, maybe also print some and post at the campus, or even here, in the shop. Ask around. I can’t afford the apartment on my own, and I’ve grown quite attached to it. I’ve lived there since I was seventeen, since Emma married Matt. I like it. I’m used to it. I feel safe there. Ocean used to share the place with me—the other tattooist of Damage Control—and then Erin. And now…

I pass my hands along the shaved sides of my head. My Mohawk is outrageously tall, and I should trim it down. I don’t have the energy right now to style it with gel and hairspray, so it doesn’t droop like the tail of a rooster.

But my sister likes it.

The thought stills me, and the image of Emma in the hospital bed, pale and sick, lodges in my brain like a bullet.

So much for trying to forget.

It doesn’t look good, the doctors said. They’re doing their best, but at this stage…

Fuck. I blink at my surroundings and shake myself. What was I thinking…? Oh, right. Get to work. Find a roommate. Then check on my sister and brace for the news.

For the fucking news. I kick at the booth wall and curse.

“Hey,” Tyler calls from outside my booth, and I grit my teeth. “Zane, you okay?”

I swear, if anyone asks me this one more fucking time…

“Forgot to tell you, man. We’re having a barbecue tonight by the lake. Wanna come?”

“No, I’m cool.” I kick the wall again.

“Zane…” I hear worry in Tyler’s voice, and that’s the last thing I need.

“What?”

“Join us tonight. It will be good.”

“No, it won’t.”

Silence from outside the booth. I draw my stool close and drop on it, staring at the tools of my trade. I love inking skin, love my job. Love art. It’s the one thing that got me through other dark times. So why can’t I find any joy in it right now?

“Dakota will be there,” Tyler says quietly from the opening of the booth, and I freeze.

She will? An image of her flashes through my mind—straight dark hair brushing her slender neck and bangs in her eyes, her lips wrapped around an ice cream cone—and my reaction is the same as every time: I get hard. And we’re not talking just a semi-erection, my dick showing cautious interest. No, my dick is one hundred percent set on her, going diamond hard and aching like a bitch in an instant, as if it hasn’t seen action in years.

“But, of course, you don’t care about that,” Tyler says smugly, the bastard, and leaves me alone to return to the reception desk.

I toy with the tattoo gun. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to drop by. Distractions are always welcome, and Dakota is a major distraction. She has a great ass and small, pert tits. With those big blue eyes and soft mouth, she looks like a manga character—and as my throbbing dick informs me, a goddamn sexy one.

Add to that the fact she keeps pushing me, teasing me with that ridiculous request to have a dragon tattoo, and I’m hooked. It sure takes my mind off other, less pleasant things.

She has no reason to get such a tattoo. I know, ’cuz I asked about her. I asked Audrey, who is good friends with her, and she said Dakota has a great family, no scars anywhere on her body she can see and doesn’t seem to have a dark past.

So I know she’s just teasing me about the tattoo. That she won’t drag me down. And if she wants to hook up with me… Then all bets are off.

Because right now, I need that distraction like never before. Without it, I feel like I’m gonna sink so low nobody will be able to drag me out of the pits again.

* * *

The party is held at the house of a friend of Dylan’s. Or so Tyler informs me as he gives me directions over the phone. He doesn’t seem so sure himself.

We’ll probably end up at an unknown house and burn it down. Stranger things have happened. Like the time Rafe, Dylan and I were so drunk off our asses we entered the wrong building at three in the morning and banged on everyone’s door for a long time, before the police were called, and we were firmly ushered out.

I decide to take the bus. If nobody can drive me home, I’ll call a cab. Although I intend to drink myself stupid, I sure as hell don’t wanna kill anyone along the way.

The evening is warm, the east bathed in blood-red clouds. I shiver in my T-shirt and close my eyes. The rumbling of the engine is calming, and of course I manage to doze off on a crowded, hot bus when I can’t sleep at night in my bed, almost missing my stop. The sound of people shouting and laughing wakes me up, and I step off.

The house is by Lake Mendota, an expensive area, judging by the tall mansions and the gazillion dollar cars parked in their driveways. You make such friends at college? Wow.

The door is wide open, and loud Latin music and voices drift on the warm breeze. I wander inside, looking for familiar faces—one spunky girl in particular—and the beer cooler. Or anything stronger, if possible. Beer just ain’t cutting it lately.

My steps take me through an airy, tall-ceilinged hall with rooms branching off either side. The music and voices get louder as I step outside onto a covered terrace. People mill about, drinking what looks like cocktails in tall glasses with those ridiculous paper umbrellas. Three wide steps lead to the garden. Holy shit, it really is on the edge of the water, perfectly manicured lawns surrounded by rosebushes in bloom and a sailboat moored right outside the hedge, its masts swaying and creaking.

I shake my head and grin. Because of course, with this sort of money, you’d have a yacht or a sailboat at your doorstep, in case you get hit by the urgent need to go out onto the lake at some inconvenient hour. Makes perfect sense to someone like me who owns nothing more than an old car, some clothes and his drawings. Right… So not.

I spot a cooler on a table and head that way. Grabbing a beer, I straighten, looking into the night, the scent of cool water filling the air.

“Hey.” A hand lands on my shoulder, and I jerk, spilling my beer as I spin around.

Dylan looks at me as if I’ve sprouted horns. “Hey, Zen-man, you—?”

“Okay, yeah, I’m okay.” I scowl at my suddenly half-empty beer. “Peachy.”

“Were you having a Zen moment?” He grins.

“Har har. Very funny, Dylan.” I gulp down the rest of my beer. “Just arrived?”

“No, we’ve been here a while.” He points at a group on the other side of the garden. “The guys are there.”

I nod but stall, giving him a once over. Now might be a good time to get him to talk. I’ve known Dylan since we were thirteen, and he’s been a good friend, if a little pigheaded sometimes. He always has my back, no matter what. When his mother left and his father began sliding, he found himself in charge of the household and his two brothers.

“So how are things at home?”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and avoids looking at me. He starts walking, and I fall in step with him. “Same shit.”

But it’s not. I can tell from the tension in his shoulders, in his face. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me.”

I want him to open up and tell me.

I want him to pretend all is fine and tell me to mind my own business.

Fuck. What’s the matter with me? I want to help my friends. I want to be the one they can rely on, as they’ve been doing so far. So why is my heart jackhammering in my chest just at the thought of shouldering any more responsibility?

He says nothing as we brush by groups of people, and I think for a moment that he forgot about my comment.

But apparently he hasn’t. “Teo is sick.”

I miss a step and almost end up on my ass. Fuck, no, not this. Teo is Dylan’s younger brother. He’s only six, dammit. Not fair.

Then again, what’s ever fair? How’s it fair for Emma, who has two little kids?

“What’s wrong with him?” I force myself to ask, and all I see in my mind is Emma’s emaciated face, her hollow eyes. Cold sweat is trickling down my back.

“Doctors don’t know yet.” Dylan slows down and gives me a long look. “You okay, Zen-man? You don’t look too hot.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Have you eaten yet?” When I shake my head, he points to the left. “There’s the food. Let’s get you fed.”

Without another word, I follow him to the grill. As the first whiff of barbecued meat hits me, my stomach growls like a mutant werewolf.

A bearded guy with a huge stomach wields the barbecue tongs like samurai swords, and he barely glances up when we arrive. However, a thinner, long-haired guy with a T-shirt reading ‘Count your dressings’, has plates stacked with burgers and sausages in front of him, and he passes on two to us.

Deciding that’s as good a distraction as any, I stuff my face as I follow Dylan to a pool with a bar. Someone waves at us from the bar stools, and I recognize Ash and Tyler, then I see Erin and Audrey.

No sign of Dakota. Damn.

“Where’s Rafe?” I plant my ass next to Erin and filch one of her fries. She slaps my hand. Typical. “Is he coming?”

“Nah, something came up,” Tyler says and licks his greasy fingers.

“Like what?”

“Something to do with his uncle, I think.” Tyler’s dark eyes narrow. “Why? Anything I should be worried about?”

“No, nothing.” I chew the bite I took of my burger and swallow with difficulty. I almost choke. Rafe’s uncle. Family issues in that household never bode well. I look for the bartender. “Hey, can I get a beer?”

“Slow down, man.” Tyler frowns at me, and I really don’t need a motherfucking nanny.

“Slow down yourself. This was a party, last I looked.”

His brows lift. Yeah, he’s not used to me in such a mood. Tough. It’s not like I can help it. Though a few more beers might help.

The bartender appears and gives me a beer, no questions asked. I salute him. He deserves a medal. The cool alcohol helps me swallow, and I breathe more easily. I pull out my cell and call Rafe.

He doesn’t pick up. Not that that’s unusual, but with my mindset these days, I can imagine accidents, knives flashing, guns cocked, triggers pulled and pools of blood… I have a good imagination, made all the more vivid by the nasty crap it’s been fed during my less than stellar childhood.

“He’s okay, Z-man,” Ash says, nailing me with a look. “I talked to him earlier. Just some paperwork about his house.”

I nod vaguely and down the rest of my beer. Yeah. I bet he’s as fine as I am. Fine as rain. Rafe’s demons are so bad I don’t even know if I can ever help him.

As for Dylan… I glance at him sitting there, wolfing down his burgers, and swallow a sigh. I once thought he’d be the first of us to bounce back and resume his life. Star school quarterback, college scholarship in his pocket, best grades, a girlfriend who loved him…

When it all went to shit, I thought one of those things would push him back up to the surface. But he kept sinking. Things at home only got worse and worse, until he hit rock bottom. I sometimes I wonder what I think I’m doing. If there is anything I can do.

And now… Hah. Fuck it, now all I want is to forget everyone’s problems.

Especially mine.

* * *

The music is pounding in my ears as I stumble through the garden, crossing the immaculate lawn. Someone is calling my name, I think, but I ignore them. Leaving my collection of empty beer bottles on the bar, a freshly opened one in hand, I make my way through the gate and out, onto a small beach. Two torches have been stuck into the ground, shedding flickering light on the water of the lake and the sailboat moored at the dock.

This evening sucks. The beer isn’t enough to take my mind off the present. I lift my bottle and take a swig. Or maybe I haven’t had enough? I try to count in my head how many I’ve had so far and can’t remember for the life of me.

Still. Not enough. And the bartender had no hard liquor to offer. Orders of the parents of the friend of… Dylan, was it?

Frowning, I stare out at the lights on the other shore and wonder if I can swim there. Why? I don’t know. Just sounds like an activity that could stop me from thinking.

I’m really considering it, taking a step closer to the water, when I hear the gate open and close behind me.

“Hey, Zane,” a girl says—a familiar voice. “The guys said I might find you here.”

I turn around so fast I almost faceplant. “Hey,” I say and manage to slur even that little word. For shame, Zane. “Dakota.”

She’s standing right next to one of the torches, and the light dances on the pink streaks in her dark wild hair and her elfin face. Tonight she’s dressed more goth than punk—in a super short lacy dress and black stockings up to her thighs. She’s even wearing lacy cut-off gloves. They seem one with the colorful ink swirling on her forearms—a mirror of my own ink sleeves.

My mouth goes dry. Something like electricity zaps through my body, making my nerve endings hum, and my dick rises to say hi.

Fairly predictable, aren’t you, Dick the dick?

“Having a good time?” Dakota asks, shifting her weight on one foot, and placing those black-clad hands on her hips. Dark lashes flutter over her eyes.

“Awesome,” I croak, wondering if it’s possible to pass out from getting so hard. All the blood has flowed south to a certain happy part of me.

She tilts her head to the side, slender dark brows drawing together. Damn, it’s filthy hot when she does that. My cock throbs and swells, trying to bore a hole through my jeans. It’s so hard it just might.

“Zane?” She sounds exasperated.

Have I missed something? Was she talking to me? “Yeah?”

“I asked how much you’ve had to drink.”

I shrug, lift the bottle and discover it’s empty. Damn bottles are defective. They keep running dry. “A few.”

“You’re wasted.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Wasted ain’t the same as drunk.” I drop the bottle and scrub a hand over my face. “The difference is small, but distinctive. When you’re drunk, you sing or slur your words.” Like I’m doing now.

“Uh-uh.”

“When you’re wasted, you puke your guts out, and you find yourself in strangers’ beds without knowing how you got there.” At least that’s my definition, and I’m sticking to it. “I should know. I’ve done both plenty of times.”

“You have, huh?”

Another thing typical of the drunk variety: talking without any input from the brain. The automatic mouth.

Dakota laughs, and it’s like small bells tolling. “You’re funny. You’re a funny drunk.”

Did I say that out loud? I groan. “So how is it going?”

“Good.” She steps closer, and the breeze ruffles her black hair and dress. Her eyes seem to glow. “How about you?”

I open my mouth to lie, and I have to swallow around a knot in my throat. Why can’t I lie to her, say everything is okay?

So of course I end up saying nothing. Her scent floats up at me—warm stone, warm grass, flowers and honey—and she’s so near I can touch her.

I want to touch her. Dying to.

“Erin told me you’re looking for a roommate.”

I blink. “Yeah, so…?”

“As it happens, I’m looking for a roommate, too. The girl I’m living with is moving in with her boyfriend, so...”

I blink again. She’s not asking…

“Want to be roommates?” She still isn’t looking at me. I can see her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“No.” Hell no. That would be a royal fuck-up. I don’t do relationships, don’t even bring chicks home, and to live next door to someone I want to fuck into the wall… Best recipe for disaster.

Because there can be no repeat performance once we screw. If we screw. No holding hands, and no plans for a future, or even a friendship. I’ve seen it a thousand times. It would mean I’d never see her again, and why that bothers me, I don’t know.

“Okay.” She bites her lip, and damn, I want to draw it into my mouth, taste her, make her moan.

“Okay,” I echo.

“Then the least you can do is ink me,” she whispers. “To make up for this.”

She has turned her head toward me, and her face is now in shadow. The flames illuminate her pale shoulder. The dark lines of a tattoo creep under her dress and wrap around her slim arm.

I lick my lips, my brain on pause. “Ink you?”

“The dragon tattoo I’ve been asking you for.”

Oh, that again. “I said no.”

“So you have.” She winks and I relax.

Familiar territory. Teasing. This is turning into a running joke between us. An insider thing nobody else understands but us. And it’s fine. She has no dark past, remember? She’s clean of misfortune, clear like crystal. Maybe that’s what draws me to her, this promise of pure calm and pleasure with no drama attached. No need to save her, like everyone else around me.

Call me selfish. I call it a sense of self-preservation. Give me one more fucked-up person to look after, and I’m going over the fucking deep end for good.

“Why do you always say no to me?” She’s closer all of a sudden. One more step, and she looks up at me. “Why, Zane?”

“I don’t…” It’s damn hard to think straight when she’s all but pressed against me. Even from the few inches separating us, she has to feel my hard dick making a bulge in my jeans.

“Then say yes.”

She’s so close, so damn close. But she isn’t touching me. I want her to touch me, and this hasn’t happened to me in a very long time. “Yes to what?”

“Just say yes,” she whispers and places her hands on my hips, closing the small gap, pressing on my straining erection.

I swear I see stars. “Yes. Yes.” I don’t even care what I’m agreeing to. It can’t be normal, to be so hard for so long just from staring at a girl. Something’s seriously wrong with me.

She lets out a breathless laugh. “Good.”

“So what did I just agree to?”

“Saturday night we’re performing in a bar. Come see us.”

Shit. “Us?”

“Our band, Deathmoth. Rafe’s the drummer. I’m the lead singer.”

Right, I knew this. Come to think of it, Rafe also invited me, but I forgot about it. She wants me to go see her… I imagine her on a small stage, holding the long pole of the microphone in her hands, pressing her lips to it, her hips swaying, her large eyes sparkling…

I jerk back, about to come in my pants. What the hell am I doing?

She sighs, pouts a little. I reach for her lips without much thought, trail my thumb over their softness. They part, and her tongue darts out, licking my skin.

Holy hell. My cock is leaking now, and I move forward, a hand on her arm. I can’t stop myself, I have to hold her, do her, have her—

She draws back. “See you Saturday, then,” she says, smiles and turns to go.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Fuck.”

I think that one word covers it beautifully.