I always feel like a complete psycho carrying two Starbucks venti cups into the cemetery. But I promised Star I would bring her a caramel macchiato every time I came to see her. I guess it’s not any crazier than sitting outside the family tomb, talking out loud as if she can hear and answer me.
After my conversation with Stone, I knew I needed to come see her. With the potential storm approaching, this might be my only opportunity to talk with her for a while. At least the rain stopped for a while so I won’t get drenched while I’m out here.
I weave my way through rows of tombs, vaults, and copings in the St. Roch Cemetery. The path I take to our family tomb is always the same. Carmen, one of the groundskeepers, waves at me as he walks down a parallel row.
The first time he found me sobbing outside the tomb, mere days after we interred Star, I didn't know how I was going to go on with my life. Carmen had walked over and placed an arm around my shoulders, offering me comfort even though I was a complete stranger. I'm sure he'd seen a thousand people just like me, distraught and hysterical before a grave, but he made me feel as though he understood my pain by simply being there and not even saying a word. He probably thinks the Starbucks thing is insane too, but he keeps his mouth shut about it because I always remove it before I leave.
“Hawke” is emblazoned in the granite on the front of the tomb. My father’s name—Samuel—sits below the names of his parents who died before I was even born. I always feel weird coming to talk to Star and not saying anything to Dad, so I give my customary “hi, Dad,” before setting the Starbucks on the step in front of the tomb.
Reading Star’s name carved into the granite never fails to send shivers up my spine. I don't know if I'll ever be able to accept the fact she’s truly gone. Even though I no longer feel the connection we had when Star was alive, I still sense her presence every day and know she’ll always be a part of me. Maybe that will never change. I sure hope it doesn’t.
My chest aches and tears well up in my eyes. I turn my back to the tomb and wipe them away before taking a seat on the concrete wall across the aisle from where she lies.
“Hey Star, you're never gonna believe what happened. Well, actually, you probably would've expected this. You probably would’ve seen this coming a mile away if you would have seen the way things have been since the wedding.” I take a sip of my sugary coffee and stare at her name on the stone, picturing the way her eyes would widen waiting for me to continue. “I slept with Gabe—multiple times.”
Images of our bodies entwined and heaving in ecstasy flit through my head and heat my skin even in the damp air. “I don’t even know how it happened, he just showed up at my place and said we needed to talk. He wanted to clear the air about the kiss because things have been fucking awkward and tense between us. But instead of talking, we ended up fucking on the kitchen counter while we let the cookies I was baking burn to a crisp.”
I chuckle because Star would be absolutely rolling at that mental picture. “The smoke detector was wailing, and we just kept going at it like two dogs in heat.”
Very, very horny dogs.
“And God, Star, it was fucking amazing. Even though it was hard and fast, it was everything I always thought it would be. Shit, Star, I love him. You’ve always known that. And I should be happy I finally got what I wanted, I finally have him. But…”
I think back to last night and this morning, the haunted look in his eyes and the way he completely disconnected from himself.
“…I’m worried. He pulled out the lighter you gave him. I know he put it away a while ago. It’s been six months since he quit the last time. But I smelled it the other night and this morning when I got up, he was smoking in the condo, and he had the lighter sitting next to him. I've never seen him look that lost. There’s something going on with him. Something more than just being concerned about how Savage will react when he finds out.”
Although, that’s definitely something to worry about. Savage isn’t exactly known for his calm, even temper.
“Whatever this is, it’s been going on for a while. It's something in his eyes. There’s something dark there. It reminds me of when he first came back, you know, when things were just a little off. If you were here, you would help me figure it out or you might even already know what's going on. You were always better at reading him than I was. I know he talked to you back then. You were the only person he spoke to about whatever was weighing on him. God, I was so fucking jealous of you for that.”
Gabe had always confided in Star. Everyone did. She was the perfect listener and the perfect advice-giver. “Wise beyond her years,” is what Mom always said. And talking to her was like being in a fucking confessional—nothing you told her ever left her lips. The things she knew about and never mentioned to anyone would probably blow my mind.
I did my best to try to pry it out of her, especially things Gabe told her. But, she maintained her vow of secrecy, even when I tried to invoke the twin code. I wonder if she would have kept her silence if Gabe spilled to her now.
“Whatever is happening, it’s part of why he’s fighting this so hard. It’s not just because of Savage. There's something deeper there, something that’s eating away at him. He's not talking to me about it. I think part of him still sees me as the immature, irresponsible little girl he used to rescue whenever we would get in trouble. Well, when I would get in trouble and drag you along.”
I pause to take a couple sips of my drink and scan the cemetery. A group of tourists wanders by a bisecting row, snapping pictures on their way to the chapel.
My eyes burn with renewed unshed tears. “He was always there for us, and I feel so fucking helpless seeing him like this and not being able to do anything. Why won’t he confide in me? I know he’s having nightmares, and he thinks he’s going to hurt me. But he won’t tell me what they’re about or what I can do to help him besides give him a hole to stick his cock into.”
That comes out more bitter than I intended it. “Shit, I know he doesn’t think of me like that. And I love that I can give him something to take his mind off whatever is eating away at him, but this morning…it was like he was trying to fuck away his demons. That scares the crap out of me. Not because I think he would ever hurt me, but because I’m worried he’s going to hurt himself.”
The tears flow now, and I don’t bother trying to stop them this time. If anything ever happened to Gabe, I know I wouldn’t make it. I thought losing Star was the worst thing that would or could ever happen to me, but the thought of losing Gabe, of never seeing his sexy smirk or bright eyes again, steals my fucking breath.
“God Star, just tell me what to do. Should I just sit down with Savage and tell him everything even though that's not what Gabe wants? Would that help Gabe get through whatever is going on with him by removing the biggest obstacle for us? Or should I follow his lead and hide in the shadows? I don't want to live in the shadows. I’ve existed in one giant shadow since you died. And I'm just fucking sick of it.”
I take another drink of my coffee and stare up at the sky. The dark, ominous clouds send a shudder down my spine. They say that there's only a fifty percent chance of the storm hitting us. But I've heard that before, and I have a bad feeling about this one. We’re gonna have to start preparing soon. And hope there aren't any evacuations.
“It looks like the storm is moving in. I'm sure Savage will have a fucking meltdown if the hurricane hits with Dani being this pregnant. I probably shouldn't give them anything else to worry about until at least the storm has passed. But Jesus, everything is so fucked up…I just don't know what to do anymore. I’d give anything to have you here. Please, tell me what to do.”
Of course, I get no answer. I’m still alone and adrift without a lifejacket with the storm barreling down on us.
The buzz and whir of the tattoo machine and the constant prick of the needle against my skin lull me into a sort of semi-coma. I’m never more relaxed than when sitting in the chair getting inked.
Not even an orgasm can satiate me the way the pain does.
Although, coming inside Skye comes pretty damn close.
Christ, that woman…
But I’m here to try to forget about that, about her, at least for a few more hours.
The fact that I was even able to get in today is a fucking miracle. Jeremy books weeks and sometimes months in advance, but he knows me well enough to know when I call and say I need him right away, it’s desperate times. I almost feel bad about the clients he probably cancelled on to squeeze me in. Almost.
I was lucky to find him all those years ago. A friend of mine had some great work done and told me to go see him when I was looking to get my virgin skin inked after my first deployment. It took us almost a year to finish what we started that day—a sleeve that runs from the top of my left shoulder all the way down over my forearm to my wrist.
The mock armor starts at my shoulder with a Mandala. Drawing a Mandala during meditation is meant to focus the mind but also acts as a protective space in which the meditator can reside. Focus was essential to my job, and the idea of finding somewhere protected held a deep meaning for me no one could ever understand.
Palden Lhamo dominates my bicep. Despite her frightening appearance, she is a mother protector deity in Tibetan Buddhism. The snarling face represents the ferocity with which humans must resist temptation to stray from being true to themselves and remaining true to their principles. It was so easy to lose myself doing what I did every day. The struggle was constant, and she was a perpetual reminder not to let anything steer me away from what I knew was right.
My forearm bears Chinese Foo Dogs—protectors that reside outside the entrances to homes and palaces. They are a mated pair—the left, male, the right, female. Both foo dogs have orbs under their paws. The male's orb contains geometric designs, which represent the structure itself, his domain of protection. The female has a cub under her paw. The cub represents the people and children within the home, her domain of protection. This portion represents the Hawkes, the only true family I’ve ever known. They took me into their home and accepted me as one of them when I believed I was alone in this world. Mrs. Hawke has been my constant protector and source of strength. With this permanently inked into my skin, I was always reminded I was not alone, and that they would always be waiting for me when I returned.
Over the years, he’s added several other pieces to my body. The koi on my left ribcage was next. The Chinese legend of the Dragon Gate tells of the koi fish swimming upstream, through waterfalls and other obstacles to reach the top of the mountain where the Dragon Gate sat. When the koi finally reached the top, it became a dragon, one of the most auspicious creatures in Chinese culture. Because of this, the koi represents strength, determination, and perseverance in the face of adversity. That’s how I always saw Mrs. Hawke. She was left to raise five children alone and still managed to offer love and affection to the little boy from down the street, defending me just as fiercely as she did her own children.
Then, when I became a Ranger, I had “sua sponte” inked into my right bicep. The ranger motto means “of their own accord” in Latin, and refers to the Rangers' ability to accomplish tasks with little to no prompting and to recognize that a Ranger volunteers three times: for the U.S. Army, Airborne School, and service in the 75th Ranger Regiment.
And most recently, he completed the massive back piece in honor of my regiment. The 75th regimental scroll extends across my shoulder blades over the unit crest. That took ten sessions to complete. Ten wondrous sessions where I was dead to the world and found safe harbor from the hurricane of unrest in my head.
The needle comes off my skin, and I check Jeremy over my shoulder, smirking at the damn Siracha t-shirt I’ve seen on him at least a dozen times.
He raises his eyebrow at me from under the newsboy cap he always wears, and I give him a little nod to tell him to keep going. I've been in the chair for six hours already.
This is a tattoo many people would've broken up into two or three sessions. Those people are fucking pussies.
Jeremy works until I can’t handle it anymore, and it hasn’t happened yet in the twelve years I’ve been coming to him. There have been times we haven't completed a piece in the first sitting, but that’s always been because Jeremy didn’t have time or was tired, not because I couldn't tolerate the pain anymore.
Today is the right rib cage.
This is what they mean when they say it hurts so good.
With the thousands of nerve endings in the rib cage, most people agree it’s one of the most painful areas to get tattooed—precisely why I chose to do it today.
I concentrate on the sound and the feel of the machine and let myself relax for the first time in what feels like months. This is better than therapy, although I’m not dumb enough to cancel my appointment with Doc. That could lead to a lot worse things than more ink…like another stay in the mental health ward.
It only happened once, shortly after my last deployment. Once was enough to convince me I needed to take better care of myself and that I couldn’t ignore my symptoms for what they were—PTSD. It’s the last thing I ever wanted to admit, that I wasn’t strong enough to handle what I did and saw over there. But being in the VA and witnessing what happened to the people who ignored it and let it get out of control, persuaded me that admitting you needed help was the lesser of two evils.
Doc came to me by way of a recommendation from a guy I served with. He said she was intelligent and compassionate, but also blunt, and assured me she wouldn’t let me bullshit her. I figured those were probably all good qualities for a psychiatrist.
I wasn’t wrong.
Her straight-forward, no-nonsense approach to therapy really helped me see what I was doing to myself and how fucking stupid I was for trying to ignore or brush off the nightmares and panic attacks. And while she doesn’t exactly support ink therapy, she understands why I do it.
“You sure you want to keep going, man?” Jeremy pulls the machine off my skin and glances up at me again.
“Why? You getting tired, old man?” I love giving him shit when he wants to stop. He’s only ten years older than me, but making him feel old makes me feel young.
He grins at me and shakes his head. “No, I’m just asking ‘cause we are hitting the eight hour mark now. I don’t think anyone has ever sat this long for me before.”
Eight hours?
Where did the last two hours go?
I examine the large clock hanging on the wall and confirm the time; it’s almost 10:00 p.m. “How much do we have left to go?”
He shrugs and contemplates his work. “Maybe an hour, hour and a half.”
“If you don’t mind staying, let’s just get it done tonight.”
“Whatever you want, man.” He dips the needle into the black ink and returns it to my skin.
I’ve been wanting a piece there forever but could never decide what to get. After what happened with Skye at my place this morning, and the phone call with my father, it just came to me.
A lone figure stands with his head tilted up toward the sky where a turbulent storm threatens.
A swirling mass of dark, billowing thunderheads occupies the sky and lightning cracks across the center, striking the ground and illuminating the figure, throwing a ghastly shadow.
Doc is going to really get a kick out of micro-dissecting this one.
It couldn’t be a more accurate representation for the way I have felt as of late.
I had let what happened with Abello throw me off my path of recovering my sanity. Things were good before that night. Life was livable. I hadn’t seen Doc in months, and I had gotten to the point where I didn’t need the meds she’d prescribed to help me sleep and get through the day. The nightmares were few and far between, and it felt like my life was finally back on track.
But killing those men threw me into a tailspin that has only increased now that I finally acted on my feelings for Skye.
And it’s only going to get worse.
There is no happily ever after here. There can’t be. Not when I know how Savage is going to react. I might as well be shooting him in the fucking heart.
The truth is, I’m getting this tattoo not only as a means of stress relief, but also as punishment. It will be a constant reminder of what fucking up the friendship with the only person who ever truly cared about me feels like. Every time I look at it, I’ll know that I put myself there through my own actions. I’ll know that the reason I’m alone in the world is because I couldn’t keep my fucking dick in my pants.