Tyler

by Jo Raven

  Crap.

  Refusing to let myself drop everything and hide under my covers, I start cutting up the onions. At least that will give me a good excuse if the tears decide to return. The apartment is quiet; Zane is at work, but he should be back home soon.

  I’m cooking the pasta and sautéing the mussels and shrimp with the onions and spices when I hear the door whine open and male voices. I recognize Zane’s, but it’s not until I see his companion I recognize the other.

  Rafe.

  Rafe’s a nice guy. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but he’s easygoing and polite. I turn with a smile as they enter the small kitchen, sniffing the air like dogs on a blood scent.

  “Something smells great.” Zane gives a wolfish smile and comes to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “Is this my favorite food?”

  “Yeah. Thought it’s been a while.”

  “And the occasion is?” He lifts a brow, and heat rushes up my face when I think of the favors I need to ask.

  “Do we need one?”

  He shrugs and lets go of me. “Got enough for three?”

  “Sure.” I turn to nod at Rafe. “Do you like seafood pasta?”

  “Yeah, sounds awesome,” he says and slips into a chair at the table, folding in his long frame. “Zen-man here says your cooking rocks, and I’ve been dying for a taste.”

  I turn back to my pan, a pleased smile on my face. “See?” I tell Zane who tries to filch a shrimp from the pan. I slap his hand away. “A man with manners. You should learn from him.”

  “My pride is wounded,” Zane clutches dramatically at his heart and backs away.

  Rafe chuckles.

  I guess this isn’t a good time to bring up the two topics I wanted to talk to Zane about. I finish up preparing the pasta, mix it up and place the pot on the worn table. Zane places our chipped white dishes and silverware, and I grab the pot of grated parmesan from the fridge.

  “Dig in,” I say and slide into the seat next to Rafe.

  He serves himself, then passes the food to Zane, who heaps his own dish high with pasta before passing the noodle fork to me.

  As always, Zane starts inhaling his food before I even finish serving myself. He groans with pleasure, his eyes closing.

  “Keep your orgasms more quiet, man,” Rafe mutters, and I choke on my first forkful of pasta.

  Zane shakes his head and sighs. “This is quiet, fucker. You haven’t heard me when I’m having a real good one.”

  I put down my fork before I choke to death and get up to grab a glass of water. “Guys…”

  “This is good stuff,” Rafe says as I return to the table. He gestures at his plate. “Zane was right.”

  “Thanks.” He really is a nice boy. I beam at him. “There’s enough for second servings.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  He really is a handsome one, too, with his cat-like face, golden mane and tawny eyes—but my tastes run to dark. Can’t get over a pair of inky eyes and a shaggy mop of hair, a square jaw and a broad smile. A smile I haven’t seen in years.

  God, Tyler…

  “Hey, Zane.” I nod at the pot. “There’s more for you, too.”

  “Okay, spill.” A side of his mouth lifts in a lazy smile. “What do you want from me? Cooking my favorite food, telling me to have more…What’s the catch?”

  Crap. Caught. I suck a deep breath. “Do you know this chick, Dakota?”

  His face falls. “Audrey’s friend.”

  Right. “Well, she wants you to ink her.”

  “No way. I told her already.”

  “Why not? What’s the big deal?”

  Zane shakes his head stubbornly, his Mohawk swaying slightly. “Tell her I said ‘hell no’ and that’s final.”

  “So you won’t tell me why not?”

  “Ask her what sort of tattoo she wants, and you’ll understand why.”

  I purse my lips. “Fine.” It’s his business, who he wants to ink or not, but his reaction seems a bit extreme.

  “Oh, by the way, we saw Tyler today,” Zane says.

  Trying to change the topic, much? “Where?”

  “He passed outside Damage.” Meaning, Damage Control, the tattoo shop—the boys have shortened the name.

  Rafe puts down his fork carefully, his gaze flicking between Zane and me. “He looked like hell warmed over.”

  My heart squeezes in a vise. “Why? What happened?”

  Rafe shrugs and shoots another uncertain look at Zane. What are they hiding from me? “He looked spooked. The only thing I could get out of him was that there was a meeting with a lawyer this morning and that Asher was there, too.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” I mutter, mystified.

  Zane winces. “You wouldn’t know, but Asher sorta hates Tyler’s guts for going off like that years ago and not reporting in until now.”

  I swallow hard. “Sounds like he let a lot of people down.”

  Zane sighs and pushes a mussel around his plate with his knife. “Something’s seriously off with that fucker. My hell-radar is never wrong.”

  “You got an infernal radar?” One of Rafe’s golden brows lifts.

  “Fucker, I know the inside of hell like the palm of my hand,” Zane grunts. “If there’s anyone who can tell who else has been in the pits, that’s me.”

  Although he’s grinning, my stomach knots up. I know he’s been through some bad stuff as a kid, but he won’t let me in, won’t tell me what really happened.

  Rafe nods, as if he knows what Zane is talking about. Maybe he does. This whole brotherhood is so screwed up, it hurts.

  “What else did Tyler say?” I ask.

  Zane drops his knife on the table. “Nothing much. Told ya, girl, you should talk to him.”

  I bite my lower lip, suddenly angry again at Tyler for his disappearing act and for tugging at my heart strings without even being here, at my part in pushing him away and never getting a chance to turn back time. “Maybe. Will you give me his phone number?”

  Zane frowns as he pulls out his cell and scrolls down the numbers. He seems to be turning something over in his mind. “He might be at Damage tomorrow afternoon, you know. If you wanna drop by.”

  “He’s thinking of getting a tattoo?”

  Zane’s slanted eyes darken. “No, but he really should.”

  Chapter Five

  Tyler

  The cell rings as I come out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my waist, frigid wind blasting through the open windows. Marlene’s name flashes on the screen, and I let the phone ring and ring as I grab clean clothes and get dressed. No idea why she’s still trying. I told her from the start I don’t do relationships. I don’t do love. I don’t bring flowers and chocolates. I don’t cuddle, and I don’t stick around after fucking.

  My mistake was letting her talk me into hooking up for more than one night. To her it was apparently a relationship; to me it was a serial one-night-stand.

  I shiver with cold, so I ditch the wet towel and grab my clothes. Pulling on my worn jeans—so worn they’re falling apart, but money for new clothes isn’t on the table right now—I sit on the bed and grab my boots. The damn phone has finally stopped ringing, but I see two missed calls on the screen instead of just one. Curious, I scroll through the calls, and I see James’ name, too.

  James is the only person in the world I call a friend—and even that isn’t entirely true. I press ‘call’ and lean back against the wall, propping my foot on the mattress. After four rings, he picks up.

  “Tyler? You bastard, where are you?”

  I smirk. “Told you I was going away.”

  “Thought you’d at least leave an address or something.”

  My smirk falls. A pattern, huh? Always going away without leaving traces. Shit. “I’m in Madison, man. Need to make sure my little bro’s okay. He’s been through hell, and it’s partly my fault, so…”

  “Should’ve just said so, asshole.” He pauses. “You are coming back, aren�
��t you?”

  I close my eyes and rub the throbbing spot between my brows. “Sure, sure. How’s everything?”

  “Fucking perfect. Peaceful. Know why?” I can hear the grin in his voice. “You’re not here to wreak havoc, that’s why.”

  I snort. “Sounds boring, if you ask me.”

  James sorta took me in when I arrived to Chicago, after Uncle Jerry’s death. He gave me a job at his café and got my drugs for me. Never questioned what I had to do to keep sane. Never tried to stop me. I owe him big for that. But I’ve never felt close to him. He has his own walls around him and they’re solid titanium; no chinks I can see.

  “That chick you’ve been seeing is stalking me,” James grumbles into the phone. “Tell her to go hang out somewhere else.”

  “Damn. Tell her to go to hell.”

  “You do that, Tyler. It’s your dick she’s after, not mine. It’s you who can’t keep it in his pants. You tell her to fuck off.”

  “Yeah, yeah…”

  He is silent for a beat. “I’m hiring a guy for now, to replace you. Until you decide if you’re coming back or not. I won’t wait long, got it?”

  “Thanks, J.” That’s kinder of him than I expected.

  He hangs up and I sigh, putting down the cell. I glance around the bare studio with its stained walls, fake wood floors and sparse, mismatched furniture, and wonder for the thousandth time what the hell I’m doing here. Why I think I can change anything for the better. I guess I never was a bright one.

  But I can’t go back just yet.

  My hands close into fists. I’ve come this far, I’m not giving up so soon. I’ve quit the pills, and moved here. I’m not leaving before talking to Asher—and seeing Erin one more time.

  ***

  Zane’s job offer rattles inside my head as I climb on my Ducati and rev it up. As jobs go, I could do worse than holding the front desk at Damage Control. I didn’t realize Zane had the power to hire and fire people. Then again, he seemed to look for confirmation from Rafe at some point, which is even weirder. Kid is Asher’s age. Maybe the shop belongs to his family?

  Trying to clear my head, I drive around town. Before I realize, I’m heading toward my old neighborhood. Dad’s house.

  No, not Dad’s. Jake Devlin’s.

  It appears at the end of the street, on the turn, just as I remember it. I’ve made a point of never coming back here, even when I was checking on Asher. I’d pass by his school, instead.

  Cutting the engine, I just sit there and look. The garden is overgrown, and the fence is rotten in places. Rotten is a good word for this house and the man who owned it. I can see the window of my bedroom, and I wonder what it looks like now. Is it as I left it? Is it empty?

  The lawyer’s message said I have to go through my stuff, see if there is anything I want to keep before the house is sold, but the thought of walking through that door turns my stomach. It’s hard escaping from the memories when I’m far, and I don’t know what will happen once I’m inside those walls—stuck inside the living memory of what happened.

  Last time I was here, Mom was alive. I can see her in my memory’s eye, walking down the steps, her long dark hair fluttering in the wind. I loved her, dammit, even when she chose to ignore the way Dad treated me, the way he hurt me. Even when she called me a liar when I confided in her. I know she was sick already and wasn’t telling us. Maybe she didn’t want to believe. Maybe she didn’t have the energy to care.

  Then I remember her eyes that night in the basement... Scared. She was finally scared for me, but I was beyond that by then. Dad had lost it completely and then...

  Jesus F. Christ.

  As I stare at the familiar, hated sight of the house, I realize I’ll have to tell Asher what happened here. If he’s ever to forgive me, he needs to understand my reasons for leaving. To know how Dad held a knife to my throat and threatened all of us if I opened my mouth to tell anyone about it.

  And Erin...

  No. Not Erin. Can’t tell her. I don’t know what she’d think about me.

  Besides, the truth doesn’t guarantee forgiveness. I made mistakes. Hell, I’m a walking mistake myself. I’m only alive due to circumstance. Maybe chance has given me a second shot, and I should fucking use it.

  Talking of second chances…

  Revving the engine, I take a skidding U-turn and head back to town and Damage Control. My gloved hands squeak on the handles with every narrow turn I take, and the side of my knee brushes the asphalt.

  Snow begins to fall, fat, swirling flakes that curtain my view of the town, turning it blurry and ghostly. On days like this, my scars itch, and the old fractures in my bones ache. It was a winter like this when I was sent away, my arms wrapped around broken ribs and burning wounds.

  Goddammit, I don’t wanna remember. I’m over that shit. I’m strong now; what happened to me then can’t happen again. Nobody can touch me.

  I park my bike outside Damage Control and pull off my leather gloves. I flex my hands. Snow is covering the sidewalk, erasing spills and stains. A fresh carpet for me to walk on.

  I throw my gloves into the tail case, lock and secure my bike and make my way to the shop. Chimes jingle as I push the door open and enter, shoving my hair out of my face.

  “Hey.” Zane is wiping his hands on a towel. His Mohawk is drooping, and his fingers are stained with black ink. “That’s a sweet ride you got out there.” He nods at my black Ducati, visible through the shop front window. “Must be worth a lot.”

  I shrug. My bike’s the only thing that really belongs to me. “She’s not for sale.”

  Zane clucks his tongue. “Didn’t think she was. How’s it going?”

  I lick my chapped lips. The urge to start counting in my head—to start repeating her name over and over again until my mind blanks—is overwhelming. “Came to talk to you about the job.”

  He grins. “Want it?”

  “If you’re still offering.”

  “Damn right I am.”

  Some tension leaves my body, and I nod. “When do I start?”

  “Today if you want.” He gestures at the desk. “Megan helped out as long as she could, but she has her job at the café. Welcome aboard, Tyler Devlin.”

  That easy? I narrow my eyes at him. Why is he being so friendly? “Grayson.”

  “What?”

  “Tyler Grayson.” I scratch the stubble on my cheek. “I’m not Jake Devlin’s son. So I ditched his name.” And took Uncle Jerry’s family name instead. Why the hell not?

  Zane is staring at me with those dark eyes that give nothing away. Then he nods. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” I’m relieved he doesn’t ask any questions. “Anything I should know?”

  “Appointment book is there. List of customer numbers and details. The catalogs you’ve seen already. I’ll be around, and you can ask the guys. There’s Micah, Shane, Ocean, Jesse and Seth. Micah and Ocean work here, Jesse, Shane and Seth are apprentices. Now he,” Zane points at one of the tattoo artists coming out of a booth, “can tell you more. Hey, Micah, come over here and tell Tyler a few things about manning the front desk, will ya?”

  So Micah walks over, a tall, blond boy, his hair hanging in his face, tattoos swirling up his neck and down his arms. In his quiet voice, he explains to me what my duties are. All the while, Zane is watching us, thoughtful.

  I’d worry, but I’ve seen Zane with my little brother, at the hospital and afterward, at Dad’s funeral. He’s a good guy. If anything, Zane has been more of a big brother to Ash than me.

  And that, dammit, isn’t hard, because I’ve sure as fuck failed Ash and everyone around me.

  ***

  I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat. My mouth’s dry. My joints ache. Cold shivers go through me.

  Then my stomach cramps, and I double over. Shit. I barely make it to the bathroom before bile rises in my throat. Falling to my knees, I puke my guts out into the toilet.

  Another crappy night. I grab the sink to
rise to my feet and rinse the foul taste from my mouth. Then I splash cold water on my face and slump back against the tiled wall, exhausted.

  How long? I itch to have the drugs back, but I threw them all away, flushed them down the toilet. Stupid.

  The tap drips, and it’s like gunshots in my ears. My skin fucking hurts where it stretches over my bones. I sink down to the floor and fold my arms over my knees, resting my forehead on them. It feels like I’m dying, like my heart will give out. I know it’s not a panic attack; I know those way too well.

  Not an attack, but I can feel the panic lurking at the back of my mind, waiting to pounce, a dark presence, a shadow waiting to sink sharp claws into my chest and try to rip my heart out.

  Time passes in odd lurches and jumps. The sky is lightening outside the tiny bathroom window. Insomnia is another old buddy of mine. The pills helped with that over the years, as they did with the attacks, but now... Now it’s as if those years have been wiped away, and I’m back at the beginning.

  Where I don’t wanna be. Stuck in the past, stuck in fear.

  Finally I manage to get up and step into the shower stall. I slam my hand on the wall, trying to focus. Pain radiates down my hand to my elbow, clearing some of the haze in my head. I crank up the cold water, and the first splash jerks me like a puppet.

  I’m too cold already, so I turn on the hot water and lean back against the tiled wall until the shivers stop. I clench my bruised fist as images flash through my head—Dad with a baseball bat, his eyes hard. The knife, glinting in his hand, then dulled with bright red. The pain. Small details—water dripping in a corner of the basement. The scratching noise of mice or rats in the walls while I was locked and left alone. Mom’s and Dad’s voices rising from upstairs in a fight.

  Mom. I never even knew she got sick and died until months had passed. Uncle Jerry dragged me into the kitchen one day—he wasn’t high, and that was rare enough that I didn’t fight him—and sat me at the dirty table. Told me without preamble that Mom had died of leukemia. A few months back. He hadn’t remembered to tell me. In fact, he’d been feeding me bullshit about how everything was fine at home, that Mom had called and told him things were perfect, and I’d believed him. Because I wanted to believe it. Needed it.