Spider: A tattoo romance (Rough Ink Book 2)

by MV Ellis

  “No, thank you. If you’re sure he’s not….”

  She nodded. “The charges against him are serious for anyone, but add parole violation into the mix and he has no chance of making bail. He won’t see the light of day for quite some time, ma’am.”

  Not for the first time since we’d left the station together, I winced at her use of that word. While the logical part of my brain knew it was the normal and polite way to address a stranger, the crazy, traumatized part hated that it made me sound and feel like a dusty old dame.

  Despite the young officer looking and seeming like an infant in comparison to me, with her freckled cheeks and baby-smooth skin, there wasn’t even half a generation between us. In fact, there was barely a quarter, but we were living very different lives. I’d had to grow up fast. My childhood had been a fleeting phase, over almost before it had begun, and I’d always seemed and acted well above my years.

  “Well, in that case, don’t let me keep you. I have to collect my son from his after-school program in a few hours, so I need to make myself human again by then. I’ll take a shower and see if I can make myself look semipresentable in that time. I’ll be fine, I promise. Sadly, this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  Officer Roberts nodded solemnly. “Okay, if you’re sure. You have my card and all the details for the domestic violence unit. You’re booked in for the free locksmith service for tomorrow. They’ll change the locks, though it’s more as precaution than anything. Like I said before, he’s not going anywhere for the foreseeable future. The investigating officers will be in touch if they need any further information from you as they pull together the case.”

  I nodded, hearing her words, but they weren’t sinking in. It was as though someone had stuffed my head with cotton balls, and not only could I not hear well, I couldn’t think straight either. Her words sank into the mush of my mind, dissolving on impact.

  “You’re sure there’s nobody I can call to stay with you, or pick up your son, even? A friend or relative, maybe?” Concern marred her open, honest-looking face. I wondered if an officer like her would make it. We were in New York after all, not Neverland.

  I suspected that the system would chew her up and spit her out, a broken shell of her former innocent and optimistic self. How could it not? How could she see the things she would see day in and day out and not crumble or rot from the outside in? She was NYPD cannon-fodder if ever I saw it. She’d end up as collateral damage, for sure.

  I thanked her again and confirmed there was nobody. True to form, Tommy had done a stellar job of ensuring that I had very few friendships or connections, even confiscating and searching my phone every day when I came home from work, then returning it in the morning.

  The more isolated I was, the more he could control me. I was sure that was on the first page of the “How to be a Psycho 101” instruction manual. Tommy had been nothing if not a quick study and motivated student. He had all the boxes ticked and bases covered.

  As I closed the door behind Officer Roberts, the reality of the situation slammed into me like an out-of-control semi on a highway. I lost the battle with gravity, sinking to the ground with my back pressed against the door, glad I had it to lean on. Had I not, I would have hit the ground like a sack of shit. It was all I could do to keep my head upright and resist the urge to curl up into a ball on the floor and hope to die.

  I pulled my knees up, resting my forearms on them, then laying my forehead on top. My eyelids slammed closed. I was so shut down that I couldn’t even cry. I was a hollow shell devoid even of tears to shed. Empty.

  I sat like that until my butt was too numb to take any more and the change in the light outside reminded me of my responsibilities. I needed to collect Noah, feed him, help him with his reading, and put him to bed. Even when the worst happened, life went on.

  Besides, as bad as the last few days had been, the outcome had been positive. Tommy was in jail and was likely to be there long enough for me to get my life back on track before he got out.

  As ground down as I was by the whole situation, I wasn’t blind to the fact that the outcome had been a good one. And to achieve that, I’d gladly have put myself through weeks of days like today if it meant I’d have a chance at a life that didn’t involve holding my breath and looking over my shoulder, wondering when the other shoe would drop. When Tommy would lose his shit again and take out his fears, insecurities, and frustrations on me. When he’d fall prey to his demons and delusions and lash out because I “deserved it” or “made” him do these things to me.

  Speaking of breathing, I did exactly that for what felt like the first time in forever, trying to get my mind around the day’s events and the future. A future that saw me picking myself up from my fall and putting myself back together again—because unlike Humpty Dumpty, I scarcely even had one friend backing me up, let alone a whole army. I had myself and Noah, and that was pretty much it. And I was okay with that.

  If there was one thing being trapped in my nightmare had taught me, it was that it was better to be alone—apart from Noah—than to be with someone who hurt me. There’d been a time when I’d naïvely thought Noah and I had needed Tommy to be a real family, but that turned out to have been far from the truth. The fact was, I’d already known that merely existing under one roof didn’t make a family. Nor even did shared blood coursing through our veins. My upbringing had shown me that.

  Love made a family. I knew that, even if I’d never lived it.

  I took a deep breath, gathered myself up off the floor, and propelled my unwilling legs toward the shower. The thing about being a mom was that I was always on duty. I didn’t get to step aside from that just because I was tired. Or I’d had a bad day. Or I’d been held hostage at gunpoint and had to be rescued by a superwoman, a godlike man, and the NYPD.

  Noah still needed his mother, and unlike my own mother, I was determined to always show up, no matter what. It was my biggest regret that he’d already seen and heard some things that nobody should, let alone a kid. But the one thing I always wanted him to be able to say of his childhood was that I was there for him. That I’d done my best for him.

  I loved his optimism and trust, and each day I vowed to be worthy of it, even though I knew full well I wasn’t. It also crushed me that I’d been in any way responsible for dimming his sunny view of the world. By inviting Tommy back into our lives and not getting rid of him as soon as everything went sour, I’d helped tarnish my son’s innocence and dent his belief that everyone was good, and the world was a safe place.

  That knowledge ate at me. It wore away my body and mind like a festering ball of cancerous cells. I was a failure as a parent, but it wasn’t a gig I could quit, not that I wanted to. So I needed to focus on fixing what was broken. On picking up the pieces from where Noah and I had left off five years earlier—before Tommy had come careening back into our lives.

  I was under no illusion that it would be easy. Far from it. It would be hard as fuck. In fact, I felt like the itsy-bitsy spider. Every time I got to a certain point up the spout, I’d be washed down again. Only it wasn’t just rain that would push me down but boiling hot water or caustic acid. And I wouldn’t just slip back to where I’d been when I’d started climbing. I’d arrive in a wounded and broken heap way farther down than I’d been before—one step forward, ten steps back. And repeat.

  I wondered how many times I could pick myself up and dust myself off again. How I could repair, renew, and recover again and still have the energy to move on. I wondered if I could ever regain the zest for life I’d once had. I doubted it, but in whatever form it took, I had to limp on for the sake of the little person I’d brought into the world.

  He hadn’t asked to be born, and he sure as shit hadn’t chosen the parents he’d been lumbered with. As a mom, I needed to make good on my promise to love and protect him. I knew without a doubt that if it wasn’t for him, I’d have given up hope by now. Given up trying. Just given up. Period.

  The spider analogy reminded m
e of something, and I reached into my pocket and fingered the small square of thick, luxurious card inside it. For a guy decorated with so many colorful tattoos, his business card was surprisingly plain in contrast. All black, with only the word Spider embossed in the middle in white typewriter font. No business name. No job title. On the other side of the card was a phone number in the same old-fashioned font. Nothing else.

  It seemed like the kind of card James Bond would hand out at an ambassador’s reception. It was so understated and not at all what I’d have predicted for the tall blond tattooist who’d thrown his firm, ripped body between me and a loaded gun. He looked like someone whose card would be a riot of vibrant color or feature something striking like a photo of his handsome face or a piece of abstract art. Something. How the card fit with his personality filled me with questions, plus an emotion I refused to put a name to.

  My mind ran back over the events of the day—specifically how Spider had silently asked me whether I was okay with his silvery-gray eyes. It was obvious I wasn’t, but he’d inquired anyway. Then I recalled how, when we were alone and he’d mouthed his concerns, those bright, lively eyes had clouded over and become flinty and hard as he read the note I’d scrawled.

  He’d blinked a few times before bringing his focus back to me, his eyes soft and caring again. I couldn’t remember ever having been on the receiving end of such kindness from a man. In that small but very significant exchange, he’d shown me more compassion than any man in my life ever had.

  10

  Spider

  Thirteen months later

  I looked at my watch as I keyed in the code to the shop’s alarm, watching the metal security shutters roll down. Ten after nine. Not too bad. Still plenty of time to catch up with the guys at Lick, Swallow & Suck for a few Friday night drinks before heading home to crash. Saturday was our biggest day of the week, so I never liked to get trashed the night before. Still, I could use a drink or two to take the edge off what had been a long week.

  With the news that Harley was heading to California to manage the new project, I was in the midst of having to find a new artist to fill his chair. In reality, I needed to keep my feelers out for two new guys, given that my gut was telling me it was only a matter of time before Zed pulled out of the business completely, also. His passions lay elsewhere now, with his Trinity Project. I didn’t fault him for that—in fact, I was happy he’d found his “thing.” It was just that I needed to deal with the practical reality of what that meant for the business, and for me as manager.

  I was still lost in my thoughts about work as I pushed my way through the Friday night crowd at the bar. Happy Hour had ended two hours earlier, but in a tequila bar as popular as Lick, Swallow & Suck, that meant it was now Hysterical Hour. The place was heaving, and everybody was getting very “merry.”

  The sound of relief to have made it to the end of another work week was deafening. I wasn’t a tequila kind of a guy, but LS&S also had an impressive range of obscure Mexican beers, plus a mean line of margaritas and daiquiris, so there was something for everyone.

  I scanned the bobbing crowd, looking for my crew, knowing that unless something had gone astray, they’d be at our usual table in the corner of the room. My eyes skirted past everyone else—a bachelorette party, the usual after-work crowd, and what looked to be a football team, if the average girth of their necks was anything to go by.

  I spotted Kian first, nodding my hello and making way over. Kian nodded back, grinning. He was a quiet guy who kept to himself, even when well lubricated with Mexican fighting water.

  I approached the group, slipping my hands over Kota’s eyes from behind.

  She reached up and held on lightly to my wrists. “Hmm… who could it be? I’m gonna go with a certain tall, blond, and obnoxiously attractive Nordic warrior-looking mofo. Am I right?”

  The group erupted into laughter.

  “Right first try, K.” I grinned as I answered, dropping my hands from her eyes to her shoulders.

  “Oh, good. I’m always so glad to see you, more so when it’s time for more drinks. Your timing is impeccable, as ever. The next ones are on you, moneybags.”

  More laughter from the crew.

  The fact was, I’d approached the group before going to the bar because I’d had every intention of buying the next round, as I always did. Kota just enjoyed making a song and dance out of the whole thing, as though she had to twist my arm or else I’d never put my hand in my pocket, or something. That couldn’t have been further from the truth. I wasn’t rolling in it like Arlo and his rock star friends, but I made a decent amount, and lived comfortably, and I liked to share the love.

  “Everyone want their usual, or is anyone deviating into previously uncharted territory? Tequila Mockingbird, Dirty Sanchez, or Mayan Mule, anyone?”

  Everyone laughed again and, oddly enough—not—stuck to their normal orders.

  “Hey, Harley, come help me get this, please.”

  Harley raised his head from what looked to be a deep and somewhat meaningful conversation with Jorja, the one female artist at the studio, and threw me a whole bucket of shade. “Why?” He looked really pissed.

  “Because, douchemobile, I’m not a fucking octopus, and all our shit won’t fit on one tray. Besides, it’s your fault I’ve had such a long-ass day at the end of a heavy week, so it’s only fair that you help lighten the load in this tiny way.”

  He rolled his eyes at me like I knew he would, and I grinned. A few minutes helping me carry drinks was nothing compared to the world of pain I’d been in, trying to find his replacement.

  “Hey, would you hurry up over here? My throat is drier than a cactus’s snatch, and there’s a Modelo or three at the bar with my name on them,” I fired at him, knowing it would have zero effect.

  He sauntered over to me in his usual chilled way. He seemed to have two settings: slow and slooooower. “Dude. Swear to God, you’ll be late to your own fucking funeral.”

  His grin almost split his face apart. “I hope so, bro. Who the fuck would want to be early to that?”

  He had a point.

  “You know what I mean. What was that you were getting into with Jorja? Looked heavy.”

  “Oh, so you noticed and yet still pulled me away for BS?” I didn’t miss the bite in his tone.

  “Yeah, man. It’s been a tough week, and like I said, you’re mostly to blame. Sorry, not sorry. Let’s move it.”

  As we walked across the bar, I quizzed him more. “So you gonna enlighten me about the situation with Jorja? Are you and her—”

  “What? No, man. You know I don’t shit where I eat.”

  “So if you didn’t eat here, you would—”

  “I’m not necessarily saying that, but I’m not blind. Look at her.” We both did. “Maybe if we’d met in different circumstances, it would be like that, but as it is, you know as well as I do that we’re more like family, all of us. I can’t even see her that way now. It would be like fucking my sister.”

  He had two brothers, but I took his point.

  “It’s the same with Kota, you know?” he continued, “Fine AF and totally my flavor, but mentally off-limits.” He wrinkled his nose like an eight-year-old boy grossed out by the thought of kissing a girl and getting girly cooties.

  “Not to mention she’s one of the few women on the planet who’s totally uninterested in your flavor,” I reminded him.

  “Well, there’s that too, but you know we’re just talking hypotheticals. I didn’t claim that she wanted me.”

  “Good, because she doesn’t.”

  “Noted. Again.” He grinned, laid back as ever.

  “Anyway, so what is up with Jorja?” I doubled back to my original question.

  “Well, I’d have more of an idea if some Nordic giant hadn’t interrupted our conversation to make me his manservant slave bitch.”

  I winced. “Jesus, Harley, you can’t make jokes like that in this day and age.”

  “Wrong. You can’t make jo
kes like that. I can. One of the few advantages of being black.” He flashed his winning grin.

  “Okay, whatever you say. So, anyway, Jorja?”

  “Oh yeah, right. Man trouble, I think. She seems rattled, and there’s a guy on the scene. That’s all I could find out before you interrupted.”

  “Please tell me she’s not getting itchy feet. Last thing I need right now is another empty chair.” I rubbed the spot between my furrowed brows, tired as all hell. Jorja was born with a serious case of wanderlust, and despite seemingly being happy in New York, and at SK:eTCH, for the past few years, it wouldn’t surprise me if she decided out of the blue that she needed to take off.

  “Well, look at you, the beacon of empathy, concern, and pastoral care over there. Where’s the employee feedback form? I want to give you ten out of ten for warmth and compassion.” As ever, I appreciated his sense of humor, even when he was being an asshat to me.

  “Touché. Sorry, man. I’m just stressed as fuck and in a world of pain tryna replace your too-talented ass. I don’t think I could cope if she went AWOL as well. D’you think she needs anything from me? Should I say something to her?” I scratched at my stubble, which seemed to help me think.

  “Let me finish this conversation with her and see what the deal is. Then I’ll let you know if I think Papa Spidey needs to step in.”

  “I’m gonna ignore the sarcasm in that remark and just focus on getting served before I die of dehydration.”

  A chuckle rumbled through Harley’s chest. His voice was deep and melodious, and his laughter carried the same warm tone. Not that this was the full extent of his rich laughter, just a taste. Like a preview before the main feature at the movies.