by Jo Raven
He flinches, and a strangled noise escapes him. “You wish.”
Okay, what the fuck? He sure is acting weird today. “It’s a fact, man.”
He shoves me. I shove him back, sending him stumbling sideways. “We’ll see about that.”
Jet’s more slender than me, always was, though he’s caught up with me in height. And I’ve always felt oddly protective of him, although Jethro can certainly kick ass, even better than I can. He’s a firecracker. Spitfire. Touch him, and he’ll knock you out faster than you can say motherfucker.
So I don’t worry too much, even if he looks tired tonight.
I wag my brows at him as I whip my cell out of my back pocket and hit the speed dial for our pizza delivery place. “Gonna lick you good. Flog you. You’re so screwed, my man, you’ll wish for—”
Jethro does a complete about-face and heads back to his room. His door clicks shut.
Whoa, dude. What in the world?
The call connects, and I put through our standard order, then disconnect and go after him. Without ceremony, I open his door and march inside. Screw not worrying. The fucker had better tell me what’s wrong, or he won’t know what hit him.
“Talk.” I’m looming over Jethro who’s sitting on the bed, hands hanging between his knees. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, mate.” Again that faint accent, drilling under my skin, a strange little itch. “Did you order the pizza?”
“Yeah, I ordered the damn pizza. Why’re you hiding in here?” I gesture at the familiar room—black drapes, black bedspread with white skulls. “What’s gotten up your ass?”
“Interested in my ass suddenly, are you?” He shoots a crooked grin at me, and I’m momentarily speechless. He didn’t notice me watching today, did he?
I mean, whatever. Dudes stare at each other all the time. Comparing dicks and shit.
“I’m interested in your ass planted in the chair in front of the TV so that I can kick it playing,” I clarify. “Wasn’t that what we said we’d do?”
“Sure.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I was just gonna grab a sweater. It’s chilly in there.”
Chilly? Is he fucking with me? It’s summer. We’re in T-shirts. I have no fucking clue what’s going on here, but I let it slide for now, because it’s Jet, and sooner or later he’ll spill.
Has to. We’re like brothers, dammit. Fucker will let me in all the fucking way someday, I just know it. I only need to be patient.
Like now.
So I don’t push him more. Instead, I grab his arm and yank him to his feet. “Pizza. Video game. Beer.”
“Now we’re talking,” he mutters and gamely lets me haul him out of his room and drop him on our worn couch. “Where’s the pizza?”
Have I mentioned that occasionally I want to strangle the idiot?
“I literally just called. Give it a fucking minute, will ya?”
“Did you get the one with the anchovies that I—”
“Yes, Jesus fuck, Jet, I know what you like, okay? Sit tight, pizza’s on its way.”
He relaxes marginally into the cushions, that crooked grin making another appearance, and something inside my chest unwinds.
Everything’s fine. A usual evening in the J&J household. This is my home, even more so than the one I grew up in. Don’t get me wrong. I love my parents, and my sister, but I never felt at ease there.
Here, with Jet, I do. With pizza on the way, video games to be played, Jet’s eyes lighting up with mischief as he grabs the controls, and despite the sharp sliver of the memory of her—the sexy girl at the bookstore—this is gonna be a damn good evening.
I want to see her again.
The thought fills up my mind, expands and contracts, randomly flashes through my thoughts like a light saber as I go through my day at work.
It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I should be fucking focused on learning and on making a good impression. I breezed through college on my scholarship and sports and fun, and treated my business studies as a necessary evil.
Well, now the evil has taken over my life. Okay, it’s not that bad, but finding the requisite excitement is tough. Landing a job at a multimillion corporation with branches everywhere in the world is a good thing. Even if my tasks are limited to secretarial stuff so far. Write letters. Type up stuff. Make photocopies. Make phone calls.
Hey, it will get better. I will be given more responsibilities, climb the ladder, learn more about the company and its goals. I know it’s my first job, and time is of the essence. Patience, is what my parents keep telling me. And they’re right.
But when was I ever known for my patience?
And when was I interested in oil, natural gas and investments? I love running, playing video games with Jethro, chasing chicks, reading about ancient history, checking on my little sister—who’s not so little anymore, as she often reminds me—and cooking.
Hey, sometimes when thinking bogs me down, doing something with my hands helps. I sort of switch off, and at the end of it, there’s something good to eat, too. Win-win.
Besides, I’m in charge of feeding Jethro, who often forgets that breathing isn’t enough sustenance. Fucker owes me. I hope he appreciates it.
Speaking of doing something with my hands… Even better would be to use them on the girl at the bookstore. Why didn’t I ask her name? Why didn’t I ask her out?
Next time. I’m going back, and I’ll do what Jet said. I’ll win her over.
I grin as I get up and march down the corridor between offices to the printer, to collect my letters. Nia waves at me from the reception desk and adjusts her cleavage. Girl’s got impressive tits, and a pretty face, but I’m not interested. I hope she’ll get the message one day.
Jimmy nods at me, mimics having coffee, and I shrug. He’s nice, but he’s coming on too hard. Wouldn’t be the first time, and Jet always fucking laughs at me when that happens. Well, fuck it. I’m not into guys. Only chicks do it for me.
Speaking of chicks… I may need more books. About cooking, and sports, world history, and just about anything, probably. As long as a certain pigtailed girl with glasses can help me out… I wonder if she plays videogames, if she likes fantasy. Maybe history, too?
I stop so suddenly outside the printer room I almost fall over.
What the fuck? I’ve never given a chick more thought than how to take her clothes off as fast as possible. Do it fast, get off fast, walk out and forget about it. Why am I so curious about her? I’ve only met her once. She wasn’t even dressed in anything sexy.
Her hair was in pigtails, for chrissakes.
I’d tug on them. Lift her short skirt. Spank her ass. Tell Jet to hold her while I go down on her and—
Fucking shitballs. What’s wrong with me these days? Tell Jet to hold her—to be there? This is sick.
It’s got to stop. If I don’t, I may need therapy, or someday Jet will find out about these new twisted fantasies of mine, and he’ll be out the door before you can say banana.
Also, I should stop thinking of bananas. Even if Jet likes them. Because guys shouldn’t like phallic-shaped fruit, okay? Not straight guys, anyway.
And I’m as straight as a one-way road, for all the good it does me. I haven’t been out with a chick since forever. Haven’t had sex since fuck knows when. My dick has probably shriveled and fallen off, and I didn’t even notice.
Checking nobody is looking, I pat my package, reassured to feel my dick is still there. Phew. Maybe it was the stress of finishing college, the small crisis I had, and the new job. Well, it’s time to remedy that. Time to—
Oh shit. Oh SHIT, the manager is staring right at me through the room window, a scowl on his face, and my hand… my hand is still on my crotch.
And I think, goddamn fuck, not again.
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Zane
Inked Brotherhood 3
They ca
ll me Zen-man, the cool-headed one, the protector. I keep an eye out for everyone, take them in, find them homes. They think I’m the calm and collected one, the self-assured one, the one who knows the way. They think they see me. They think they know me.
But they’re all wrong, because inside I’m broken. I have a jagged hole in my soul I can’t fix, a festering blackness. I’ve been to the pits of hell, and nobody comes back unscathed. Life in foster care fucked me up, and now a thread is all that’s holding me together.
So I sleep around and never date, keeping chicks away. One day I’ll snap, and when I do, there’s no telling who I might take down with me.
All the same, there’s this one girl who won’t be scared away. Dakota. She’s hot, and I won’t deny I want her. But she keeps coming back, pushing me, trying to get me to talk, to open up to her.
She has no idea she’s playing with fire. When the demons come, she’d better be far away from me, just like everyone else.
Part One
Zane
I never knew my parents. There’s no record of the person who abandoned me behind a dumpster one summer morning. My only inheritance is my almond-shaped eyes and straight dark hair.
When I was little and watched Japanese cartoons on TV, I imagined my mother dressed up in a red kimono, her dark hair held up with sticks. I imagined her walking through the streets, looking for me. Calling my name.
Took me years to realize how stupid that fantasy was. I mean, even my name is borrowed, bestowed on me by a social worker. See, I have no past and no family. I have no one.
Except for Emma, my adopted sister.
And now she’s leaving me, too.
Chapter One
Zane
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 t
o 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?”