Stuck With You

by London James

  “I’m not going to show you until after I get it.”

  “Can you at least tell me where?”

  I lower my shirt off my shoulder and trace below my collarbone. “Here.”

  “Oh, that’s hot. I’m so excited. Maybe I can get one too.”

  “Blaire, you just got one the other day. It’s still healing.”

  “So?’

  “So…”

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. When can we go? I want to get a nap in first.”

  “Shop doesn’t open till one in the afternoon. So, you have time.”

  I kiss her on the cheek. “Good. I’m about to fall over.” I stumble to my bedroom, barely able to hear her say something about not letting the bed bugs bite and close my door, collapsing in my bed.

  Before I settle in, I open my nightstand and take a picture out of me and Rowan. He is staring at me like I’m the sun to his moon. I’m laughing; I think at a butterfly landing on me and flying away. He doesn’t know, but it is my favorite photo of all time. And that’s what the tattoo is going to be based on. Rowan might hate me forever, but I’ll never hate him.

  He will always have a part of me, if not all of me, until the end of time and space. Something we used to say about our friendship when we were younger. I swipe my thumb over his face, missing him with every beat of my aching, struggling heart.

  I place the photo back in its place, keeping it out of sight and out of mind until I go to look at it again before I go to sleep every night. Sighing, I plop down in the bed, sinking into the soft, pillowtop mattress. I close my eyes, and my dreams take me to another place, another time. A time when I wasn’t an idiot and Rowan would love me.

  I sleep longer than I wanted. And by the time I’m up, ready, and at the tattoo shop, it’s seven at night, and I’m freaking the hell out. The tattoo machines buzz in the background, marking up blank canvas. Next to me is a guy with a bull ring in his nose, and the whites of his eyes blacked out. On the other side of me is Blaire, talking it up with a stranger and giving best friend advice even though she only met them five minutes ago.

  That’s Blaire, though. Always outgoing and thoughtful. I pick up one of the books sitting on the beaten-up black coffee table and flip through the artwork of one of the artists. It’s all skulls, flames, and spiderwebs. I put it back down and pick up another, flipping through the pages, and this one grabs my attention.

  I like this artwork. It’s not as dark. I come across a butterfly that takes my breath away. It looks just like the butterfly that landed on me in the photo. It has bright blue wings and a black body. It’s perfect.

  “Hey, Blaire?”

  “Yeah?” she asks.

  “Who is your tattoo guy again?”

  “Andy.”

  I flip the book over and smile with relief. It’s Andy’s work. Whew.

  “Everly?” he shouts from the front desk.

  My heart slams against my ribcage when I see him. He is huge and has tattoos from the neck to his fingertips. I swallow and hold his book against my chest like some schoolgirl and make my way to the counter. My cheeks blaze, and I know he can see how red they are, which only makes them flush even more.

  He leans against the counter and smiles. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How can I help you today, beautiful?”

  My face gets hotter until my eyes are burning. “Um, I’m here with my friend Blaire, and she says you’re the guy to come to for tattoos,” I whisper, not being able to meet the intense gaze in his blue eyes. I can see why girls like the bad boys. He has trouble written all over him, and it is affecting me in ways I like—and really don’t like.

  “Ah, you’re the famous Everly she rants about,” he replies.

  I turn around and pierce her ‘innocent’ face with my eyes. Just what has she said? “That would be me, I suppose,” I confirm through clenched teeth.

  “All good things, I swear! She didn’t mention how gorgeous you were, though. I have a thing for long wavy hair.”

  “Oh.” And there goes my face again, blazing like the flames of hell. “Um, thank you?” I do not know how to handle men expressing themselves like this. Is this a part of the bad boy persona women flock to? I get the appeal.

  He smiles, showing his dimples. Of course, he has dimples. Unbelievable. “How can I help you today?”

  I swallow, trying to coat the dryness in my throat. I slip my sweater down my shoulder and trace my finger along my collarbone. “I really love this butterfly in your book, and I was hoping to get a smaller one here with the words, ‘Until the end of time and space’, with a few stars in the background. Like a galaxy or something.”

  He straightens his stance and nods, becoming completely professional. “I can do that. Give me a few minutes to draw it up. How big do you want it?”

  I cough. “Excuse me?” My mind only goes to one place.

  He tosses his head back and laughs, “The tattoo, doll. How big do you want it?”

  “Right, I know.” I clear my throat, feeling the awkward build-up choke me to put me out of my misery. “I’d like it along the collarbone. I don’t want it covering my chest or anything. I want it to look graceful, pretty; I don’t know, timeless? Maybe.”

  “I get it. I love it. It’s different from what I’m used to doing.” He starts drawing what I’ve imagined. As the butterfly takes form, tears threaten to spill out from me. I’m fascinated with how quick he can sketch out what I said I wanted. He draws a smaller version of the butterfly, landing on the first lettering of the quote with its wing spread. The writing is in beautiful cursive, and he holds it up just a few minutes later, stunning me.

  “Wow. It’s beautiful. It’s everything I wanted. How did you know that?” I reach out to touch it to make sure the drawing is real.

  “You look like the kind of girl that likes it simple, but meaningful. I try and add that to all my clients.”

  “You’re very talented,” I say.

  “Thank you. Let me size this up on your shoulder, and we will get started, okay?”

  I lower my sweater again, and he marks my skin and the paper. My heart thumps with nerves and anticipation. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. Adrenaline courses through my veins. I feel like I’m going full speed ahead in my life, not even derailing for a moment. But it feels good. I see why people do this.

  Five minutes later, I’m walking back to the chair. Andy shaves the skin where the tattoo will be going, wipes it with an alcohol wipe, and prepares the machine with a fresh needle. He gets all of the colors ready in small plastic containers and fills them with blue, white, black, purple, and pink.

  “Alright, so for the galaxy, I’m going to fade it under the words, too. Think of it like fading into your original skin tone. What do you think?”

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I trust you.” I glance to my right to see Blaire leaning against the counter with a smile on her face. She gives me a thumbs up.

  “Is this your first tattoo?” he asks with a buzz of the machine.

  “That obvious?”

  “Virgin skin is the best skin. The first tattoo is unlike any other.”

  I had no idea tattoos can be sexualized, but here we are, and he is making me flush from his words. “You enjoy embarrassing me.”

  “The flush is cute; I can’t help it,” he winks.

  I’d have to be dead to not feel something from the motion.

  “Ready?”

  I lean my head against the headrest and exhale, inhale, and exhale again. “Ready.”

  “Here we go.” The first hit of the needle makes me hold my breath. It feels hot and coarse, like the roughest sandpaper just melting into me. I wince from the pain, and he must notice because he stops tattooing. “Breathe and relax, don’t flex. I know it’s hard, but think of something that makes you happy.”

  I nod before he starts in again, and I think of the time Rowan and I went ice skating for the first time. He s
prained his ankle, and I bruised my butt. Neither of us could walk right for a week, and I couldn’t sit straight for three months.

  “All done.”

  “Already?”

  “It’s been an hour. You did great.” He soaks a piece of gauze with liquid and puts it on my skin.

  I groan with relief. That feels so good. It’s cold against the heated flesh.

  “It’s the best part. I know. Stand up and see it in the mirror before I cover it and tell you the routine.”

  My equilibrium is off for a minute when I stand. When everything finally feels like it isn’t about to slide sideways, I stand in front of the full-length mirror and throw my hand over my mouth.

  I immediately start crying. It’s better than I could have ever imagined. It’s beautiful. It’s everything I wanted. The galaxy swirls around mysteriously, the cursive lettering is delicate and precise, and the blue in the butterfly is so vivid it looks real.

  “I love it,” I choke out.

  “Can I ask what it stands for?”

  “It’s in memory of an old friend.” Which isn’t a lie. It’s true.

  His eyes soften as if he can relate. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Emotion clogs my throat again when I think of Rowan. “Yeah, me too.”

  Me too, Andy.

  Chapter 11

  Rowan

  Four years later…

  The Overlook view stares at me in the face as I drink my morning coffee. The sun is barely peeking over the snow-capped mountains. Pinks and oranges glow against what’s left of the night sky, threatening the early morning. I’m so glad we decided to get this land and build on it. It has been the perfect spot.

  LifeRight Financial has taken off. We went from a multi-million start-up to multi-billion firm in as little as four years. We’re doing so well, that if I wanted to, I wouldn’t even have to come into work. But I do because I like to do my part. Plus, I’m a little young to retire, and I enjoy working, so Gray and I have decided to only work three days a week so we can concentrate on our other endeavours.

  We own a few nightclubs in Spokane now, Flamingo’s isn’t the only one anymore, and we even have our own beer company. It’s all just for fun. My life is good; I have zero complaints. Well, except one. I want to reach out to Everly. It’s been so hard not messaging her or calling her to want to celebrate every milestone in my life.

  I convinced myself I would get over that. I thought I’d meet someone else by now, but I never get that feeling like I do—did—with Everly. And even when I would date people, anytime something happened, good or bad, I didn’t want to call them first; I wanted to call Everly.

  But ever since our parents married, it’s turned an awkward situation into an impossible one. I think about her, and I struggle with that; even though I can’t speak for her or for what she thinks, but I know it adds a layer of ‘what the fuck’ to the already ‘what the fuck’ relationship we have.

  Last time I saw her was four years ago, and even with our parents being married, she doesn’t come home for the holidays. Instead, she waits until I’m gone to come home, so now we have this unspoken arrangement that we have fallen into. She goes there Christmas Eve; I go there Christmas Day. Honestly, now that I think about it, I have no idea how it happened. I guess we are still that good at figuring out one another.

  I never have and never will think of her as my stepsister. We are adults, and we were adults when our parents married. We can’t help what happened in the past, and to be honest, even after all these years, I still hold a grudge. I’m still mad. I shouldn’t be. I should grow out of it and move on, but the thought still makes me irate.

  Now that I’m older, I realize I don’t want someone in my life that would just walk out so easily, friend or not. I don’t need people like that in my life. It will not benefit me or make me a better person or improve my life. It will bring me down, and that’s exactly what Everly Madison does.

  My heart aches when I think of her, but it isn’t as bad since it’s been so long. It seems like the friendship didn’t even happen.

  Even if the picture in the drawer says otherwise.

  “Knock, knock.” Gray thumps on the door frame and leans against it in his fancy suit.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” I clear my throat and run my hand down my tie. I don’t know why I started wearing these damn things. I hate them. I always end up taking them off by the end of the day because they’re so uncomfortable.

  “You’re here early.”

  “Yeah, couldn’t sleep. It’s a big day.” I roll the chair closer to my desk and look at the clock. In less than an hour, we have a conference call with investors from China and Japan. We are trying to go international, and while we don’t have to because we do really well in the United States, we want the company to keep growing.

  He struts into the room with his hand in his pockets and sits down. “Is the Rowan Michaels nervous?” he smirks.

  “Hell yeah, I am. If they say no, it won’t look good for the company.”

  “We are the number one new financial service in America, Rowan. I don’t think the company will take a hard hit.”

  “I know, you’re right. You’re right.”

  He sits his feet on my desk, crossed at the ankle, stating cockily, “I know. I’m always right.”

  It was his idea four years ago to make this building bigger than I wanted. We were still new, still growing, and I had no idea what I was doing, but Gray had all the faith in the world with this company. He wanted to make the building ten stories tall.

  We fought about it every day. It even caused issues with breaking ground. The construction company started to get frustrated with all the delays, so I caved and told them to listen to whatever Gray wanted. My fear kept holding me back, and Gray never seemed to have any.

  Here we are, four years later. Every story is full. There are no more offices. If anything, we need to expand. We’ve already bought the property next to us, and we plan on adding an additional ten-story building soon. Gray’s instincts were right, so now I never question him. His lack of fear is what is so great for this company. This company wouldn’t be where it is if it wasn’t for him.

  “You’re not wrong,” I concede, loosening my tie and yanking it off. I unbutton the top of my shirt and let out a breath. “That’s so much better.”

  “I don’t know why you try and wear those things. You have such a relaxed dress code for everyone else, but you are determined to wear suits.”

  “It looks professional for the owner to look his best.”

  “Hey, Rowan?”

  “Yeah, buddy?”

  “No one fucking cares about what you wear. They just want to get paid.” He laces his fingers together and stares up at the ceiling, sighing.

  I know that sigh.

  He did something he wasn’t supposed to, and now he dreads telling me. I’ve learned over the years that business partners are kind of like married couples. We know everything about each other. When we are annoyed, tired, lying, frustrated, or guilty. Or all the above.

  And he seems guilty.

  “What did you do?”

  He slides his eyes over to me and taps his fingers against his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your legs are shaking, causing my pens to rattle in their holder. You don’t do that unless you are dreading to tell me something.”

  He bites his lips, staring at me again as he darts his eyes from the ceiling back to me, back to the ceiling. “Okay, you aren’t going to be happy about it…”

  I fold my arms on my desk and lean forward. The desk creaks from my weight. “What did you do?”

  He taps his finger on the indent of his chin. “I didn’t do anything bad, but you might frown upon it.”

  “Did you gamble our money away?” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. I knew this day would happen.

  “What? No, of course not. What the hell, man? You know me better than that.”

 
; “I know you’re impulsive. And your mouth tends to run away from you and gets you into trouble.”

  He snaps his fingers. “I’ll keep that in mind, but no that’s not what I did.”

  “Did you pay for sex?”

  “How dare you. I never pay for sex.”

  “Kill somebody? Do I need to call a lawyer?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Invest in something you didn’t talk to me about?”

  He groans, “No. Shut up and let me finish.”

  “Did you get roofied again? Stop leaving your drinks around.”

  “Rowan?”

  “Yeah, buddy?”

  “Shut up.”

  I zip my lips closed and throw the key away.

  He puts his feet down on the floor and exhales, “I talked to Everly.”

  The pencil I’m using to write in my calendar snaps in half.

  “What?” My voice is deep and a bit accusatory. I almost would have rather heard he killed somebody.

  “Yeah, she reached out to me.”

  I take a deep breath, trying not to let my emotions get the best of me. I want her to reach out to me, but that’s selfish because, at the same time, I don’t want to speak to her. The idea of her counting on another man bothers me still.

  Those pesky little unresolved feelings.

  “Oh yeah? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. Kind of.”

  “What do you mean, kind of?” I flex my fingers against the table and stand, towering over him.

  “Her identity got stolen. They drained all of her accounts, charged her credit cards, and now she can’t qualify for anything. She has to start over, and she didn’t know where to go.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve talked to her?”

  “No,” he admits with guilt.

  “How long?” I ask, my temper rising by the second.

  “Since we saw her last.”

  I shouldn’t care. But I do. My best friend is going behind my back to talk to the woman that controls every part of my being. I grab the holder for my pens and throw them against the wall. The black ceramic shatters, slamming on the floor in a million pieces.