“I thought you said she did. Twice.”
I shake my head. “Not really. That was more her lashing out at me than anything. I don’t think she’s ready to go back yet.” I scratch my head. “But I think there’s more to it than that. She talks about her now. Her sister. She never did before. She wouldn’t even say her name.”
“I know. And she’d practically fall apart if anyone else did.”
“She went back once. I don’t know why but she did. So I know she’ll do it again.” I let out another frustrated sigh and turn back toward the house. “I’m going to head in. But I’ll let you know how she’s doing tomorrow. Thanks again.”
The more I think about it, the more I realize Cole is right. I’ve been so focused on trying to replicate what I did all those years ago I haven’t been thinking about why I did it. So far, I haven’t been all that successful. The camping trip brought out a side of her I didn’t even know existed—a part of her life before me, before everything, but what happened after may as well have derailed the whole thing. And after tonight…
I’d wanted her to see the bleachers because it’s where Cole made his mark. Where he honored his mother and was able to let go of some of his pain. It was never really intentional. I didn’t plan to drag him to the college that day. We just ended up there and burying his mother’s necklace just happened too. But then going back to the bleachers when he was feeling sad about his mom became a regular thing. It was like his hideout I guess. Some type of solace. But that has nothing to do with Sheila.
I knock but she doesn’t answer. So I take a chance and open the door. She’s sitting at the foot of the bed when I enter and all the lights are on. Like she’s afraid of what might come out the dark if she risks it. She’s perched on the edge of the mattress in nothing but her underwear and one of those thin tank tops she always wears. My body is urging me forward, begging me to sit beside her and wrap her in my arms. But my mind tells me to focus.
Focus on the mission, Ross. This isn’t the time to get distracted.
“Hey,” I say quietly. She doesn’t even flinch. “I just wanted to check on you. See if you’re okay.” I inch forward. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She blinks her empty gaze shifting from the floor to the wall. “I know that must have been hard. I can’t even imagine.” Taking a few steps forward, I lower myself onto the bed beside her. “I just want to help. And I know I screwed up tonight. I was distracted by all this stuff with the club opening and I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t focused on you and what you need, like I should have been.” I take her hand, sliding my fingers between hers. I rub my thumb slowly back and forth across her silky skin. “I’ve been here for you from the beginning, Blue. And I’ll always be here. I’m going to make sure you get through this.”
Sheila finally turns her head, her wide, watery blue eyes swallowing me whole. “She’s alone.”
Shit. I move closer and almost as if on instinct, she does the same, crawling into my lap. I force myself to stay neutral—fighting the urge to ease her off my thirsty body while at the same time coaching myself not to fall into old habits. Sheila presses her palm against my cheek and I close my eyes, my resolve quickly melting. Her lips brush slightly against mine and just when I think I’m about to explode, she rests her head against my shoulder and lets out a little sigh.
I brace myself, enjoying this for just a few more minutes before hoisting her up and moving to the side of the bed. I place her down gently and pull the blankets over her. I know I shouldn’t ask, that it will make an already tough night damn near impossible but…”Do you want me to stay with you?”
She nods.
“Okay.”
I make my way across the room and turn off the main light. Then I start to remove my clothing. First my shirt, then my undershirt. But when I get to my jeans I pause. Crawling into bed half-clothed, I reach across to turn out the lamp but she stops me.
“Leave it on, please?”
“Okay,” I reply. Then I settle next to her. Our bodies fit together simultaneously and the smell of her hair is torture.
The crotch of my jeans tightens and I’m grateful for the barrier of the thick fabric. It’s not nearly as thick as I need it to be though. Because when she adjusts herself, her back flush against my chest and her ass pressing into my middle, I only get harder. I hold my breath, as though it’ll stop me from reacting but I know, without a doubt, she can feel it. But she doesn’t respond to my desire. And after a few minutes pass, I hear her breathing even out and I’m finally able to relax. I bury my nose in the crook of her neck and draw in a long deep breath. The scent is so heady, I catch myself moaning and quickly shut it down. Eventually, I coax myself to sleep, enjoying the feeling of her in my arms again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sheila
When I wake up, Ross is still beside me and I’ve never been more grateful. Or guilty.
I freaked out. Again. Only this time it may have been my worst episode yet. I don’t remember most of it. Just the sight of the graveyard. Gray and shadowy. Immaculate yet cold and unforgiving. I couldn’t stop thinking of Shannon, of her being underground. It’s crazy because she’s not. Not really. Only her body. Her soul is…I don’t know where her soul is. To be honest I’ve had trouble separating the two. She’s just Shannon to me and, last I heard, they put her in a box, six feet under the frozen earth.
I don’t know how or when I ended up home. How he got me up to this room, but like I said, I’m grateful. Comfortable. Peaceful. I close my eyes, snuggling closer to him. Each warm, shallow breath that hits my neck sends a shiver through me. He’s still wearing his jeans, which means he was being careful. He didn’t want things to be business as usual. I breathe deeply through my nose, blinking the tears from my eyes. He cares too much. He’s always looking out for other people and even though there was a time I thought he was the most self-centered human being on the planet, I was way off. He’s the most selfless person I know. He’s been doing everything in his power not to touch me the way he used to. Not to give in to a temptation that plagues us both. All because he wants me to heal. And I do the unthinkable by asking him to sleep next to me.
He didn’t even hesitate. He slipped into the bed and held me close. I could feel his desire fill the tiny space between us but I didn’t say a thing. I just pretended not to notice. And when he thought I’d fallen asleep and breathed in my scent, letting out a little noise, I nearly melted into him. It couldn’t have been easy to sleep next to me all night, to hold me the way he’s holding me now and not be allowed to touch me the way he used to. But it’s oddly even more comforting. He was just here. For me. If I didn’t know it before, I know it now. He loves me, even if he hasn’t said it.
My thoughts drift back to my sister and I’m instantly sick. “Where are you?” I whisper and then in a voice I can barely hear myself, I ask, “Why me?”
I carefully wriggle out of Ross’s embrace and sit on the edge of the bed. After a few minutes of listening only to the sound of his soft snores, I get off the bed and make my way to the vanity. Easing open the top drawer, I push my underwear aside and pull out the purple envelope.
Over the course of the next ten minutes, I just stand there staring at myself in the mirror. I regard the dark circles under my dull blue eyes, the tangled mess of my once shiny hair. My cheeks are sunken in, my cheekbones more pronounced than usual and my face barely has any color. I don’t look like myself—just a ghost of the person I used to be. I finally allow my gaze to drop to reflection of the paper in my hands. I unfold it slowly, returning it to its original form. Then I turn my back on the doleful girl in the mirror and head back over to the bed.
I rip the seam of the envelope open like I would a Band-Aid from a hairy patch on my skin. The stationary that falls out is a very light pink, decorated with purple roses on bold green vines at the edges. A sob bubbles its way up my throat at the sight of my sister’s handwriting and I choke it down, gla
ncing back at Ross.
I hold the letter in shaky hands, closing my eyes briefly before finally taking it in.
September 18th, 1992
Dear Sheila,
I know how much you hate it when I say this, but you totally remind me of Mom. Right down from the blue eyes to that tiny little body I’ve been jealous of for as long as I can remember. How the hell does a girl your size get a rack like that?
Okay, I’m getting completely off topic here. The truth is this letter has less to with the fact that you look like Mom (and hold grudge like her too) and more to do with that fact that you’re just as caring and patient as she is. You love unconditionally, you set boundaries, you abide by the rules (for the most part I mean, let’s face it, you’re still Sheila Carlson). You’re also the most stubborn and opinionated person I know. But most of all you’re my sister. The best friend a girl could ask for and I’m hoping that if the day should ever come the best mom for Ray and whoever this one is rolling around inside me and making me puke like a drunk.
I’m serious, Sheila. You’ve always been there for me and I want them to be able to count on you too. I know without even asking that you’ll do it. I know you love them the same way you love me. But most of all, I know you miss me. I know this sucks. I’m crying as I write this because even though I don’t ever want this letter to end up in your hands, I hope with all my might that if I’m ever snatched from this world too soon, it will. Because I can’t think of a better person for my kids to look up to when I’m gone than you.
I love you and I miss you. Shannon.
I quickly fold the letter up again and shove it back in the envelope.
I love you and I miss you.
It doesn’t even make any sense. She’s gone. How can she miss anything? How can she miss me like I miss her. She can’t. She can’t do anything but exist as a fading memory in my mind. I pull the letter out of the envelope again, reading it over five more times before it finally sinks in.
She knew. Maybe it was instinct—or was it sheer coincidence? How could she know I’d need convincing? The question is ridiculous knowing my sister. She always knew the right thing to say to get me to change my mind. And up until I got it in my head that I was meant to be a tour manager instead of a boring preacher’s daughter, her lectures usually worked. What’s eating at me is the fact that this letter wasn’t written for future me—the Sheila twenty years from now who’s got it all figured, equipped with a husband and a life plan. It’s for the Sheila I am now. The forlorn girl in the mirror. The confused barely-adult who’s still grappling with the greatest loss she’ll probably ever know. The girl who numbed her pain with alcohol and pot and buried herself in a pseudo relationship with a man who made her feel something other than crippling pain.
Shannon considered all the alternatives. As usual, she didn’t leave a stone unturned. I can’t help but wonder how many of these letters she wrote. One for every stage of my life maybe? Either way, it doesn’t matter. She chose me. No matter how I slice it she chose me. She thinks I can do it, even though I feel like it’s impossible.
I stuff the letter back into the envelope and promptly return it to it’s hiding place. Then I crawl back into the bed and curl into Ross’s chest. I slip my legs in between his and close my eyes. It isn’t long until his heartbeat and body heat sooth me back to sleep.
I stir a few hours later, to find him standing at the window, gazing out into the backyard.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” His smile is soft, his tone gentle as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Sleep well?”
I nod. “Thanks.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, Ross. I know you didn’t want to—thank you for staying with me.”
He shrugs a little. “You don’t have to apologize. It was no problem.”
“What time is it?” I stretch my legs toward the end of the bed, my arms above my head.
“Almost twelve.”
“And you’re still here? I thought you had to meet Maya today? Didn’t you say they were putting in the tables and chairs or something?”
“She can handle it. I already called her.” He runs a hand over his head and reaches for his t-shirt. “You still interested in getting inked?”
I frown. “Um…”
“A real one I mean. Not that lame excuse for a tattoo you got last year. I mean actual needles. Actual ink. Actual pain.” He laughs.
“Yes,” I respond, slowly. “But, like I said before, getting a tattoo’s a big deal. What if I regret it in ten years? Or the guy messes it up?”
Roscoe shakes his head. “Why don’t we go take a look? I think you might find something you like.”
“I guess but—”
“Don’t worry. I’ve known Hector for years. He’s the only artist who’s ever touched this skin. The guy’s a pro. Plus, I think this might be good for you. You know how different people deal with stress in different ways? Some drink, some exercise, some eat. I get tattoos.”
“You get tattoos when you’re stressed out?”
“Or when I want to celebrate or…grieve.”
“Or get happy?” I smile.
“It’s worth a shot, right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Look, yesterday I took you to the college because I wanted to show you something I thought was symbolic. Turns out I was wrong. It means something to Cole because it was his mom’s favorite place to take him. But it wouldn’t have meant anything to you. Maybe this will. If it doesn’t,” He shrugs. “You’ll have some badass ink. I’m not forcing you. I mean obviously it’s your decision but, when we were out on tour, you talked nonstop about getting a real tattoo someday. And you’ve never had any real inspiration until now. I know it’s not exactly a happy occasion but, like I said, the choice is yours.”
By the time evening rolls around, I’m thoroughly convinced he’s right. Getting inked in honor of my sister is exactly what I need to do. And I’ve already decided on a design. I grip the paper in my pocket a tingle of excitement rushing through me.
As stereotypical as it sounds, I’ve always imagined tattoo parlors to be dim, dingy and full of shady characters. But that’s not what I happen on when we arrive at Stained. The shop is completely empty—the owner, Hector, having agreed to keep it open after hours—and brightly lit. The floors are white and shiny and it looks more like a place you’d seek medical attention rather than pay to get permanent images and holes on your body.
Hector’s just what I imagined though. An aging man with more ink than Ross, a potbelly and a beard so long it trails down the center of his chest. He’s decked out in a mix of dingy denim and worn leather. A strategically placed bandana does a less than stellar job of covering his baldhead. He’s also wearing shades that reflect everything in the room.
He greets Ross with a half-hug and handshake and turns to face me. “In all these years, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you bring a girl in here. Who’s this cute little thing?”
“Hec, this is my friend Sheila. Sheila, this is Hector Morales. A good friend of the family.”
“Nice to meet you.” I offer him a hand but he pulls me toward him, engulfing me in a pair of strong arms.
“You too, sweetheart.”
I smirk in Ross’s direction at the endearment.
“So what can I do for you?” He focuses on Ross again. “I gotta be honest, I’m not sure you have much bare skin left to work with. Unless you want to go and get creative, like I did. Trust me, it’s worth the pain.”
Roscoe laughs. “No, thanks. I’m actually here for Sheila. She wants to get a tattoo—in memory of her sister.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Hector removes his sunglasses, his deep brown eyes soft and sympathetic. “What can I do for you then?”
“I—” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the letter. I hand it to him, strategically folded to ensure my privacy.
He peers down at it. “I love you and I miss you,” he reads aloud, then glances back up at me.
<
br /> “Shannon,” I finish, pointing to the paper. “That’s her signature at the end. I want it to say. ‘I love you and I miss you. Shannon.’”
He smiles. “That’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. I—um—I was hoping to get it right here.” I trail my finger across the left side of my chest. “Just the way it is,” I add.
“I think I can manage that. You ever had a tattoo before?” I shake my head. “Well, come on over here and I’ll tell you a little bit about the process, get you to sign some forms. Sound good?”
I nod again and silently follow him into the back room.
Thirty minutes later, I’m lying on my back and staring above me. For the first time, I notice the array of photos pasted to the ceiling. My gaze darts from one to the other, wishing I could get a closer look.
“The artists take a picture of every tattoo and post it up there,” Roscoe explains, pulling up a chair. “Bet you can’t spot mine.”
“‘Bout four-dozen of those are yours,” Hector adds with a laugh. “You ready?”
I glance over at him, swallowing hard as he approaches. He begins by swabbing the area just over my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut but they flicker open again when Roscoe laces his fingers with mine.
“Just breathe,” he says. “It only hurts a little. You get used to it pretty quickly.”
“Easy for you to say,” I reply.
He chuckles. “It’s okay. Yours isn’t all that elaborate. It’ll be quick.”
The moment the needle starts buzzing I close my eyes and I don’t open them again until Hector proclaims he’s finished the first letter. I glance up at him in disbelief and he must sense the panic on my face because he glances over at Ross, then back to me before asking, “So Roscoe, how’d that last design turn out anyway? The one with the glitter.”
Blackout (Lewiston Blues Series/Black Family Saga Book 2) Page 20