Shane (Damage Control #4)

by Jo Raven

  SHANE

  Damage Control #4

  By Jo Raven

  Blurb

  Once upon a time, my life was good. I had a family, I had a girlfriend, and hopes for the future. That was long ago, but I remember it. A hazy dream of what could have been.

  That’s gone now. I lost it all. Life fucked me over, and now I’m scared of my own damn shadow.

  I’m training to be a tattoo artist, but I bet I’m not good enough. I have a roof over my head, but every morning I’m scared shitless that I’ll find myself on the street again—or worse, back in prison.

  And every time a pretty girl looks at me, every single fucking time, I know I can’t be with her. Not only because she’ll find out I’m an ex-con and run the other way, no. It’s more than that. I just can’t. The thought of anyone touching me, the thought of getting aroused from that touch brings back every damn nightmare from my past to swallow me whole.

  Can’t fucking do it.

  Not even if it’s the prettiest girl on earth—Cassie. With her long blond hair and her pretty tits, her short skirts and high heels, she’s all my fantasies rolled into one. See, the fact she kissed one of my buddies? That’s good. The fact she looks at me like I’m a bug under her shoe? Even better.

  Because it means she’s not interested in getting hot and sweaty with me, and that I can keep living that fantasy.

  The fantasy that she wants to be with me as much as I want to be with her—even though I know it will never happen.

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  SHANE (Damage Control, 4)

  Jo Raven

  Copyright Jo Raven 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Part I

  Cassie

  Nine months ago I kissed the wrong boy for the wrong reasons. This time around watch me try to catch the boy I really want—no tricks, no lies. This is going to be one rocky ride…

  How not to screw up like I did: A guide for girls

  Never try to make the boy you want jealous by kissing another. Bad, bad idea. Trust me.

  Never kiss a boy whose name begins with a J and ends with an E (as in Jesse). If the urge hits, run the other way.

  Never assume it will blow over, or that you will be forgiven for said kiss. You won’t be. Ever.

  Never trust your heart when it tells you love will be easy. Love isn’t easy. Period. It hurts and burns and turns your world upside down.

  Never give up on the boy you love. In fact, this is rule number one.

  Chapter One

  Shane

  “And then you turn the screw to the left to slow down the tattoo gun, ‘cuz it’s better for these longer lines, and when you start shading it in… Shane, hey, fucker. Am I speaking Chinese? Are your ears blocked? Have you heard a damn word I’ve said?”

  I blink, returning to the noise of Damage Control and Zane glaring at me from narrowed eyes. I swear, even his Mohawk is bristling with annoyance.

  Fuck. “Sorry, man.”

  “Don’t be fucking sorry. Get your shit together. You’re almost there, and I need more inkers. You’re up next—or you would be, if you concentrated for one fucking minute at a time. At this rate, Seth will be ready before you are, dislocated shoulder or not.”

  Slamming the tattoo gun down on the counter, Zane strides out of the cubicle, muttering and pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He rarely smokes nowadays, unless he’s stressed or pissed off, so yeah.

  Fucking awesome.

  In the past month, he’s been training me in some more advanced techniques. I lean back against the counter and try to remember what he spent the past hour explaining to me. It was about the tattoo gun and its many tricks—tricks I can’t remember now.

  How stupid is that? I mean, Zane’s the co-founder of Damage Control, best friend of Rafe, the owner. He has years of experience under his belt already. I’m still wet behind the ears, and I’ve pissed him off.

  Again.

  It’s getting to be a regular occurrence these days. I can’t focus. Too tired. Too damn scattered.

  “Shane?” Ocean has stuck his blue-haired head inside the cubicle, staring at me with equally blue eyes. He’d be like a Japanese cartoon if not for the muscle he packs in his tall frame and the dark stubble on his jaw. “I just saw Zane storm out. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I roll my shoulders. Pain radiates up my neck, I’m so fucking tense. “He wanted a smoke.”

  Instead of taking a hint and leaving me be, Ocean steps inside the cubicle. Zane’s cubicle, with his jaw-dropping drawings of dragons and other monsters lining the walls, and a photo of Dakota, his girlfriend, pinned at the top, sticking out her tongue and giving a peace sign.

  More photos are stuck next to the cubicle door. The Inked Brotherhood in various poses—partying mainly, glasses in their hands. Many of the pics are from Asher and Audrey’s wedding a few months ago. Cassie is visible in one of them, in a tight-fitting black dress and sky-high heels, her ruby lips pursed in the shape of a kiss.

  Cassie…

  “Shane. Hey.” Ocean is frowning at me. He’s planted himself right in front of me, arms folded over his chest. “Seriously, you okay? You spaced out like you’re on drugs or something.”

  That brings everything back into focus. “The fuck you say.”

  Not that I didn’t do drugs once. I did.

  But the thing is that Seth and I have a rap sheet claiming we possessed and trafficked drugs. And although Seth’s mom confessed she set us up and that we had nothing to do with the drug trafficking, the charge is still hanging over our fucking heads.

  “Relax. I wasn’t accusing you of anything.” His frown deepens. “You need anything, you let me know, right?”

  I nod, slumping in relief when he finally walks out, leaving me alone. Ocean is a nice guy. That’s the problem. All of these guys are nice and happy and helpful.

  How to tell them my mind’s unravelling like thread? That I can’t sleep, can’t function? And as for the why…

  Why now?

  I’ve kept it together quite well up to now in my fucked-up life, if I say so myself. Sure, the nightmares never left me, and most days I feel like I’m dragging my past behind me like a cement block—but I function. I work in construction, I train here, I clean the shop when my shift’s up, I even go out with the guys for drinks and pool.

  Like a normal guy.

  Maybe that’s the problem. I’m way too fucked-up to keep up the pretense forever. Maybe there’s an expiration date on my disguise.

  Why else can’t I fucking fake it anymore?

  ***

  “How was Christmas?” Zane’s girlfriend, Dakota, shoots me a smile as I walk past the reception desk of the shop to get my stuff from the lockers by the office.

  “Okay.”

  “Who did you spend it with?”

  “Seth.”

  She tsks. “Just the two of you?”

  “And Manon.”

  “Did she cook?” Dakota’s eyes brighten. “With a French mom, I bet she has some skills in the kitchen.”

  I shrug. “She did.”

  Dakota is staring at me, as if waiting for more. No clue what she’s expecting from me. I stare right back.

  She finally laughs and rolls her eyes. “Zane said you don’t talk much
. I didn’t realize how literally he meant it.”

  Yeah, well.

  I’ve known Dakota for more than a year now, ever since Zane and she got together. She’s nice, but we never really talked before, so I wonder why the sudden interest. I also wonder if that was all or she has more to say.

  Turns out she does.

  “You’re friends with Cassie. Cassie Reyes.”

  Oh, right. That. “Not really.”

  She cocks her head to the side, her wild dark hair with the pink streaks standing up at odd angles. “I saw you playing pool a few days ago, in Halo.”

  “Yeah. We did.”

  “Seriously? That’s all you got to say?”

  What does she want me so say? It’s the truth.

  I glance longingly toward the lockers, needing to get my ass outta here. Cassie… Not a topic I wanna touch. We don’t talk. We just shoot pool and have beers if she shows up at Halo. With everyone else ignoring her, I’m her only option. And I feel… at ease with her.

  Maybe it’s because right now she’s as much an outsider as I am, after the mess she whipped up when she kissed Jesse at Asher’s wedding.

  Or maybe it’s because I know she doesn’t want me. She wants just about any guy who’s willing, but not me. So it’s safe. Probably some sixth sense is keeping her away from me, which is good. For her, I mean.

  As for me, I want her so much I sometimes think I’ll die from wanting, but that’s irrelevant.

  Because I can’t ever have her. I can’t have any girl, much less a girl who needs to get physical at any chance. My heart accelerates and my fists clench when I think of her kissing Jesse—or anyone else, for that matter.

  Wish it could be me, even though I know that won’t happen.

  “Shane.” Dakota is giving me a strange look. “Did you hear me?”

  Oh fuck. Spacing out again. “What?”

  “I said, Manon came to talk to me about Cassie. Said Cassie swears she didn’t mean to hurt anyone. That it was a misunderstanding.”

  I blink down at Dakota. She’s shorter than Cassie and favors combat boots instead of the high heels Cassie likes.

  Stop thinking about Cassie.

  “A misunderstanding,” I say blankly. What does it mean?

  She thought he wanted it.

  You want it, bitch. You know you like it. Stop your yelling. Shut your mouth. Shut—

  “Yeah, and I mean Cassie helped her get together with Seth. Manon vouches for her.”

  Vouches. How? What? That she won’t try to hook up with Jesse again? It makes no fucking sense.

  And why is Dakota saying this to me?

  “So if you agree, like, if you’d vouch for Cassie as well, then I’ll invite her.”

  “How the fuck can I know what Cassie will do—and invite her where?” I narrow my eyes at Dakota. What the hell’s going on here?

  “To the party.”

  “What party?” Jesus fucking Christ. What’s with these guys and parties? Isn’t that something students do?

  Then again… some of them are students. I keep forgetting not everyone’s struggling to keep afloat like me.

  “Our wedding reception. Wedding. Zane and me. Getting married. Does that ring any bells?” She arches a brow and strikes a pose like a rock star, one arm stretched over her head. When I gape at her, she frowns and lets her arm drop. “Seriously, you didn’t know? How’s that possible? We even have a poster up!”

  She’s pointing at something, so I turn and stare at a poster on the wall by the door.

  “We’re getting married! Come to our wedding! Bring your friends!”

  Shit. “That’s… in two weeks.”

  “Yes, it is!” She snickers. “Why do you think Zane’s so frigging stressed?”

  Because I keep fucking up my training?

  “Right. Well, it’s fine by me,” I say.

  “Huh?” She’s staring at me like I spoke Klingon. “Fine with what?”

  “Inviting Cassie.” Since my opinion apparently matters. “To your wedding.”

  “Awesome!” She hops from foot to foot, wiggles her fingers at me and skips toward the back of the shop, throwing over her shoulder a, “See you there, then.”

  I nod, distracted at the thought of seeing Cassie again, at a wedding of all places.

  Every time she leaves with a random guy, it’s like a punch to the gut. Partly because I’m scared for her, and partly because I want it to be me.

  And then what, Shane? You take her to your apartment and then what? You play videogames? You watch TV?

  Oh wait—you’ll take her to your bed?

  Are you ready? Can you do it? Won’t you freak out and scare the living shit out of her? Lose her forever?

  At least now we’re sort of friends. It’s something. It’s more than I’ve had since prison. Since I was broken and left scattered, unable to be put back together again.

  Anyway, sure, I’ll show at the wedding. Zane’s the reason I’m here, the reason I’ve made it this far. He’s the one who took Seth and me off the streets, at a time when I couldn’t see a way out. So fuck yeah, I’ll go to his wedding. I’d do anything for the guy.

  And as for the reception afterward… I’ll get my hands on some booze, get shitfaced and find a corner to hide. At least, that’s the plan.

  ***

  Pulling off my gloves, I unlock the door. The door creaks as I push it open. It’s cold inside my small apartment, the empty walls and second-hand furniture so familiar and yet foreign. After living here alone for so long, I still don’t feel the place as my own. Still don’t feel comfortable in my skin.

  I lock the door and flip the deadbolt. Test it.

  Safe. You’re safe here.

  Repeating the words in my mind, I drop my backpack in a corner and go to check that the windows are closed. In my bedroom, I drop to my knees and check under the bed. Heat rises to my face as I check my closet, then the shower stall in the bathroom, the cabinets, and move on to the kitchen to do the same there.

  Always checking that nobody has broken in and is hiding to attack me. Can’t help this crippling fear.

  I’m never safe. Nowhere. Ever.

  Goddammit. I turn on the heater and stand in the middle of the tiny living room, still in my jacket and dirty shoes, debating what to do. I’m dead tired—but nowhere near relaxed enough to think I could fall asleep if I crawled into bed.

  There’s my drawing board standing by the sofa, propped against the wall, my pens and pencils in a case on the low table. I take a step toward the board, drawn to it, aching to lose myself in art.

  Then there’s the TV. Sometimes that works—watching some boring show until I can’t keep my eyes open. I’ve spent way more nights on this ratty sofa than in my bed.

  My stomach growls, but I’m not really hungry. Fatigue plagues me, like most of the time nowadays, and a headache pounds behind my eyes.

  Art it is.

  Shrugging off my jacket, dropping it on a chair, I drag the board to the sofa and grab my pencils. Cross-legged, I set the board on the sofa and look critically at my last effort from a few days ago.

  I don’t draw normal stuff. Faces, flowers, landscapes, or even dragons and snakes and skulls, like most tattoo artists I know. Besides, this isn’t about inking. This is about taking my nightmares out, flinging them on the paper. Hoping they stay there.

  An exorcism. A ritual of sorts.

  If only it fucking worked.

  I need it, though, even that brief respite from the gnawing stress and fear, so I tear off the drawing, drop it to the floor, and start another, losing myself in the process. To fight the itch for something else—for drugs that numb the darkness inside of me. It’s an itch I can’t scratch, ever since my mom died in that car accident, leaving me with nothing apart from her paperback copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull and memories.

  She had been fun, and loving. She’d been like sunshine, and then she set, just like the sun.

  The house was rented, as was the
furniture, and it was all gone. We had debts, as it turned out, and with the funeral costs, there was nothing left in the end. No money in the bank. Just nothing.

  Not that I cared by then. I missed her. Her absence was a black hole in my mind. And I tried just about everything back then to get out of hell’s mouth. Oxy and Vicodin, crack and fucking meth, until Seth locked me up in my room and sat with me, bringing me food and water, only letting me out to use the bathroom.

  Until I stopped cursing him. Until could live without the drugs.

  It was him who dragged me to the light, kicking and screaming—only to find ourselves in prison and another version of hell.

  And… enough. Enough already.

  Scowling at the paper, I draw harsh, deep lines, sketching something that hasn’t quite formed yet, emerging from the night with teeth and claws and fury. Horns curl over his head, and he holds a knife.

  If I was religious, I’d say it’s a devil. The devil, stalking me, hounding me, waiting for me to fall that last inch that will mean there’s no way back. My breathing hitches with memories of blood and pain and fucking despair, the pencil digging so deep into the paper it’s starting to tear—

  Loud music rings out. I jerk back, dropping the pencil. The board falls, slamming to the floor as I scramble back on the cushions, lifting my hands for protection. What the hell?

  My cell.

  Jesus fuck.

  Still struggling to breathe, I throw my legs off the sofa and push to my feet. The sound’s coming from my jacket, in a heap on the floor, and with a sigh I bend over and retrieve the phone from the pocket.

  Seth.

  I think about not answering, but Seth’s my brother. Half-brother. And cousin. And best friend. I punched him a few months back, thinking he’d betrayed me, and somewhere deep in my gut I don’t feel like I’ve made up for it yet.

  For that, or for the fact he saved my ass so many times already.

  I connect the call.

  “Hey, cuz, where the hell are you? Everything all right?” Seth sounds out of breath. Behind him I hear voices. Noises. He’s not alone.