Finding Serenity (The Unexpected Love Series Book 2)

by Black, T. E.

  I sigh in the phone, running a finger against my throbbing temple. Do I know it was wrong to blame my neck on Bruce? Yes, completely. There’s no denying it. I twisted the truth until it hurt someone. That someone being Bruce.

  “He won’t touch me again, Trent. I won’t let him. You have nothing to worry about,” I lie.

  “Fuck, Shay. I know ya can handle yourself, but I don’t want that shit happening again. I should’ve been there the first time. It never would’ve happened if I didn’t fuck up.”

  “It’s not your fault, Trent,” I admit.

  Trent apologizes for getting so mad. I know he worries about Abby going there now on top of me being around him. Trent is a good guy despite his habits. He cares about Abby as if she were his own, and there isn’t a thought in my mind leading me to believe he’d hurt her.

  "I have to go. I'll call you in the morning," I tell him.

  “I love you, Shay. I really do.”

  “Me too, Trent. Me too.”

  I can't say the words when I'm standing in the parking lot of the club getting ready to dance on a stage. It feels wrong. I feel wrong for lying to him, but it's not as if he's telling me the truth either. We’re both keeping secrets.

  "Shay, everything good?" Marco calls out from the back door.

  I hit the lock button on my phone, turning around to head back inside. As I pass Marco, I put my free hand on his shoulder and give him a nod.

  "Everything's good," I confirm.

  "You and the boyfriend good?" he questions, skeptical.

  I nod my head, shortly after looking away into the dark parking lot.

  "What do you do when you know you're keeping a secret from the person you love? A secret that will ultimately destroy everything you two have together?"

  Marco is an older man. I know he knows what it's like to lose things. He's been divorced twice, and every divorce of his was because of secrets. He’s explained this much to me.

  "You still haven’t told him you’re working here?" he asks, his voice soft with understanding.

  "No. He wouldn't stay with me if he knew, Marco. You know it. I can’t tell him, and it’s fucking wearing me thin."

  He pulls me into a small hug, letting me melt into him.

  “You’re a strong woman, Shay Kirby. I know you’ll figure this out. It'll be all right, sweetheart," he whispers in my hair.

  TONY DECIDED WE needed theme nights at the club, and it just happens to be on the nights I work. He swears it's to draw in more business, but I know this is how he plans to torment me. Tonight, the theme is pussycats. It's insane. I’m dressed in head-to-toe black with my black fur leg warmers, cat ears placed strategically in my curled-to-hell hair, and a cat tail sewn to my booty shorts. Even my bra has fur sewn onto it. Tony picked our music tonight too. It makes me nervous. I'm paired up with Jessica tonight, a girl who’s new at the club. She's a damn good dancer, and she's paying her way through college by doing this. The only problem is she’s naïve as hell.

  "You look so much better than I do! I want tattoos like you so we match!" she shouts excitedly, fixing her cat ears so they stand up straight.

  I humor her because she's so damn young. She's only twenty-one, and her innocence is obvious. She’s quite beautiful. With long, chestnut brown hair and a tan that takes years to achieve, she grabs all of the guys’ attention at the club.

  "Go grab some Sharpies from the front desk. I'll hook you up. I'm pretty good at drawing shit. I’m dating a tattoo artist." I laugh.

  She throws herself at me excitedly before running out of the dressing room to get the Sharpies. God help me.

  JESSICA IS COVERED in Sharpie art created by my hands, and she looks beautiful. I told her she should consider getting some real tattoos since she wears them so well. I know just the guy to do them for her. The tattoos take her innocent appearance and turn it up a notch.

  We're positioned at opposite ends of the stage with our backs resting against the metal ladders secured to the ceiling. I take a deep breath like I always do, letting myself get lost in the world where I'm not a mother, a girlfriend, or a daughter. I'm a dancer. I let my body become one with the crowd. I become the crowd. I’m a piece of each individual who stands and watches me.

  Darkness cloaks the room, and it's silent until the music starts to play. I smile to myself when the song bellows from the speakers. “Lean On” by Major Lazer starts and the woman's beautiful voice travels through me, pumping my blood with the energy I need right now. I need the rhythm to forget myself—I use it to become someone else entirely.

  The lights flash through a tri-color scheme while we start our set. My movements match the beat. I start slow, running my hands over my body in a seductive manner while my body itself sways side to side. When the beat speeds up, I use the tail attached to my boy shorts to my advantage, letting it become part of the show. I twist and tease the audience, their calls for my body getting louder inside the club.

  I never look at the audience, but when I feel a set of curious eyes on me, I look up. Tony meets my stare, a satisfied grin on his lips. He makes me sick. I don't back down from his intense gaze. Instead, I match it. I make sure my eyes never leave his while I work the stage in what is the best damn performance I've ever given. He breaks our gaze to study and appreciate my body. Every time his scrutiny lands on certain parts of me, I feel my stomach roiling in disgust. His stare makes me feel filthy, but I keep dancing.

  I extend my hands in front of me, twisting them and moving them at the same pace as my body moves. It creates an illusion for the crowd, letting their minds conform to mine. In their minds, they do the dance with me, their hands replacing mine while they move over my body. My breathing is rapid, but my lungs accept it. They know their place in the dance. They allow me to keep dancing. They allow me to make the crowd envious. They allow me to shine, and I do. I shine like the big city lights.

  "You looked lovely on stage, Shay," Tony compliments me after my set.

  I nod at him, continuing to fill my tray since this is now part of my job. I didn't argue with him when he told me I'd be swapping out an hour of dancing for serving. It makes me more money, even if I hate it.

  "Thanks," I respond, my tone clipped.

  The bartender, Brandy, gives me a sad smile, continuing to stack the shots on the tray. Tony leans against the bar, his body way too close for comfort.

  "You’re a natural. You could be making me big money if you worked the private shows."

  I snap my head to him with a glare in my expression.

  "I'm not taking off my clothes for money, so you can drop it. If that’s part of our arrangement, I’ll call off the whole thing without a second thought."

  He lets out a deep chuckle, adjusting the Rolex sitting proudly on his wrist.

  "As much as I'd love to see the glorious body you keep, I'm talking strictly just dancing during the parties. You flirt with the men a little more intimately, and I repay you for your service."

  I meet his eyes, only to question him.

  "How much money are we talking, and what's in it for you?"

  I know the "deal" isn’t for me to profit. So I wait for it. I wait for him to tell me what I'm really going to do for him. It’s only to be expected.

  "If you help me, in return, I will help you."

  I roll my eyes, grabbing my tray from the bar top and walking away from him and his confusing sentences.

  "We'll talk later, Tony. My boss would be pretty pissed if he found out I was slacking off at work." Then I make sure to throw him the finger over my shoulder.

  Pink Floyd – “Mother”

  "MOM, ARE YA sure you're okay? I could get ya into a better place than this shit hole. Ya know I have the money."

  She smiles, sitting on the edge of her bed and taking my hand in hers.

  "Honey, I told you twice already. You aren’t paying my bills. I know you have the money. You earned it. I won’t take it from you."

  I sigh out in frustration at her. She has
more pride than some grown men do. Taking any type of charity isn’t on my mother's agenda, even if it's from her own son.

  "Put on some music from your phone, honey. I haven't heard any in a while. My nurse refuses to give me a radio in here. She says it's because of the other recovering patients, but I think she's just a witch." She giggles, and I laugh wholeheartedly with her.

  "What do you want me to play?" I ask, pulling out my phone before I remember it has no music whatsoever on it.

  "I don't have any on my phone, Ma," I apologize, seeing her saddened expression.

  Just as I'm about to apologize, her face shines brightly while she claps her hands together excitedly. "Wait. I know just the thing!"

  She calls out to the nurse walking down the hall who has a huge smile on her face. I'm gonna assume she's not the "witch" my mom was referring to before.

  The nurse sticks her head in, still smiling from ear to ear. "What can I do for you, sweetheart?"

  "Do you still have the guitar from the talent show last month?"

  I groan, wishing this wasn't happening. I haven't played the guitar since I was young, and I know it disappoints my mom. Playing the guitar was my dad’s and my thing. So when he stopped playing, I did too.

  The nurse nods her head energetically, heading back into the hallway before I can stop her. My groan deepens as I place my head in my hands to hide my frustration.

  "You're going to play for me, Trent Wallace. I haven't heard you play since you were little, and you know how much I love it when you do."

  I turn to face her expecting to see happiness. Instead, I see the sadness in her eyes. Great. Now, she's guilting me into it.

  "I'll play.”

  Before I know what's happening, the nurse strolls back into the room with her fingers wrapped around the neck of the Fender acoustic guitar, and she's shoving it at me excitedly. I take it from her, the feeling of holding it extraordinary. My heart beats rhythmically in my chest while my fingers get their first feel. My hand flexes around the neck, my fingers sliding over the grit of the strings. I suck in a harsh breath. God. It feels good. I haven’t touched one of these in a long time. I swore off them when my dad stopped playing. He used to be damn good at it. I’m pretty sure that’s how he won my mom over.

  I position it in my lap, slinging my arm over the body, and opt out of using the pick the nurse handed me. I run my thumb over the top string, my breath hitching again. The moment my fingers strum along it, it's purring under my touch. It's crazy I still got it. I still have a sweet, soft touch despite my father not being here. With a second strum, my breathing evens out and my body relaxes. I feel home again.

  "Play my favorite song, honey," my mom encourages.

  I oblige, strumming my finger lightly on the strings. I start playing “Mother” by Pink Floyd. This has always been my mom's favorite. When I was younger, she used to beg me to play it. I’ve played this song so many times that my fingers bleed the notes. My mom grew up on Pink Floyd, and she passed it on to me. By the time I was ten, I could play almost any Pink Floyd song on an acoustic guitar.

  I close my eyes, starting the song by singing the first line. As soon as it leaves my vocal cords, I become one with the music. I am at ease. I continue to sing, my mind replaying my childhood in slow motion. It twists in and out of the melodies—the happy, the sad, the angry, and the downright heartbreaking parts all showing themselves for the first time in years.

  "Merry Christmas, sweetheart," my mom says, holding out the most beautiful acoustic guitar I've ever seen.

  It's a Fender; black stained wood body with white accents throughout. It's exactly what I wanted. I doubted I'd actually get it since my parents were tight on money, but they pulled through and I couldn't be any happier.

  I saw the guitar at a local music store in the mall. I stared at it through the window, my mouth almost falling open. I couldn’t look away. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and it still is.

  “Why don’t we go inside and see how you look holding it?”

  My mom ushers me in the store, the Christmas music bringing the holiday cheer. A man in a dark Black Sabbath T-shirt greets us with a smile.

  “How can I help you two today?”

  “My son would like to see the guitar you have in the window. We want to see how he looks holding it,” she confirms.

  The man in the store grins wide, moving to a wall along the front of the store. He uses a key from his pocket to open a hidden door. As it slides open, I get my first glance of the Fender without glass surrounding it. It’s beautiful.

  The man and the guitar move toward us as he ushers me to take a seat on one of the benches.

  “Do you know how to hold it, son?”

  My mom lets out a loud laugh; she knows I’m already a natural with a guitar.

  “Yes. He’s quite good. You can give it to him,” she confirms.

  The store attendant places it in my lap. My fingers touch the cool strings, and my smile turns infectious.

  “Can he play it? He knows a lot of Pink Floyd songs,” my mom questions.

  “Pink Floyd? This I have to see! Have at it, little man,” he replies.

  With an encouraging nod from my mom, I start to strum. My mind begins replaying the countless times I've practiced playing “Mother” by Pink Floyd. I float the chords around in my mind, getting lost in the moment. I play with all I have. There’s nothing like playing it on a beautiful guitar instead of a beat-up one. Before I know what’s happening, I belt out the lyrics. The world goes quiet around me while I keep on playing. I don’t miss a beat, and I hit every note perfectly. I peek up to see my mom holding back tears. The smile on her face is one for the record books. She couldn’t be prouder. I look around the rest of the store as the entire staff stares at me in wonder. The man who handed the guitar to me stands in complete shock as I finish.

  Cheers erupt in the store, and my smile grows wide. Maybe my dad’s wrong. Maybe I’m meant to do something more than fail in life. If these strangers can be proud of me, why can’t I be proud of myself?

  A small cry as I finish singing causes me to open my eyes for the first time since I started. I look over at my mom who lays in her hospital bed, clinging to a box of tissues for dear life. She sobs tears of joy; a tissue positioned at her eye dabs away the tears. I flick my gaze next to her, seeing the nurse who brought the guitar staring at me with the same expression. So I close my eyes again and play another song.

  I LET MYSELF into Shay's apartment with the key she hides under her doormat. It's midnight, and she's nowhere to be found. I went to Mrs. Lidy's apartment and brought Abby back home where I tucked her into bed safely.

  While I sit here, I stare at the guitar sitting in the corner of her living room practically calling my name. The nurse at the rehab place kept saying I could use it more than anyone there could. She practically shoved it in my hand while I walked out the door. I reluctantly agreed.

  The guitar is screaming for me to play it, and I can't help but give in to its silent demands. Today was an emotional day for me. I’m fucking wiped. Any day I see Mom is a rough one in my book. Today, though, was the worst by far. Playing the song fucked with me. It brought me back to a time I’d kill to have back. A time when all I had to worry about was making good grades and making my mom proud.

  I stand from the couch, moving to the guitar. I bring it back with me, settling it on my knee, and strum away. I play one of my favorite songs on it. Singing the lyrics to A Day to Remember's “If It Means A Lot to You.” I have every chord memorized in my mind from just listening to the CD. I don't need an actual guitar to learn the notes of a song. I can hear every one of them from just listening while I tattoo. That’s why music centers me so much. It’s the reason I need it when I’m tattooing. I think about my life as I ink. I retrace everywhere I went wrong and everywhere I went right. The mistakes, the accomplishments, and the heartache—I replay it all as I do now.

  The real estate agent looks at the closing
papers, a smile proudly on her face.

  “Looks like we’re all set, Mr. Wallace. You now own a tattoo shop!” she beams.

  A matching grin coats my lips as I take the keys from her. I’ve worked damn hard for this shop. I’ve tattooed until my fingers bled to save the money. I’ve done it all. I’ve fought tooth and nail to get where I am today, and the pride isn’t far from my heart. I’ve never worked for anything in life, but it’s not that I’ve had it handed to me either. I’ve never had much, but today, I change it. I’m becoming someone else today. Today, I become the owner of my own tattoo shop.

  Ryleigh lets out an excited squeal while she wraps her arms around Rook’s torso. Rook gives me an approving nod, smiling ear to ear.

  The agent says her good-byes, handing me her card in case I need anything else while she walks out of the building.

  “So what are ya gonna name it, baby bro? Leigh has some sweet names if ya need help.” Rook nods to Ryleigh.

  “Etched,” I reply without hesitation.

  I’ve thought about the name since I did my first tattoo, a Celtic knot on some kid from school. It came out horrible, but the dude loved it. Although I had an idea what I was doing at the time, I still have a framed picture, which I’ll place in the shop on my desk. There're some memories you just can’t forget.

  “I dig it,” Rook rasps.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Dammit! I thought I was finally gonna get a say!” Ryleigh squeaks. Rook leans over, placing a kiss on her cheek before pulling out a chair from the counter. “Next time, babe. I promise.”

  “Ready to rock out ya first ink in this place?” He turns to me.

  “I didn’t bring my shit, Rook. It’s bad luck. I thought it’d be some fucking omen that I wouldn’t get the loan.”

  “Wanna grab the stuff from the car, Leigh?” He gives Ryleigh a knowing glance.

  “I’ll be right back!” she exclaims, running out to the car.

  She walks back in a minute later, rolling my tattoo case behind her. I let out a loud laugh, smiling wide.