Marks on My Skin (Love & Ink #1)

by J. A. Howell

  “And just what the hell am I lying about?”

  With no further need for pleasantries I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and slammed it on the table. “That! That is what yer feckin’ lying about.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, speechless as it registered what I’d found.

  “Kieran, that’s not…”

  “Please enlighten me as ta what it is, love, because ta me it looks like ya’ve informed my agent that I’m ready and willin’ ta sign over my film rights ta my book for quite the handsome sum.”

  “I had already come back for you before he contacted me!”

  “BULL. SHIT. KENDALL.” I threw my chair across the kitchen floor and Kendall stumbled back, frightened. In the six years we’d been together I’d never yelled at her, never raised my voice. “Bullshit,” I repeated. “I spoke ta him this mornin’. He called ya a month ago, when he couldn’t get hold of me.”

  Kendall stood there silent, bottom lip trembling.

  “That’s not why, Kier. That’s not why I came back. I came back for you…and the baby.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, but they did nothing to dissuade me.

  “Fer once, just tell me the truth, Kendall. Are ya even feckin’ pregnant?”

  She stared down at the paper, saying nothing as her silent tears fell.

  “Ya knew I wouldn’t come back otherwise, didn’t ya? Ya knew what ta say ta pull me back in. Ya feckin’ played me. Again.”

  “That’s not true. I’m carrying your baby, I swear!” She sniffed and sunk back down onto her chair, cradling her stomach.

  “Fine. Let’s go then.” I came around the table and grabbed her arm.

  “What? Where?”

  “Ta the doctors. I already made ya an appointment fer this mornin’.”

  “No! I’m not going!” She tried to pull out of my grip but her petite frame was no match for me. I hauled her roughly onto her feet ignoring the yelp of pain. “Let go of me, Kieran! That hurts! I’m not going anywhere right now!”

  “The hell yer not! I want ta get another one of those little pictures of the baby fer my desk!” She dug her feet into the hardwood, but I yanked her forward. Tears, pajamas, and all.

  “Stop it! Let me go!”

  She clawed at my arm with her free hand and I flung her forward, letting her fall flat on her arse.

  “Tell me the feckin’ truth, Kendall! For once in your goddamned life!”

  I towered over her, clenching my fists at my sides. She whimpered, and pulled her legs to her chest.

  “Fine! I’m not pregnant, but I do want to have a baby with you.”

  “That why ya’ve been trying ta make moves on me every night? Ya think I’m an idjit? I can feckin’ count nine months! Ya just wanted me back for the money, didn’t ya?”

  She said nothing as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Tell me, Kendall. Tell me the feckin’ truth. It was never about me. It was about the money.”

  After another minute of silence I moved past her, heading for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Kendall tried to stop me and grabbed my arm but I jerked out of her grasp.

  “I’m leaving. I’m done with the lies, I’m done followin’ after ya like yer little dog. I’m just feckin’ done.”

  “Kier, please!”

  I squared my jaw and turned away from her. My chest ached, but not because it hurt to leave her. It hurt to realize just how blind I’d been for so long, how much I’d let her play me. It hurt to realize just how much I’d fecked things up with someone that actually cared about me.

  “Leave and you’ll be sorry.” Kendall’s voice took on a bold, cold-hearted tone and I stopped at the door, my car keys at my fingertips.

  I turned my head, meeting her glare with my own sharp-edged look. “I’ll be sorry?”

  “Leave me and I’ll drag you through the fucking grinder, you asshole!”

  I laughed. Actually laughed. Was she joking?

  “Ya seem ta forget, Kendall, ya already did that when ya fecked five guys in our feckin’ bed.” I snorted. I slid the house key off my keyring, and pulled the wedding band off my finger, letting them clank against the foyer floor. “Goodbye, Kendall. Do yer feckin’ worst.”

  My mother was waiting for me out in the garden when I arrived at the treatment center. She was fidgety and agitated. Her fingers tugged at the long sleeves of her shirt and her eyes met mine as I approached.

  “Finally. You took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

  I frowned, handed her a bag of fast food, and sat down next to her. “I told you an hour. It’s only been forty five minutes.”

  “Well, it felt longer.” My mother huffed, slouching.

  She stabbed the straw into her drink and took a long sip, staring out across the empty garden. I may as well have not been there except to deliver her food.

  “How have you been, mother?”

  Her dull brown gaze darted to me for a moment, a hint of annoyance flashing through them. “Are you kidding? I’ve been here three months now. This place is a hell hole.”

  “It’s not that bad.” I said, taking a sip of my own drink. I remembered places from when I was growing up that were much more deserving of the title of “hell hole.”

  She let out a disdainful grunt next to me and took a huge bite of her burger. Despite my mother’s frail appearance, she could put away a burger and fries without issue. I brought her fast food almost every weekend and she inhaled it. The rest of the time she apparently starved herself, claiming either the food was shit, or that she suspected they were drugging her that way, trying to control her. Years of drug use had rattled my mom’s brain to the point that I knew any deep, meaningful relationship between us was out of the question, but there were times, brief as they were, that she had moments of clarity, days where she showed some capacity to give a shit about me. Today, was obviously not one of those days.

  “Shayne,” she said, and I looked up at her lined, patchy face. She looked much older than her mid-forties. She used to be beautiful. I remembered seeing old pictures of her in high school. She’d been absolutely breathtaking. It was never the woman I knew though. Since I could remember, she’d looked like this. Pale, sallow skin, sunken in around her eyes and cheeks, with dark scars and pock marks left from sores and cuts. I never understood why she couldn’t see what all those drugs did to her. Sure, I still smoked a joint here and there to relax, but nothing else. I could still function in everyday life. My mother could barely manage to bathe herself some days.

  “What is it?” I asked, watching her with concern. Something was bothering her. She looked away from me, refusing to hold my gaze and I reached a hand out to hers—which she quickly snatched away.

  “I can’t stay here any longer. It isn’t helping. I just think it would be for the best.”

  I turned, facing her on the bench, and grabbed her hand. “Mom, no. You need to finish the six months like you promised. We’ve been through this I don’t even know how many times.”

  “Don’t you dare yell at me! I’m your fucking mother!”

  “And I’m the one paying for this little fucking vacation for you. What exactly are you going to do if you leave here, huh?” Anger shot through me and it took every fiber of my being not to smack her.

  “I’ve been clean three months! I already went through all that withdrawal bullshit. I can manage well enough on my own. This stupid kumbaya, ‘let’s talk about our feelings’ crap isn’t helping. If anything it makes me want a fucking bump just so I don’t have to listen to all the other patients drone on about their little sob stories.”

  I sighed. “See, that just proves my point. You’re not ready to leave. You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself and that’s been the problem all along.”

  With a fierce look, she stood and stalked away from me. I ran after her, grabbing her discarded trash off the ground.

  “I’m not sitting here listening to you act like a condescending little bitch. I rai
sed you, I fed you. Don’t fucking say I never gave a shit about anyone else. I gave a shit about you at least!”

  The trash dropped from my hands, and my soda spilled out across the grass as I stared at her. For a moment, nothing, not even breath passed my lips. My mother might as well have reached into my chest and ripped out my heart right there. It felt as if she did.

  “You…you gave a shit about me? When?” I asked, my tone shocked and incredulous. She glanced back over her shoulder at me, but said nothing, still walking away from me. I gritted my teeth and strode toward her, flinging her around by her thin shoulders. “When, mother? When did you give a shit about me?”

  Her eyes were wide, yellowed, and dim. They stared at me, startled at first, but defaulted back to the dull uncaring gaze I was used to as she quickly recovered. “Let go of me, Shayne. I don’t need to count out everything I did for you over the years. I’m your mother.”

  “No.” I squeezed tighter and she winced under the pressure. “Tell me, mom. Tell me one time you gave a shit about me. While you were gone for three days getting high when I was seven? Did you know I survived on one packet of Ritz crackers that weekend? Or maybe the times you locked me in my closet because you didn’t want some asshole to know you had a kid?”

  “I didn’t do that to you!” She shoved me off of her and started away from me again.

  “Yes you did, mom. Maybe you were too fucked up to remember it at the time, but I remember. Just like I remember Paul.”

  My mom spun around, holding me with a furious gaze. “That wasn’t my fault.”

  I swallowed hard, fighting back the nausea that came anytime I thought of him.

  “No, you’re right, it wasn’t. But maybe if you hadn’t been busy trying to get your next fix you might have noticed your boyfriend going into your thirteen year old daughter’s bedroom. You might have noticed your daughter screaming out for you as he raped her every fucking night for six months!”

  Sobs tore through me uncontrolled but they didn’t faze her. I was just another sob story she wanted to drown out. “You know, I thought maybe you didn’t know what was going on. Maybe if I screamed you’d see what he was doing…but you never came to help. You never stopped him. I stopped screaming for you after the first month, because at thirteen years old I realized something. You didn’t give a shit about me. No, the only time you stepped in was to make sure that baby was aborted so Paul didn’t go to jail, and thanks to you finding the cheapest doctor for it, I can’t even have a child if I wanted to.”

  I gasped in a deep breath, refusing to let the thoughts of Kieran, Kendall, and that stupid ultrasound come back to me. Another painful reminder of the permanent scars my mother had left me with. My mother tried to pull free from my grip, but I refused to let go.

  “You know mother, maybe it’s better that way. Maybe it’s better I can’t have a child. That way I can’t fuck up their life the way you fucked up mine. Do you realize, you’re probably one of the worst mothers someone could ever have?”

  Without warning my mother let loose an angry cry and her nails came down, swiping my face. I cupped my cheek to calm the sting and blinked at her. Had she really just hit me?

  “Just stop it, Shayne! I messed up. Big deal. You turned out fine, didn’t you? Yet all you can do is blame me for how terrible your life was. Do you know how horrible it was having to deal with a child alone? God, I wanted to smother you in your crib when you wouldn’t stop crying, but I didn’t. I never wanted a fucking baby, but your grandmother wouldn’t let me get an abortion. God, if only she would have let me, I wouldn’t be dealing with your shit right now.”

  I didn’t even realize my hand was raised until it came across my mother’s face with a hard clap. She fell backwards into the grass and I lurched toward her, my body no longer my own. Profanities screamed from my lips, but I didn’t know what I was saying. I may as well have been speaking a different language, foreign even to myself. The years of anger, hurt, and fear poured out of me all at once and I reached for her— not my mother but this monster that claimed to be her. I wanted nothing more than to tear her to pieces. Jagged little pieces, fragments of herself, until she was just like me.

  Hands came out of nowhere, grabbing my arms and pulling me away from her. I struggled against them, but the two orderlies’ grips tightened as they mumbled soothing words that I didn’t hear.

  My mother stared up at me, horrified, but unpitying. Another orderly helped her to her feet, but her eyes never left mine.

  “Miss, I think it’s best you go.” One of the men next to me said. I nodded, still feeling as if I wasn’t in my own body. I didn’t want to leave like this, but it wasn’t as if my mother cared. She never had. Just like when I was seven, just like when I was thirteen. I’d never mattered to her. That was always clear.

  The orderlies loosened their grip on my arm and I turned for the parking lot, attempting to reign in the anger charging through me. Inside my car, I fixed my hair and put some make up on to tone down the redness on my cheek. I sat there for a couple minutes, staring at the building and the impeccably manicured garden. If she didn’t want to stay here any more, fine. But after today she could be damn sure the next time she needed money, she wouldn’t be getting any from me. I was done with her. She could drop dead for all I cared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Under My Skin

  My fist banged against Darren’s door, frantic. God, I hoped he was home. The thud of his feet hitting the floor came and I let out my breath in a sharp whoosh. I was supposed to go to the shop, but I couldn’t after the fight with my mother and after last night with Ian. It was too much. Everything was too much. I just wanted to forget right now. I needed to forget.

  “Hey Shayne, what are you doing over—” I cut Darren off with my lips as soon as he swung the door open. Not missing a beat, his arms came around me, picked me up, and he slammed me against the wall. Throwing one shoulder back, Darren pushed the front door shut and carried me to the living room. “What’s wrong?” He asked once he’d lowered me onto the sofa. I averted my gaze from the deep concern lingering in his.

  “Not right now, please.” I pulled at the front of his shirt, desperate and pleading. That only seemed to trouble him further, but he didn’t push it. He pulled his shirt off so that he was only in a pair of jeans and held himself above me so he was straddling my hips.

  “What do you need from me, Shayne?” Darren’s finger brushed my cheek and he frowned at the scratches my mother had left. I was sure he could tell I’d been crying too from the blotchiness on my cheeks.

  “I just need to forget.” I closed my eyes, still not able to look at him. “Please.”

  His lips came down on mine, gentle at first, but he knew that wasn’t what I needed and quickly deepened the kiss. I tangled my fingers into his hair and his tongue darted past my lips, searching for mine. My mother’s words were still sharp as a razor and it did nothing to dull the sting. I wrapped my legs around Darren’s hips and he responded, pressing his himself against me. Still, the pain resurfaced and so did the tears.

  “Shayne…” Darren hooked a finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  I shook my head and buried my face against his bare chest. “I just want to forget. Please!”

  He pulled back, his stormy eyes filled with worry. I peered up at him through misty eyes and traced my fingers over his angular jaw. “Please, Darren—Sir. Please. I just need to forget. Spank me, flog me, fuck me, do whatever you want! But just make me forget!”

  Darren blinked at me, taken aback by my words. Not waiting for a reaction, I kissed him, hard enough to knick the inside of my lip. I ignored the pain and pulled him down to me. I knew he was worried, but talking about it only made it real. He let out a groan and his tongue darted into my mouth once more. His hand slid under my shirt and I tried to lose myself in the feel of his touch, but it didn’t help. Darren pulled away again, this time sitting up completely.
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br />   “Shayne, stop this! You’re shaking. Tell me what happened.” He hauled me up so that I was on his lap and cradled me against his chest. I laughed, letting my hair fall in my face. I still couldn’t look at him.

  “She wished she’d aborted me.”

  Darren let out a deep sigh and ran his fingers through my hair, not saying a word. He knew what I’d gone through with my mother, he’d seen how horrible she could be. He didn’t offer any comforting words. He knew just as well as I did that she wasn’t getting any better. I’d blinded myself from the truth long ago, thinking somehow I could fix her. But she’d never wanted to be fixed in the first place. Just liked she’d never wanted me. He traced a finger over the scratches on my cheek thoughtfully, waiting for me to continue.

  “I confronted her about Paul…and she slapped me.”

  At that Darren’s features darkened and his jaw tightened, straining the muscles in his neck. He knew all about Paul. He’d paid him a visit once on my account. I didn’t know about it until he’d come back to the apartment with bloody knuckles one night.

  “I hit her too. When she said what she did.”

  “Good. She deserved it. Fucking bitch.” He reached toward the ashtray on the table and grabbed a joint, lighting it then holding it out to me. I took a long hit, closed my eyes, and tried to calm my nerves. “You know, it’s not your responsibility to take care of her. I told you before, she’s only nice to you when she wants something from you, when she needs money.”

  “I know. She told me she wants to leave treatment. If she does I’m not giving her anything.”

  “Good. It’s not right what she puts you through after all the things you’ve done to help her and after what she’s let happen to you.” Darren’s scowl deepened as he thought over his words. “Some people are toxic. You don’t need them in your life, Shayne. People like her.”

  I didn’t say anything. I knew he was right, but she was still my mother. Something in me still cared about her and worried about her, even if she didn’t care about me. Darren pushed my hair back, kissed my bared collarbone, and the ghost of smile crossed my lips.