by Kent, Alison
“What happened?”
“Girls and beer mostly. It was Texas, so the music was a lot of country. The drugs . . .” He stopped, scrubbed a hand over his jaw as if wiping the memory away. “Those came later. After I’d hooked up with the MC. I took off after graduation with some boys from school to work the oil fields in West Texas. Like I knew anything about oil. Or fields that weren’t chalked off every ten yards. The money wasn’t shabby, but the days were long, and all we did was work and drink and sleep. And not always in that order.”
She smiled to herself, picturing Callum as a restless and reckless teen. “I guess that didn’t go over so well with the boss.”
“It didn’t go over so well with my gut. Or my head,” he said, with a self-deprecating laugh. “I started needing something stronger than the hair of the dog to kick the hangovers. Found it with some bikers in a Midland bar. You think the boss wasn’t happy with the booze . . .”
“I can imagine,” she said, staring into her glass, thinking about the young man Callum had been, his whole future ahead of him and nearly throwing it away.
“I’m not sure you can. Looking back, I have a hard time believing I got out of there in one piece. I was a rich kid from an upscale Dallas suburb. I knew about beer and watering down decanters in parents’ liquor cabinets. I knew about pot. Boy, did I know about pot. I knew where to get my hands on coke and crystal, but I didn’t. Not then anyway. Later . . .”
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t going to judge him now by what he’d done fifteen years ago. He wasn’t that person. She knew that because twenty-two-year-old Brooklyn Harvey was certainly not who she was now at thirty-seven.
“I’m not proud of those years,” he continued. “The things I did to get by. Some I knew were wrong. Some I didn’t ask about. Others . . .” He shook his head. “Sometimes it really is better to go in blind. I did what I was told to do. I took the money they paid me. And it was good money.”
“This was before you worked as a bartender?”
“And before I met Addy’s mom. She came with more benefits than warming my bed. She was Duke’s sister. She got me the job.”
How was that even possible? He’d lived with and worked for his daughter’s uncle? “I thought she told you in the hospital she wanted nothing to do with Addy.”
“She did.”
“What about Duke? Or their parents? They all just let you take Addy and go without promising to stay in touch?”
“Their parents had been dead a long time. And as far as Duke and Lainie . . .” He leaned forward and closed the top of the pizza box. “They knew I was getting out of club life, that I had a chance to make things better for me and Addy. And as much as they loved the idea of having a niece, they didn’t want to mess things up for her, so they bowed out.”
“Mess things up.” She had so many questions: How? Why? “Because of their relationship with her mother?”
He shook his head. He was out of wine, and frowned down at his glass but left it empty. “They didn’t have much of a relationship with her by then.”
Everything he said made her even more curious. And more confused. “Cheryl and Duke must’ve been on speaking terms for him to have given you the job originally.”
“A lot of shit went down between Cheryl getting pregnant and Addy being born. Honestly”—he sat forward, his elbows on his knees, and dragged both hands down his face—“I’m surprised that little pumpkin of mine was born with all her fingers and toes. I counted. It was the first thing I did.” He stopped, pulled in a breath that had even Brooklyn shaking.
She pictured him, this tattooed man, this Irish rogue, this long-haired chocolatier, holding a tiny baby in his big-boned hands.
Callum cleared his throat. “I thought if she’d made it through with her fingers and toes maybe the rest of her would be okay. It sounds so stupid now. And I knew it was stupid then. But Cheryl was a drunk and an addict. Not so bad at first, so maybe that had something to do with Addy turning out okay. But later? She was running with some pretty bad dudes then. Got into some seriously bad shit.”
Her mind went to the obvious. “But you know Addy’s yours?”
“No question. The timing was right, and Cheryl said as much. But I paid for a paternity test to be sure.”
“Do you think, if you’d found out she wasn’t, you would’ve loved her anyway?”
“The minute I picked her up from the hospital bassinet, she was mine. Yeah, I wanted to know, to be sure, but she had this tiny pink screwed-up nose, and these big bowed lips, and blond fuzz that was longer at her crown and looked all punk. I might’ve regretted that she didn’t have my blood, if the tests had showed that, but I’d been waiting to meet her for months, and I was a goner the minute I did. If anything, I wished then that she had a different mother. A mother who wanted her and gave a shit about her.
“It’s hard to believe, you know. That something so precious and so innocent, something so pure could come from someone who was nothing but—” He stopped, the words seeming to choke him. “Addy’s everything to me. I don’t want to even think about losing her.”
“Why would you?” she asked, her chest tight around the question. “You have custody.”
He shrugged. “Cheryl could always change her mind.”
“You had to have presented a strong case to win over the court.”
“Yeah. And I’ll be holding my breath until Addy turns eighteen that my case doesn’t fall apart.”
“Can it?”
“It’s doubtful,” he said, shaking his head. “But I never say never.”
She let that settle. He didn’t want to talk details, and really, that was fine. “Did you get a tattoo when she was born? Her name with the date or a baby rattle or something?”
He arched a brow. “A baby rattle? You think I’d wear a baby rattle?”
Ah, so he did have something sentimental. Too entirely cute. “Methinks the man doth protest too much.”
“You’re screwing up your Hamlet,” he said, reminding her again of their shared love of literature.
“Show me. What is it?” And where is it, because if showing her required him taking off his clothes . . .
His hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, and he turned toward her as he freed them from his throat to his sternum. He stopped there, pulling the fabric to the side, and twisting on the cushion beside her to give her a better view.
The tattoo was of an illustration she knew well, a favorite childhood storybook character, a yellow bear holding the hand of a tiny pink pig. Over their heads floated a balloon bearing Addy’s name and birth date, and another with a quote from the Milne book.
The sentiment brought a catch to Brooklyn’s heart. Because it was inked right over Callum’s.
“It’s the truth, you know,” he said, dropping his chin to glance down at his chest, his mouth pulled sideways in a goofy grin. “As soon as I saw her, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind a grand adventure would happen.” Then he looked up, the grin still goofy, his whole expression dopey, like a man so enthralled with the little girl who was his, it rendered him a fool.
She absolutely loved seeing this part of him, loved that he trusted her enough to be this vulnerable with her. Loved him. She loved him. “Has it been all you expected?”
“It’s been one insane ride, that’s for sure.”
“But you wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
“You got that right,” he said, smiling as he buttoned his shirt. “Not for a million bucks.”
TWO OWLS’ CRACKLE-TOP BROWNIES
½ cup all-purpose flour
⅛ teaspoon salt
6 ounces unsalted butter, cut into pieces, room temperature
6 ounces bittersweet chocolate, cut into pieces
1 cup sugar
3 large eggs
Preheat oven to 300 degrees (F).
Grease an 8 x 8-inch baking dish and line with pa
rchment paper, coating with nonstick spray.
Whisk together the flour and the salt. Set aside.
In a double boiler, or in a bowl set over a saucepan of barely simmering water, slowly melt the chocolate. Remove the chocolate from the heat, and stir in the room-temperature butter until it melts.
Using an electric mixer or a stand mixer with a whisk attachment, beat the eggs and the sugar until thick. Add the chocolate and butter mixture, then fold in the dry ingredients by hand.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake 50–60 minutes, or until the top is crackled and a tester inserted into the center comes out with a bit of batter attached.
Transfer the pan to a rack and allow the brownies to cool completely before cutting.
SEVENTEEN
Since eating pizza with Callum two weeks ago Friday night—their schedules refusing to mesh for more than a few phone calls in the meantime—Brooklyn had been thinking about his Winnie-the-Pooh tattoo. For years she’d kept a list of quotes she considered tat worthy, but she’d never thought seriously about sitting still for a needle long enough to have one done.
Until now.
Artie’s ink had been image-heavy, but just as meaningful to him as were the quotes Callum had chosen for himself. She loved how both men owned parts of their lives so strongly they’d paid permanent homage: Artie to his career, the brotherhood of firefighters he called family, Callum first to his club, then later to himself, his daughter, the life he needed to live for her.
Thinking about that commitment was what had finally convinced her to take the plunge. She was changing so many things, why not a tattoo? As many sayings as she had in her collection, she could’ve covered her entire body with suitable adages. The problem was finding an inkman to trust, though it wasn’t much of one: a phone call to Callum had solved it.
He’d even made the appointment for tonight, saying he wanted to talk to the artist first, then come along, rather than having her go in blind. Being seen with him in this case wouldn’t be such a bad thing. In fact, she mused, tugging up on the jeans she hadn’t worn in ages, being seen with him was exactly what she wanted. She was going to have as much fun as she could while in Callum’s world tonight. And she wasn’t going to think about her world at all.
“Are you sure about this?” Callum asked, his hand on the door to the tattoo parlor on Austin’s 6th Street, his gaze on Brooklyn’s pale face. He hadn’t seen her for two weeks, having been swamped with work and with arranging for everything Addy needed as part of the after-school program, though they’d talked twice to coordinate tonight’s appointment. “It’s a forever kind of thing, you know. You can’t change your mind when you start itching and peeling.”
“Thank you for the comforting thought, but yes,” she said, adding, “I’m sure,” as she scraped her hair away from her face and wound it into a bun she secured against the back of her head with a chopstick.
A fancy one, but it was still a chopstick. He was going to have to try that trick. See if it would hold any better than the bands he normally used. “Just checking. You know. Since that’s what friends are for.”
“A friend recommending a tattoo artist is one thing,” she said, shrugging out of the hoodie she’d worn over a black, body-hugging halter top, the hem of which skimmed the dropped waist of her jeans, leaving a bare strip of pale skin he couldn’t look away from. “A friend reminding me I’m due for a load of discomfort is something else.”
“I’m a good guy to have for a friend.” But damn if looking at her had him wanting to be something else entirely. Her body was killer. He’d known that from kissing her, but the outfit she was wearing . . . no, he hadn’t known it. Even though he’d had her pressed up against him, he hadn’t known it until now. “You’re going to want to keep me around.”
“So you keep saying.”
“It’s not just the itching and peeling. Don’t forget the discomfort of the needle. And the jolt to your checkbook.”
“Thanks, friend,” she said, looking up at him as he reached for the door. “But I’m good on all counts.”
There was something in her eyes, something fiery and challenging, that had him wanting to go all barbarian and throw her over his shoulder. Instead, he reined in the urge and said, “You’ll like my guy. He’s a good dude. He’s done a lot of my cover-ups. Name’s Geezer.”
“Geezer?”
“Well, it’s not his real name.”
“I certainly hope not,” she said, pulling open the door, since he hadn’t managed to stop looking at her long enough to do it.
The windows on the front of the shop were tinted, giving the place a dark and brooding feel. The reception area was equally macabre, with its black walls and dim lighting and the decor’s overwhelming use of skulls.
But the interior of Geezer’s looked a whole lot like a barbershop or a dentist’s office. Bright lights in an acoustical ceiling, a tiled floor that matched the speckled-black granite countertops. Three walls of cabinets and drawers. Three workstations with a sink at each. Three adjustable hydraulic chairs.
Two were occupied. The third was empty, the space Brooklyn’s, and the artist standing at the counter behind—in black jeans, black boots, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt—was going through his supplies. He was tall and lean, his silver hair worn in a military buzz.
His mustache, on the other hand . . . Callum waited for him to turn. Yep. The longest Fu Manchu he’d ever seen, hanging to the man’s chest. “Geezer.”
“Cal. My man. Good to see you.” They shook hands, slapped backs; then Callum stepped aside to say, “Geezer, this is my friend Brooklyn. She’s a needle virgin, so be kind.”
“Brooklyn. Welcome to my little corner of hell,” Geezer said, his laugh rather maniacal. “I mean, come on in, pick your poison.”
“You’re not helping things here, man,” Callum said, but Brooklyn reached for his arm and squeezed.
“It’s fine,” she said, her gaze cocky as she looked from him to Geezer. “I know a bluff when I see one. I teach kindergarten, remember?”
“You. A kindergarten teacher.” Geezer stepped back, looked her up and down. “I would’ve stayed in school for a teacher like you.”
“Kindergarten, Geezer,” Callum said. He knew the other man was teasing and trying to establish a connection with Brooklyn, but his own inner caveman was in rare form tonight, and he had this need to stake a claim.
“So what can I do for you, Brooklyn?”
She handed him a folded piece of notepaper. “Make sure you spell it right.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve got a master’s in art history. I do know how to spell.”
Brooklyn watched Geezer open the paper, then glanced over. “Callum forgot to mention that part.”
“I’m not sure Cal ever knew that part,” Geezer said, moving closer to Brooklyn to talk over the details of the tat. “Show me where you’re wanting it, and what you’re thinking about lettering and decorative extras.”
Callum gave them their space, dropping to sit on the bench that was part of Geezer’s workstation. It didn’t take them long to settle on the specifics; Brooklyn knew what she wanted, pointing out added design frills from his book, and others from his wall. There was no debate, no argument, no uncertainty. She was that way about everything. Or almost everything.
It was her trip to Italy, possibly staying in Italy, and dealing with the things that had belonged to her husband that were giving her grief. She didn’t talk about it, not in those terms. She didn’t complain, but he knew she was having a hard time.
Not surprising, he mused, as Geezer got started. She was upending her life. Head over heels upside down. And though he understood why she was putting herself through the upheaval, he had a feeling she wasn’t sure what she was doing was the right thing. Maybe it had been when she’d agreed or promised or whatever, but time had passed, things had changed.
He didn’t have it in him to fix this for her, as much as he
wanted to. She was going to have to deal with the ghost on her own. He looked over to where she sat hunched forward and facing him, her face pale. She winced once, as Geezer got started, then she opened her eyes and focused on his.
“You doing okay?” he asked, wishing he could make this easier for her, too, but it would be done with before the end of the evening, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind she’d be happy with Geezer’s work.
She nodded and said, “Tell me about your first tattoo.”
Now he was the one to wince. And not from the pain. “I don’t even know if I remember my first.”
Geezer looked up and scoffed. “Of course you do, dude. Everyone remembers their first.”
“Fine,” he said, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Then how ’bout I don’t want anyone to know about my first.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Geezer said, leaning close to Brooklyn’s back. “If it was anything like mine, it was a piece of crap.”
“Thankfully, no one can see it now.”
“What was it?” Brooklyn asked.
And because he understood her need to be distracted, he gave in. “It was a terrible piece of barbed wire around my ankle. No depth. Cheesy design. Black ink. No better than a prison tat, really.”
“Probably got it in prison,” Geezer mumbled.
Callum rolled his eyes and made a cutting motion across his throat, which Brooklyn unfortunately looked up in time to see. “I didn’t get it in prison, no. I got it not long after high school. But the ink was done by a guy whose clientele didn’t care how much practice he’d had, most of them being on the inside. And it showed.”
“I do great cover-ups,” Geezer put in, leaning his head around Brooklyn’s shoulder. “For a price.”
“I know all about your prices. And it is covered up.”
“But you have been in prison,” Brooklyn said, bringing the conversation back to the spot where he’d dropped it.
Kinda late to try and hide it. “County a few times. A two-year stretch in the state pen when I was twenty, but that’s all ancient history.”