Hard Love

by Shana Vanterpool

  His aggravated gaze fell on mine. I jutted out my lower lip in sympathy before going back to my job. “The prices you pay for being a stud.”

  He smirked. “Shove it up your pretty little ass, Cat.”

  My client chuckled, so I pressed the tip of the gun deeply into his flesh. “I’m sorry,” I lied, when he inhaled sharply and flinched. “Stay still.”

  I hated it when men used even a shred of power over me. Laughing at my expense, cracking lewd jokes, ordering me around—I was the fucking boss of me and I would never let another man get the best of me. Client or not.

  When Klay’s client came back, he resumed his work, and I did mine, until there was nothing but a low hum of buzzing in the air. There was a TV playing in the waiting area on low, and within my vibe, I heard a small influx of air from one of the customers waiting.

  “Wow, that’s crazy,” a woman said. “Ironic, too, huh?”

  “Cops are people too I guess,” a man grunted, and I smiled a little to myself because obviously he didn’t like cops as much as she did.

  “Yeah, but who’s dumb enough to break into a cop’s house and then have a stand-off with the arriving officers? How is that worth whatever they were stealing?”

  “Maybe they didn’t want to go to jail,” the man retorted, and my smile grew.

  “Then they shouldn’t have broken into a fucking cop’s house.”

  A new voice chimed in. “My sister lives in Denver. Said the crime rate has tripled ever since the mayor cut funding for the jails. They’re early releasing a lot of criminals, and it looks like those two shouldn’t have been let out.”

  “Eww, look at them. They’re creepy. Look at those cold eyes. They probably wanted to kill him.”

  “So sad, too. The cop’s gorgeous. He’s got some serious beard porn.” Whoever said it sighed adoringly. “I hope he pulls through.”

  “What’s with the waiting room chatter?” Klay grumbled, and from the corner of my eyes, I saw him glance over at the waiting area.

  When he didn’t turn back, I looked up too.

  My heart stopped.

  My demons reared.

  The tattoo machine in my hand stilled and a strange pain twisted in my chest. I’d never felt something so dilapidating since the night I woke up naked in a bed with blood and semen dripping out of me and a black eye. I hated semen.

  “Is that Brando?” Klay asked.

  “Klayton?” Madi called, pulling our attention away from the TV. It was her tone. It was horrified. She stepped out of the back hall with tears in her eyes. She covered her hand with her mouth.

  And then both Klayton and Madison looked at me like they knew something I didn’t.

  But I did know it.

  That’s why my heart shattered.

  I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure I was supposed to do anything. My heart had been wrong in the past. It loved things that ruined it. Who’s to say Brando was actually the sword of Excalibur to my King Arthur’s heart?

  History had a way of warping the truth, something long since passed could easily become something long since misunderstood.

  I’d pull my own heart out of the stone. I bent my head back over my client and resumed shading the dice. I ignored my pounding, breaking, bawling heart and fought the burn in my eyes for two more hours. When I was done, I sat back to find Klayton and Madison at the registers, speaking quietly amongst their selves.

  “This is the most badass tattoo I’ve ever seen!” my client hissed, grinning over his shoulder at the mirror by my station.

  It was hard to see, hard to breathe. I forced a smile. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Like it? I’m in love!” He turned to me, offering me his hand for a bro-hug.

  Women with tattoos were automatically labeled as hardcore, and no way were we allowed to be girly. I liked the magic in tattoos, the story of the ink; that didn’t mean I was a raging dude who chased pain, that I lost my femininity—which was what some people thought when we interacted. Tattoos were art, not masochism. Trying to explain that was the same as trying to explain the story itself. Subjectivity made for too many stories to tell. And not everyone liked to read.

  Isaiah emerged from the back with a client, and judging by the glow in her eyes, he’d given her more than a tattoo. It was a good thing he was so young. Isaiah Lawson was bad and hot and sexy in all the right places. His ink was unique and intensely colorful like graffiti. He attracted women the way Klayton had, only Isaiah had a darkness about him that made me sad for him. Sometimes he would stare off into space, and I could see how lost he was in the universe. I hoped he found a sun to orbit soon.

  He walked past me, the scent of his cologne trailing after him. My eyes tried to focus on too many things, but they kept drifting to Klay and Madi and then to the TV. Someone had changed the channel. A cooking show was on, and there was so much butter in the grits my thighs cringed.

  “I’ll ring you up,” I heard Madison offer. I silently thanked her for taking the bro-hugger off my hands.

  “What’s up with you?” Isaiah asked, throwing a black latex glove at me.

  I stood in the middle of the tattoo shop … unsteady. “Have you ever been in love, Isaiah?” I asked.

  He snorted. “Yeah right. Why? You in love?” He sounded amused.

  Because I was in love every other day. That’s why desire was hell, why I stayed away from Brando. My heart was smarter than me, and my demons were braver; I could sense the internal warfare of Brando and I from ten thousand miles away.

  I sank down numbly in my seat at my station, meeting his freaky eyes. They were half sky blue and half dark blue. The colors met in the middle to create a breathtaking shade of steel blue. This matte-like hue that reminded me of the planet Neptune.

  “No,” I admitted, and my heart stared at me like I was dumb.

  We’ve been in love a hundred times, my heart insisted.

  To which my demons replied, we don’t know how to love.

  I didn’t know how to run a country, but I knew a few things about politics. Love was the same thing. I knew a few things about it, and in the throes of the honeymoon phase, things felt a lot like love, but it was too easy to move on to the next man. I’d been single for four months. A record for me. And I thought it had something to do with the fact that Brando Hawkins came to Portland four months ago to tell Madison that he’d caught her abductor. There was something about him coming half-way across the country into my space that had thrown me off my game. I guessed because I’d dated many men, but none of them made my heart and demons dance the way he did.

  “Well,” Isaiah mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and giving me an open yet faraway look. “Love isn’t for everyone, you know? It’s for hearts that can understand it, not hearts that don’t.”

  But I wanted so badly to understand it.

  I wanted a love like Klayton and Madison had. A love that had nothing to do with sex but everything to do with their souls. Sometimes they communicated without words, and the support they gave to each other made me envious.

  I didn’t want the honeymoon phase anymore.

  I wanted the real thing.

  I stood up abruptly and gasped for breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Isaiah came to me, as tall as Klay, towering over me. I didn’t like men towering over me.

  I pushed him off. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Come sit down,” Madison ordered, grabbing my arm—Madi was safe, she could grab me—and led me over to the waiting area that was empty. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly, pushing my hair from my face.

  I grabbed for her leg, gripping her thigh as a shudder racked my body. Klay knew what was happening. When we met, I had too many breakdowns to count. It had been years since I had one, but some things are hard to forget. He crouched on his heels and grabbed my face between his hands, holding onto me securely. In Klay’s hands, I was safe. I focused on his dark blue eyes.

  “Breathe, Cat,” he ordered, his voice
a soft murmur brushing over my panicked parts. “Take another deep breath and focus on things you love. Like pissing me off and not wearing underwear.”

  I laughed through my tears and rested my forehead against his. “Some things are too hot to cover up.”

  He brushed his thumbs over my cheeks. “Want to come talk to me in the back?”

  I nodded and let him lead me to his office; my fingers grasped huge handfuls of his shirt, using it as a talisman. He closed the door and pointed to the chair across from his desk. I sank down and put my face in my hands as he took his seat.

  “Mad wants to go to Denver to check on him. I’m thankful for everything Brando has done, but I’m not going to risk bringing her back there.”

  I dropped my hands and gazed at him through my tears. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  He swallowed hard and then leaned forward an inch, not an ounce of BS on his face. “The same thing that happened to me when you brought Madison into my shop. I felt nothing my whole life, you know that, but I felt something when I looked at her, and no matter how hard I tried back then to convince myself otherwise, some feelings never go away. Because they’re not supposed to, Cat.”

  I smiled sadly at my brother/best friend/hero. “Look at you, all grown up.” In actuality, he’d turned twenty-nine this past winter. He was older, but I was wiser, because he still argued otherwise. I dropped my smile. “What should I do?”

  He shrugged. “What you always do. Whatever the hell you want.”

  Denver was freezing.

  Any summer still left in the air from the last time we were here was now the chill of autumn in October. I struggled with my duffle bag and then gave up, slinging it over my shoulder. I had no idea how long I’d be here; I packed … excessively.

  I managed to get to the car-rental lot and scored a car the color of my hair—this sleek black Chevy Tahoe. I tossed my things inside and then I sat in the parking lot at the airport.

  I’d left Klay a note and cancelled my tattoo appointments indefinitely. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was simply doing.

  Brando was in the ICU. Eight bullets in his back had punctured his lung, broke his ribs, and nearly severed his spine. His heart had stopped at the scene, but paramedics had brought him back to life. He was in a medically induced coma and he was still critical. His lung had been repaired, but it still had to heal and infection and injury could still pose a risk. I knew this because of Ethan Cook, Brando’s partner. I’d nabbed Madi’s phone and found Brando’s cell number. When I called it, Ethan answered. He spoke to me like I was the only person Brando had.

  When I got to the hospital, I parked where Ethan had told me to park, beside his squad car with the license plate number ending in 84A. My feet carried me through the emergency doors and Ethan’s instructions got me to the correct floor. When I got to the front desk, I gave them the information I was instructed to give so I could get back there.

  After that, it was all fog and heartache. My heart felt like it was going to explode. It was terrified, it was hollow—it was going to break.

  Through the glass window in his room, I saw that the shades were drawn. I knocked softly on the door, but no one answered. My hand shot out and turned the knob, and the door gave way to the soft whoosh of breathing machines and the beep of the heart monitor. The moment my eyes landed on him, my knees gave out.

  I hit the ground and stayed that way. I refused to look up. I refused to see him like that.

  There were hands on me, and I blinked aware, unsure how long I’d been kneeling on the ground.

  “Catherine?” a smooth voice asked.

  I looked up into a pair of kind but shrewd blue eyes and a weathered face. “Cat,” I corrected. Catherine didn’t exist anymore.

  He gave me his hand and helped pull me up. “Ethan.” He gave Brando a second of eye contact—he couldn’t look at him like that either—and then gave me a forced polite smile. “You can take that chair.” He pointed to a chair by his bed. “I had to take a walk.”

  I settled in the chair but I didn’t look up.

  Silence settled between us both. He left to get another chair and pushed it into the back of the room by the sink and bathroom. I felt like I was going to puke and cry. Instead, I did nothing. I stared at the ground and refused to look up. At one point, Ethan got a call. He left to take it and returned a moment later.

  “I’ve got to head out,” he informed me, poking his head in. “You have my number. If anything changes, please let me know.” He dug in his pocket and tossed me a pair of keys without warning. “Key’s to his place. You can stay there. It’s been cleaned up,” he added, and I cringed. “I’ll text you the address.”

  I nodded numbly.

  Before he left, he sighed. “Just don’t leave him alone. You’re the only person other than our fellow officers who’ve come to visit him. But that’s a respect thing. It isn’t an emotional thing. I’ve worked with him for two years and he’s never mentioned family, never mentioned a girlfriend. I don’t know who you are, but you’re here, and that says a hell of a lot. A man like Brando shouldn’t have to be alone right now. If you need anything at all, let me know.” He tapped the wall in parting before heading out, not giving me a chance to say anything.

  I didn’t have anything to say.

  Time seemed to bend around me, like a plastic bubble was pulled over my head. The bubble snapped the moment someone walked into the room. The light outside the small window to my right was now dark. I’d sat staring at the ground long enough for the sun to set.

  The nurse stopped short when she saw me. “Oh,” she gasped, eyes going from where Brando was and then back to me, her eyes becoming knowing, although I wasn’t sure what she knew. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I’m just coming to check on Mr. Hawkins. I won’t be long.”

  I didn’t want to look, but the moment someone was here who did in fact want to look, my eyes had a hard time staying on the ground. They followed her right to where Brando lay. His sheets were pulled tight around him and he looked … gone. His beard had been shaved and his handsome face was pale as his sheets. His lips were chapped and his eyes were closed, but they were swollen and crusted with blood.

  “Things are going to get messy … what’s your name, miss?”

  “Cat,” I whispered.

  “I have to empty his urine drainage bag and I have to clean his gunshot and surgical wounds. And—”

  I held my hand up. “I’ll go.” In my other hand, I still gripped Brando’s house keys.

  It was hard to get my feet to move, to leave him on his own. I headed down to the cafeteria and stared emptily at the menu. The worker didn’t press me. I ended up not ordering anything and leaving the cafeteria behind. I got in my rental and drove to the address Ethan Cook had texted me.

  Brando’s Charger was still in the driveway. I got my bag and unlocked his door, stepping into an eerily clean house. The window pane on my right looked shinier than the rest and I assumed it had been replaced recently. There were walls with paint whiter than the others, and I guessed there had been bullets in those too. I didn’t know where Brando had been shot, and I didn’t want to know.

  His house was clean and clinical. It didn’t look like the apartment I shared with Klay and Madi, that’s for sure. One more thing Klay had given me. A home. It was a nice house, though. Modern kitchen, living room with a killer flat-screen and a huge L-shaped comfortable couch the color of gun metal. It was manly and empty. No artwork on the walls, no photos either. I went into the hallway, locating two empty bedrooms and a hall bathroom that didn’t have a thing inside other than a toilet and a sink. The last room in the back was his room. It had that same cold necessity the rest of the house had. The bed was made and the glass French doors were closed tight, the panes glimmering with brand new glass.

  I dropped my bag on his bed and put my hands in the back pockets of my jeans, looking around but not seeing his room anymore.

  My being had been restless
since I looked up at the TV at Guns & Ink and saw Brando’s picture on the news.

  Made me think our souls were a lot smarter than our brains and hearts.

  Unable to stand it a moment longer, I closed up and went back to the hospital. The nurses manning the front desk didn’t question me this time. They nodded me along and I found his room. I pushed the door open to find it empty, a TV playing in the corner of the room quietly. It was playing a football game; the grunt of men on the field sounded unbearably loud.

  But I left it alone because I couldn’t tear my eyes from Brando’s body. The sheets were pulled down around his waist. His entire upper half was on display. His pelvic bones dug deep into his lower abdomen and he had a line of dark pubic hair leading down; he wasn’t wearing anything beneath his blanket. His arms reminded me of Klayton’s. They were covered in tattoos; they snaked up his biceps and forearms and went across his chest and decorated his hard, muscled abs.

  I had no idea he was that inked up.

  It brought me up short, and I stood there gawking at his body art. There were patches of gauze over certain parts of his chest and sides—exit wounds—and there were huge grotesque wounds cut into his chest where they’d repaired his lungs and black and blue bruises marring his sides where the bullet had torn through his ribcage. His outside was so much more chaotic than I ever knew.

  I found the chair where I’d left it and grabbed the handles, settling down. Chill bumps dotted his shoulder. The sight of it made me sad, that he could still feel cold trapped in his own body. My fingers stretched out and traced the bumps over his ink. I grabbed the blanket tucked low and lifted it to cover him, tucking it under his arms.

  My eyes wanted his. I studied his swollen eyelids and the thick black lashes rimming them. His hair was flattened into the pillow. It was so strange to yearn for his eyes when I had only looked into them a handful of times. But I knew their color. I knew it like I knew my own dark brown eyes.