Inked in the Music

by Kitt Rose

  Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2020 Kitt Rose

  ISBN: 978-0-3695-0235-3

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To all the everyday heroes who've given a piece of themselves to save others.

  INKED IN THE MUSIC

  Inked, 2

  Kitt Rose

  Copyright © 2020

  Chapter One

  Lies

  Zirah

  Sunday, May 24th

  A cloud of dust flew up from the stack of boxes tucked into the hall closet. The smell of mouse and mold was suffocating. Taking shallow breaths, I grabbed the top-most box and carried it into the living room. I dropped the sagging, mildew-covered cardboard onto the coffee table, ignoring the ever-present stack of magazines and the garbage from my mom’s latest drinking binge.

  Things got disgusting quick. I’d just cleaned the whole trailer a few days before. But my mother was a slob. And my sister, Heather, was so busy with work and her five kids that she wasn’t much help.

  I couldn’t wait to get out of here. Three adults and five children in a three-bedroom, single-wide trailer did not work. This new job, front desk manager at the Holiday Inn Express, was my ticket out. The hotel was a straight shot to get to, only one county highway. In good weather, I could ride my bike in under an hour. The winter months would be more challenging. But maybe by then I’d be able to afford to get my license and a car. It would need to be a beater, but I didn’t care.

  The thought of that much freedom intoxicated me. An apartment of my own, with an actual bedroom instead of a sofa bed in the living room. A car to take me to work, the grocery store, and wherever else I wanted to go. Better than all of that, a fresh start. Away from my mother’s reputation of town drunk—among other things.

  I couldn’t wait. I just needed to find my birth certificate for the new-hire paperwork. If it was in the trailer, it’d be in one of these boxes. And if it wasn’t, then I’d be visiting the courthouse tomorrow. It would only cost me fifteen dollars, but the one pair of dress shoes I owned had a hole in the sole. I’d need a new pair before I started at the hotel, and even the clearance rack at Walmart would stretch my budget if I had to pay for a new birth certificate.

  I was elbow deep in the box, half the contents spread on the couch and table, when the front door banged open. A cool breeze, heavy with the feel of spring showers, rushed over my skin. My nephew’s voice carried his ongoing argument with my sister inside.

  “—but Jake got one,” Lucas whined.

  “I don’t care what Jake got,” Heather snapped back. “If Jake jumped off a bridge, would you follow him?”

  I could practically hear my twelve-year-old nephew’s pretty blue eyes roll in his skull. “No, Mom, I wouldn’t jump off a bridge. I’m not stupid. I’m asking for an Xbox, not to go bungee jumping or something.”

  “Lucas, we can’t afford that. Your dad’s laid off, which means he’s not working. If he’s not working, he’s not sending us any child support. You know I don’t make that much. I hate for it to come down to money—you know I do—but I can’t spare the cash. And even if I had a little extra, that’s not what it would go to. You don’t need one. You can play it at your friends’ houses. How about—” Heather stopped talking to Lucas when she saw my mess. “What on earth are you doing, Zirah?”

  I laughed. “Something about as fun as what you’re doing. Really, Luke, an Xbox? I thought you had taste. If you’re gonna dream, dream big. PlayStation, man.”

  “No way, Aunt Z! Xbox! Halo.”

  “Please don’t encourage him,” Heather said, dragging a hand through her short hair.

  “Sorry. As to what I’m doing … I got the job.” I bounced on my toes and grinned. “The hotel one.”

  Heather gasped, clapping her hands. “Z, that’s so wonderful. I knew you had it in you!”

  “Thanks.” I started sorting through the box’s contents again. “I’m excited. I start a week from tomorrow.”

  “That’s fantastic. Lucas, get in the shower. We have to go get your brothers in a half-hour, and you smell like a dirty sweat sock.”

  “Sniff a lot of sweat socks, do you, Mom?”

  “Lucas Aaron Wilcox, did you just sass me?”

  I stifled my laugh at the sound of running footfalls and the slam of a door a second later. “Put the fear of God into him, didn’t you?” I asked, glancing up to see her hands propped on her wide hips, glaring in the direction of the trailer’s one bathroom.

  “That boy knows better,” Heather said distractedly, heading into the kitchen.

  When stressed, my sister ate. And that happened often with five kids. The refrigerator opened with a soft hiss. She started talking about something, but my focus shifted back to my task. I pulled free a blue and white piece of embossed paper from a manila folder. Folded into thirds, a small coffee stain graced one corner, spreading out in a snowflake-like pattern. When I unfolded the document, I saw my name at the top.

  “Got it.”

  “Got what?” Heather asked from the kitchen.

  I scanned the document and my gaze got hung up on my parents’ names. I’d never seen my dad’s name before, but that wasn’t the problem.

  “Got what?” Heather repeated when I didn’t answer.

  My eyes refused to believe the printed words.

  “What do you have there, Zirah?”

  Heather’s voice was so much closer. I looked up, feeling the weight of the paper in my hand a thousand times heavier than it had any right to be.

  She’d moved to stand a few feet from me. In her hand was a butter knife. A glob of grape jelly threatened to drop to the threadbare, orange carpet.

  Tears flooded my eyes as I took in her face. Took in the face of my sister, my best friend.

  She’s such a liar. Pain stabbed me in the chest.

  It was all a lie. My whole life, they’d all lied to me.

  “Is this true?” I asked, bitterness and hurt making my voice throaty and rough. “You’re my mother?”

  The knife dropped to the carpet, forgotten. Grape jelly splattered. Heather’s hands flew to her mouth, her brown eyes widening in shock.

  “I asked if this was true.” I turned the birth certificate around to shake it at her, anger starting to drown out the pain.

  Wordlessly, she nodded, her eyes big and bright with unshed tears.

  “I can’t believe this.” I folded the paper up and stuffed it into my pocket. I stared at the faux-wood paneling on the wall, not actually seeing it. She would have been sixteen, almost seventeen when she had me. My sister was my mom.

  My mom. Jesus. I ripped my hand through my hair, my mind spinning.

  We didn’t look alike, not really. My pin-straight hair was reddish-brown, auburn if you were being generous, not her honey-brown curls. I didn’t have her brown eyes either. Mine were green with blue flecks, and a feathering of gold around the iris. My face was round, and I had dimples that made me look about twelve. Hers was a long oval, without a dimple in sight.

  “Zirah?” Heather whispered.

  I jerked my eyes back to her. Betrayal cut through me. It hurt so bad I fisted my shirt in my ha
nd, pushing against my chest as if the pressure might contain the pain. After everything I’d done for Heather, for her kids—

  Her kids… My niece and nephews…

  “They’re my brothers and sister. My half-siblings,” I said in sudden realization. My mom wasn’t my mom, and my niece and nephews were my half-siblings.

  Heather made this noise, a hysterical sort of sob, then choked out a yes.

  That was it, the last straw. I couldn’t be here a minute more. This was too much.

  I’d dropped out of high school at sixteen to keep a roof over our heads. I’d given my mom—well, I guess she was my grandmother, wasn’t she? I’d given that waste of space my paycheck for eight years. Put up with her my entire life. With her drinking and her drug use. Her revolving door of men, and all the things they’d done to me. All the things they’d tried to do.

  A single tear streaked down my face. I ignored it to rub at the scar on my right index finger, just above my knuckle. It ached, the pain a phantom. Her last boyfriend had done that. Stabbed me with a steak knife during a bad trip and then pissed himself laughing because of it. And who’d had to clean that up, the blood and the piss? Who’d had to clean up all the messes that Sandra Woods made?

  Me. It was always me.

  But she wasn’t even my mom. No, my mom, Heather, had left me here the day she turned eighteen. Left me with her piece-of-shit mother. Then she went and got married, started popping out kids. Seven years ago, when she divorced her husband, she had moved in with all her kids. Her other kids. The ones she’d wanted.

  She’d kicked me out of my room, setting her oldest three boys in one bedroom, while she and her youngest two kids took the other room. Lack of space forced me to sleep on the couch. Then I’d become the live-in babysitter. I cooked, cleaned, helped the kids with their homework, all while earning my GED and working at least one full-time job.

  But I hadn’t complained. I’d been happy to help because I loved them all. Which made this betrayal all the more painful.

  I was a dirty secret that had been kept for twenty-four years.

  I flew to the closet, yanked out my violin and guitar—my most prized possessions—and a duffle bag.

  “What are you doing?” Heather asked, tears and panic in her voice.

  “Packing. I’m leaving,” I said, shoving clothing into the bag. I didn’t know where I’d go yet, or how I’d get there, but I was done with this life.

  Chapter Two

  Home

  Zirah

  Thursday, September 24th

  Four months, three buses, one cab, and twenty-nine hours, and I was finally here. Georgia, my long-awaited fresh start. Another state, over a thousand miles from everything I’d ever known.

  I was free. For the first time in eight years, I was my first and only priority. No one depended on me for dinner, homework help, or money. I didn’t know how to cope.

  But I would learn.

  After that awful day, when I’d found my birth certificate, my old high school music teacher and his wife had taken me under their wing. I had camped out in Mr. and Mrs. Odell’s guest room. Trying to figure out where I would go and what I would do.

  For months, I’d worked myself to the bone, tucking away every penny. Without all the bills, and my “mom” drinking and smoking my paycheck, the money had accumulated far quicker than I expected.

  My new home was a one-room apartment. With parquet floors, lots of windows, a galley kitchen, and a tiny bathroom, it almost about heaven. Sure, the floors showed their wear and the ceiling paint peeled in places, but it was still beautiful. Better still, with utilities included, my apartment was affordable.

  I’d celebrated my arrival by passing out on the floor for three hours before unpacking. It didn’t take long. I started this new life with the contents of one large duffle bag, a backpack, my guitar, and my violin.

  I had nothing, needed everything. A fact that was glaringly obvious when I’d had to drip dry because the apartment hadn’t come with toilet paper, and I hadn’t thought to pack any.

  Now that I’d unpacked, and I’d already had one humiliating bathroom experience, I needed to find a store.

  I headed outside and once I hit the street, I swept my gaze up and down the busy block, trying to decide which way to go. Dinnertime traffic—foot and car—was heavy.

  “Looking for something?” a woman’s voice said from behind me.

  I jumped at the unexpected question and turned to find a small woman standing in front of my building. The entire first floor of the brick, three-story rectangle was retail space. The window behind her, for the business that took up over a third of the building, announced in bright neon that it was a tattoo and piercing place called Ink’d Majesty.

  That explained her appearance.

  The woman looked like she belonged in a steampunk novel. She wore a shiny vinyl corset over a bright purple tank top, and a super-short plaid skirt with clunky thigh-high boots. Her dark hair was streaked with purple and cut short and angular. Half a dozen earrings glinted in her face, from lip to eyebrow and a bunch in between, and colorful tattoos covered every square inch of visible flesh from the neck down.

  Back in my hometown, I would have shied away from her. But this wasn’t there, so I took a deep breath, and said, “Um… Is there a Walmart or something around here where I can get some groceries and stuff?”

  “Sure thing. You the new tenant upstairs?” she asked, jerking her head toward the exterior steel grate stairs that led to my apartment.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m in 3B.”

  “I guess we’re neighbors then.” She gave me a bright smile and extended a hand. “I’m Trina Vetrov.”

  “Zirah Woods. But everyone just calls me Z.”

  “Hey, Z. Nice to meet ya. Have you eaten dinner yet? Ty’s wife just dropped off some of her famous fried chicken, and we’ve got plenty. Come on in. You can meet everyone else and have a bite.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I couldn’t. I’ve really got to find a store before it gets too late.”

  “Nonsense, I can hear your stomach growling from here,” she said.

  She wasn’t wrong. My stomach was loudly protesting its lack of food. I took a deep breath. Be brave. “Okay, sure. That’s really sweet of you.”

  Trina giggled, a soft tinkling of bells, and grabbed my arm. She tugged me toward the door and inside.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d never been anywhere near a place like this. Heck, my ears weren’t even pierced. That had been a splurge I hadn’t been able to afford. If I’d thought about tattoo places, I would have imagined seedy, not the film noir type of décor in front of me.

  The walls were painted gray and rich red. A long, dark counter separated the waiting area from the back, where chairs that looked kind of like the ones in a dentist office sat. The floor was black and white tile. My gaze went everywhere, and it must have shown because Trina laughed.

  “Not what you expected?”

  I shook my head and followed her around the counter.

  On the other side, there was a big guy with a bunch of tattoos, and even more earrings in his face. He sat in one of the chairs with his feet propped up, reading a magazine. Another guy, tall with short black hair and bright green eyes, was tattooing a girl’s ankle. And next to him was the tallest guy I’d ever seen. His broad back was to me, a long, bluish-black ponytail hanging to his elbows.

  The big guy noticed me first. He stood up with a closed-lipped smile on his face.

  “This is my honey, Hank. This is Z. She just moved in upstairs today.” Trina folded her hands under her chin and batted her eyes at Hank. “I found her out on the street, lost and starving, so I brought her in to feed her.”

  I bit my lip to silence a laugh. This girl was drama.

  Hank just rolled his eyes and said a quiet hello.

  Trina gestured to the guy with green eyes. “This is Ty. His wife made the fantabulous chicken you’re about to dine on. And Gumby there,” she said, p
ointing at the tall man with the long hair, “that’s Dennis.”

  Dennis turned around then, and for a minute, I couldn’t breathe.

  He was really… Good-looking wasn’t strong enough, but beautiful seemed too feminine. And he definitely was not feminine. He had high, broad cheekbones and a long, narrow nose that flared out at the tip. His eyes were black, surrounded by thick, inky lashes, under strong brows. When those dark eyes locked on me, it felt like the world froze for a minute. When he smiled, heat washed through me.

  I looked down at my feet.

  “Hi. Um, nice to meet you all,” I mumbled. From under my lashes, I glanced up at the other guy, Ty, and noticed a picture behind him of a baby boy. I pointed at the photo. “Is that your baby?”

  With the way he lit up, I knew I’d guessed right. “Yeah. That’s Owen. He’s a little over one now.”

  “He’s beautiful.” The baby in the photo looked just like his daddy. “I miss when my nieces and nephews were that little. But not the sleeping part, or the diaper part. But having a baby around was pretty great. They change so quick you never know what they’re going to do.”

  I sucked in a much-needed breath. Talking too fast was a sure sign of nerves. Breathe, Z… Breathe.

  Ty’s eyes widened, probably at my babbling. “Yeah, you’re right about them changing so quickly. How many nieces and nephews do you have?”

  “Oh, well… My sister Heather has four boys and a girl. Then my brother Steve has two girls. But the youngest of the lot is almost eight, the oldest nearly eighteen. It’s been a long time since they were babies. And let me tell ya, they aren’t so cute when they’re teenagers.”