by Drew Elyse
So, I’d let them see it.
It’s funny how good you can get at faking a smile with enough practice. At this point, I doubt they could even spot the real from the deception, and that was fine with me.
I had Owen, and he was all I had in me to feel joy about anymore. And that was enough. In the hours I couldn’t just fill with him, I could work at a job I didn’t mind at all, stylishly decorating the best cupcakes in town.
While I was caught up in my task, the bell for the door chimed and startled me. Though, not nearly as much as the sight that met me when I looked up to greet whoever was coming in.
Because it was him.
Tall, lean muscled, heavily tattooed. He had black hair that nearly touched his shoulders. He seemed to always have some kind of smile on his face, even if it was just a benign grin. He also had eyes the color of melted chocolate that he kept fixated on me whenever he was close.
Liam was a tattoo artist at Sketch’s shop, and he was at Sugar’s Dream far too often.
That was in no way a judgment. He didn’t look like he was regularly in buying boxes of baked goods. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be my place to judge. No, the real reason was because of what happened when he came in.
And it started right when I made eye contact. He smiled, with a single dimple.
Too bad it was on the wrong side.
Too bad he was the wrong man.
“Kate,” he greeted. I didn’t know for sure how he’d learned my name, but it was easy enough to guess. All of the staff at Sailor’s Grave were fixtures around the Disciples’ clubhouse, same as me. It was the same reason I knew who he was.
“How can I help you today?” I returned, hiding behind the pleasant work veneer.
His smirk made it more than clear he knew what I was doing, but I didn’t care. It only mattered that he knew I was retreating if I ever had any intention of letting him catch me.
And that was not going to happen.
Chapter Four
Liam
Christ, I really needed to stop doing this to myself.
Not give up the desserts, because fuck that, but stop torturing myself with the gorgeous woman that served them.
I knew the deal. She was a single mom, widowed a couple years back. She was under the protection of the club because Daz was her late husband’s brother. I also knew that despite conversations I’d overheard about her doing better, about her starting to move on, that she was nowhere near that place.
Maybe it was because I’d been old enough to understand everything as it happened when we'd lost Dad and after. I recognized what the people in her life couldn’t: that she wasn’t moving past a goddamn thing.
It was achingly familiar, seeing that fake smile. It was even more so to see the one she gave her son, knowing that if I were seeing it closer, there would be that lingering sadness behind her eyes that I saw in my mom’s for too long.
And that whole thought process made it sound like I had some fucked Oedipus complex.
Meanwhile, she’d asked me a question, and I was standing there like an idiot. Realizing that was the only thing that spurred me forward to at least pretend like I was perusing the glass cases between us. As if I needed to actually consider the options. Unless Avery added something new—which the lack of signs on the case made it clear she hadn’t—I’d had everything. It was just a matter of scanning to see what was available then.
I tried to focus on my stomach rather than celebrating the fact that I made her nervous. Nervous meant she wasn’t completely indifferent. Not that I was trying for anything. I knew better.
Desserts, asshole.
There was a cinnamon braid left. That never happened. Sugar’s Dream was more of a dessert place than full-service bakery. The few things Avery made that worked for breakfast were usually snatched up before I ever got there in the afternoons. The cinnamon braid specifically was a favorite at Sailor’s Grave—it was the reason we had an actual kitchen knife in the back after we’d all fallen on one and had to rip off pieces by hand.
“Gotta take that back to the shop,” I told her, pointing to it.
Unable to hide the fact that she was relieved to have a task that involved moving farther away from me to prep a box for it, she jumped right to it. I wasn’t enough of a gentleman to not glance up from considering what else to get in order to take a look while she had her back to me. Kate looked fucking incredible coming and going. I liked a woman with curves, and she was far from lacking in that department. She had light brown hair that danced around her shoulders when she wore it down, porcelain skin that looked like silk, and amber eyes that usually looked brown, but stood out when there was enough light to see them properly.
She was easily the most delicious thing in this goddamn bakery.
She was also the only thing in the place I was sure I wasn’t getting a taste of.
A minute later, she came back with the tied up box, setting it on the counter by the register.
“Anything else?” She tried to avoid my eyes but ended up looking right at my mouth. My cock took notice, fixing to fight for attention.
I was so fucking tempted to answer with something like “a taste test” just to get a rise out of her, but I bit my tongue.
“Two of the lemon cupcakes, one raspberry chocolate, and” —I peeked around her— “are those the mocha ones you’re working on?”
She glanced over her shoulder like she wasn’t sure what she’d been doing when I walked in. “Um…yes.”
“Can I get one of those?”
“Of course.”
Again, it was full hustle to get away from me. I got it. If I were a better man, I might stop coming in. Of course, I’d probably lose it if I tried going cold turkey from my preferred sugar fix, but I could at least talk someone else into coming for me. Jess would probably do it if I bankrolled her own cupcake habit.
Turns out, I wasn’t that good of a person. I wouldn’t push her, but I couldn’t deny myself at least getting to see her beyond just the Disciples’ parties. These little visits were like a fucking drug.
“How’s your boy?” I asked, grasping at anything to get her to talk to me.
“He’s good. He’s telling everyone at his daycare that he’s going to be a biker when he grows up.” It was impossible to miss the love and pride in her voice.
“Probably not a stretch. I wouldn’t be surprised if the brothers had him on his own bike the minute he’s old enough.”
“His dad had a bike, too. Owen’s been around them since he was born.”
I watched as what she’d said registered. I saw her freeze, every inch of her tightening up. She was still facing away, keeping her expression hidden, but I didn’t doubt it was a mix of shock and devastation. I hadn’t known what a minefield the topic was, though I couldn’t be sure I’d have avoided it if it was. Mom told me time and again as she got better that talking about Dad helped, even as much as it hurt.
“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t help at all. I know it still hurts and all the sympathy in the world doesn’t touch that, but it’s true.”
For a long moment, she didn’t move. I didn’t even see her breathing from my vantage point. Then, she turned around with the box of cupcakes in her hands. She didn’t adopt that benign smile she always had at work, but that didn’t mean she was giving me any glimpse of the real grief.
No, Kate’s face was fucking blank.
Shit.
It wasn’t my fucking place to try to “help,” especially not while she was at work. Suddenly, if I could take the words back, if I could undo even the reminder of her husband, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
Before I could dig my foot out of my mouth and figure something out to say, she went over to the register and started ringing up my order. “That’ll be $17.56.”
Even her voice was flat, lifeless.
Rather than push and make a bigger ass of myself, I pulled out my card and paid without a word. I kept my mouth shut as she wordlessly handed it back with my
receipt, and then slid the boxes toward me.
Only when I had them in hand did she say, again in that dead voice, “Have a nice day.”
I took the cue and got the hell out of there, cursing myself the whole way to my truck and through the drive-thru to get Jess’s chicken sandwich.
I’d fucked up. Royally.
“Mom!” I called as I stepped through the door of my childhood home.
“Liam!” I got in response, but not from Mom.
Before I could get my shoes off—or risk Mom going for the wooden spoon to whoop my ass—Connor was barreling into the room to hug me.
My little brother was the spitting image of me. We both came out like replicas of Dad. The only differences between us were his lack of tattoos, the fact that Mom kept his hair trimmed, the slight loss of muscle function on the left side of his face that made his smile lopsided, and a handful of inches—the accident had also stunted his growth somewhat.
“Liam, guess what. Guesswhatguesswhat!” Connor got excited easily, and when he did, you knew it by his tendency to repeat himself and run his words together.
“Clear statements,” I reminded him. It was all he needed to get back on track with the lessons he’d gotten from the speech coach.
“Right. Guess what,” he said more clearly.
“What?”
“I’m taking a drawing class at the center!”
“That’s fucking awesome.”
“Language!” Mom yelled from somewhere deeper in the house—her room, by the sound of it. The damn woman had super-sensory hearing, I fucking swear.
“When does that start?” I ignored the warning.
“Sorry, Mom,” Mom called in a horrible impersonation of me.
“Monday,” Connor replied, also ignoring her. “Mom said you’d take me to get some supplies so I can practice at home.”
Of the errands with Connor Mom had pawned off on me over the years, this one wasn’t so bad. I could deal with hitting up the art supply store. Hell, I could use a few things myself.
“You know what’s right by there?”
His face screwed up a bit as he tried to recall the area I was talking about. Memory recall was not a strong suit for him, but it was why we were all in the habit of asking questions like that. Pushing him in small ways every day helped him practice important skills.
“Near the art store is…” he recited, talking through the process rather than getting stuck on a syllable like “um.” “The flower shop,” he listed, knowing it wasn’t the answer. “The pet store…”
“Across the street,” I led him a bit.
It took a moment before his eyes lit up. “Franks!”
“That’s right. How about pizza and wings for dinner?”
“Yes!”
I gave him a high-five before moving farther into the house. I found my mom in her room as expected, pulling earrings from her jewelry box and putting them in. Clearly, whatever she had planned with Derek was somewhere nice. She had on a black dress, heels, and was breaking out the good jewelry.
“I think you already hooked him,” I told her. “No need to pull out the big guns anymore.”
“Ha ha.” She rolled her eyes as she stepped toward me, offering her cheek. I gave her a peck and noticed she’d also broken out the good perfume.
“You look good, Momma.”
“Thanks, honey. Derek won’t tell me what we’re doing. He just told me to dress nice. I hope I’m not overdoing it.” She fussed with the skirt nervously.
I had my guesses what Derek was up to, and I suspected Mom had her own suspicions as well. Derek had asked all us kids a while back for permission to propose to her. Now, I didn’t think for a second he’d do it at a nice restaurant—not his style—but he knew she was onto him, so this was probably just a ploy to get her expecting it.
I approved.
“Stop worrying.”
She looked herself over in the mirror above her dresser, nodding. “You’re right. Okay.”
“When’re you leaving?”
She looked at her watch—last year’s Christmas present. “He should be here any minute. What are your plans with Connor?”
“We’re going to hit the art supply store and Franks. Then probably just come back here and chill.”
“Okay. Let me get you some money for—”
She was already reaching for her purse when I cut her off. “I’ve got it.”
“You don’t have to, I can—”
“Mom. This is supposed to be one of the benefits of having grown kids. I can pay for dinner and some supplies. Shit, you’ll make me feel like you think I’m some deadbeat.”
She snatched up her purse and whacked me with it. “No, just a scoundrel with a bad mouth.”
I shrugged. She might have me there.
Just then, the front door opened and we heard Derek call out, “Where’s my hot date?”
Let it never be said the man didn’t fit in around here.
I followed her down the hall, noticing more than usual the photo of her, Dad, and the three of us hanging there. Paying more attention than I might normally to the smiles on her and Derek’s faces before they greeted each other with a kiss.
There was my mom, finding love after loss. Before long, they’d be married.
I couldn’t help but think of Kate, couldn’t help but hope she got that one day.
Whether it included me or not.
Chapter Five
Kate
My hands were clammy.
I’d tried wiping them off on my pant legs multiple times, but every time I went back to gripping the steering wheel, it was nasty, sweaty hands all over again.
For a while after the accident, this had been my normal. Driving terrified me. Having Owen in the car made it worse. The therapist I’d seen for a while told me this was normal. It didn’t feel normal. Normal was getting into a car like millions of people did every day without thinking twice about it.
In time, I’d gotten closer to that true normalcy. I didn’t panic at being in a car anymore, even if it did set me on edge a bit.
Right then, it wasn’t the vehicle getting me all jumped up and nervous. It was where I was going.
Sailor’s Grave Tattoo Parlor.
It was something I’d wanted to do for a long time, since I was a teenager even. It was always something I’d just put on hold. At first, Joel and I were barely getting by. Scraping from paycheck to paycheck didn’t mean shelling out cash on tattoos. The only reason he had any when we were first living on our own was because I’d use any money saved for his birthdays, anniversaries, and Christmas to get him that. There just always seemed to be something else that took my attention.
I’d learned the lesson now that there was no sense in putting things off.
Still, it was impossible to shake the nerves.
After I parked, I sat there for a minute. I tried deep breaths, and counting, and focusing on the positive things. I pulled out every coping mechanism I’d learned, and still, the jittery feeling persisted. I couldn’t even explain why. I wasn’t afraid of getting a tattoo. I’d survived a hell of a lot worse than a needle, or even several high powered needles. I wasn’t afraid of regretting the decision. And aside from all of that, this was just the consultation. I was told there might be a chance to start it, or I might be walking out with only an appointment to get the thing done.
I was just anxious, and there was nothing more infuriating in the world than feeling that way for no reason at all.
“This is your fault,” I muttered.
Joel didn’t respond. Obviously.
“I could handle anything until you started taking everything on for me. Now I’m weak without you.”
That wasn’t fair. Joel had only ever loved me and tried to give me the world. But a lot was unfair.
Too much.
The shitty things I said to my dead husband that couldn’t hear me didn’t really matter by comparison.
It took another few minutes to get myself
out of the car and inside. I’d never been to Sailor’s Grave. It was owned by one of Daz’s club brothers, Sketch. Of the Disciples, I knew Sketch quite well since he and his wife, Ash, had two kids of their own. I watched Emmy and Eva a lot, and they took Owen for me now and then. I really should have just talked to him about getting this done, rather than calling and making an appointment.
Jess, who looked as fabulous as she always did, got to her feet as soon as I walked in, coming around the desk to give me a hug.
“Hey, hun. I’m so excited you’re here doing this.”
Her enthusiasm helped me push down the hesitation.
I watched as she strutted—because she always did in the heels she wore—back around the desk to grab something, then came back to my side with a large tablet in hand.
“So, since you wanted American Traditional, we’ve got more than one expert around here. I went to Sketch first, but he insisted on having each of the guys that typically do that style to draw something up.”
Of course he did. I should probably apologize or insist I didn’t mean to be a bother, but I knew it would fall on deaf ears. The only thing Sketch took as seriously as family—which I was, in my own way—was tattooing.
With a couple taps, Jess had a drawing of a gypsy accented with roses filling the screen. It was a classic tattoo, and it looked fantastic.
“Wow.”
“They’re all sickeningly talented, aren’t they?” she muttered before swiping over.
The moment the second image filled the screen, my breath escaped me. That was it. Absolutely, beyond any doubt. Her features, the pose, the intricacy of the scarves around her head, even the colors were right. It was like the image had been taken from my mind and brought to life.
I was so caught up in looking at it that I nearly jumped when Jess swiped again.
“And, the last one,” she said as she did.
Again, what I was looking at was fantastic, but there was no doubt in my mind.
“The second one,” I told her immediately.