Broken but Breathing (Jinx Tattoos Book 2) (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Estelle

Two Years Later

Survivor’s guilt was a bitch. While she hadn’t been suicidal, she’d certainly lost the will to live. Broken, bleeding, and lost, she crawled from the darkness into the light. Now she wasn’t sure how to behave in the blinding illumination. Doctor Nimoy said she was ready to step out of the cocoon she’d created for safety. For two years, she’d slugged it out with inner demons and a mind which had turned against her.

Life had been measured one day at a time with no vision of the future. Friends were shut out, and the weight of being the sole survivor had pressed in on her from all sides. She’d been lost in the inky black until she began counseling. Then slowly, like a vampire adjusting to the sunlight, she’d crept out of her cave a bit more each day. Now, what remained was an empty shell she needed to mold into some semblance of a person.

It was daunting; it was a monster to battle. The denial and rage had been easier. That alone kept her engaged and consistent. Anger held less pain than regret, loneliness, and displacement. She had no purpose or place. Going back to teaching kids was out. The very thought left her gutted, shaking, and sweating. It was something she and the doc were still working on. Old friends peered at her like she had a scarlet A on her chest. They could never see past the tragedy, so she’d cut them out of her life. It was the only way to have a chance for normalcy. The one person who stuck like glue was Everett’s older sister, Jolene.

Jolene dropped by occasionally and kept in touch via phone calls, but she’d learned just how fickle people could be. In the end, she stood alone, sans her family who thought the answer was her returning to England with them. Survival had meant placing an impenetrable shell around her heart. Dr. Nimoy insisted Estelle have support, a person to help her be accountable as she made the next step in their therapy plan. What that meant, she wasn’t sure. It was the purpose of this visit. She shifted her weight on the cushion of the soft white chair. Black and white photos mounted on thick white frames offset the dark grey walls.

She focused on the picture-perfect family represented—mother, father, and children; a boy and a girl, no older than five or six. That had once been her dream. Now at thirty-seven, getting out of the house and resisting falling back into the pit of depression she’d crawled out of over the last year was her primary goal. Without Dr. Nimoy, she’d still be living like a hermit in her show box one-bedroom apartment. Part of her felt she didn’t deserve anything good when her family was buried six feet under.

The door opened, and Dr. Nimoy appeared. His face was wizened by time, but kind, and his brown eyes held a deep compassion. He honestly believed in what he did. She’d been through enough shrinks at this point to spot the ones who’d grown disenchanted with their lively hood.

“How are you today, Estelle?” Nimoy asked.

“I’m surviving,” she replied, moving into the office and taking a seat on the brown leather couch. Seated, she admired the comforting aesthetics. The dark cherry wood desk and matching bookshelf created a homey vibe she appreciated. She sank onto the cushion, and Jolene sat in a matching chair with silver studs. Dr. Nimoy sat across from her.

“Why only surviving?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I have my good days and bad days, but mostly they’re just blah.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You’re waking up. The blah is you becoming dissatisfied with your current situation. We spent a lot of time last year working toward healing and looking toward the future. I think we’re ready to take more proactive steps.”

She tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean by proactive?”

“You need to get out of your home and become more active. This is what we’ve been working toward. I believe in talking to people who’ve experienced the same things. There’s a grief support group I think would be good for you. It’s once a week, and I think you’d benefit from it greatly.”

“I don’t know about going and spilling my guts, Doc. It’s not my style.”

“You don’t have to go until you’re ready. It’s about being around others who’ve experienced great loss. You need a community.”

The word made her scowl. People let you down. They abandoned the ship when it started to sink and never looked back. Before the tornado, she’d been the type of friend who’d bend over backward to help someone in need. She couldn’t keep track of the times she’d taken phone calls in the middle of the night, driven a friend home who had too much to drink, or babysat a pet or a child. Seeing each one of them turn away had broken something inside of her.

“I have Jolene,” she said.

“Yes, but I think it’s time you make new connections and flex your social muscles. I also want you to make up a list of four to five things you’d like to do. They can be small goals. Perhaps you’ve always wanted to take a painting class or learn how to decorate a cake.”

“Why?” she asked, uncomfortable with the direction the good doctor was pushing her in.

“This is the next step, rebuilding a life. You’ve been on pause for the past two years. We’ve worked through the bigger issues. It’s time to tackle the smaller ones that continue to hold you back.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from balking. Engaging with the outside world made her skittish. Caring led to pain.

“Remember what we said about keeping an open mind?” Dr. Nimoy asked.

“I remember,” she answered, taking a deep breath.

“Here, I’ll start. What are some of the things you liked to do before?”

“Read, craft, cook.”

“Some things that were more social.”

“I used to host cocktail parties,” she said, remembering the themed events she once took pride in.

“And what did you like about them?”

“I liked playing bartender, and coming up with themes to get everyone dressed up for.”

“What about a bartending school?” he suggested.

“That could be fun.” She had enough money to live off indefinitely if she remained frugal, but they’d discussed getting her back into the work field in twenty sixteen.

“So let’s put that on the list,” he said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “What else?”

She opened the door to the past and peered back at the woman she once was. There was a lengthy list of things she wanted to do, but never managed to get around to—pottery, painting, traveling, and a dozen other activities she hadn’t thought about in far too long. Looking at her life at present was painful. What had once been a lush forest had become a barren wasteland. Loneliness flooded into the opening she’d made, and she slammed her barriers back into place.

“Can you tell me why we’re making this list, Doc?”

“I want you to commit to at least one thing on the list, and the group once a week.”

“And if I don’t like it?”

“I ask that you give it at least a month. Then we’ll go from there.”

It’s four weeks. I can do anything for four weeks.

§

She walked into the apartment with Dr. Nimoy’s words marinating in her brain. They were finally taking the step, and moving toward life. The past couple of years had been a meager existence. She’d done the bare minimum—eating, sleeping when the nightmares allowed, and showering with a frequency most would find alarming. This year was different.

She unwrapped the black and white plaid scarf, hung it on the peg by the door, and took in her current living situation. The walls were a basic eggshell white devoid of any adornment. A tiny table for two rested against the divider which separated the kitchen from the living room. The dish towel that hung on the oven handle was white, and the pot holders hanging on hooks were black. It looked like she had just moved in when in reality she’d been there for nearly two years.

She walked down the small hallway to the bedroom and stared at the full-sized bed with its black jersey knit sheets, and black comforter. It was a lackluster existence. With her head finally above water she could see the emptiness surrounding her. Like a crocus peeking up through the snow, she was returning to life. The numbness had begun to fade along with the blinding pain. Now she was left with loneliness.

Walking to the mirror she studied her face. Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut; her eyes were dim and her hair held no shine. Once her pride and joy, the waist-length blonde locks that had led Everett to give her the nickname ‘fairy’ had been sorely neglected. She studied the image that made a mockery of what she once was. She opened the drawer, picked up the scissors, and began to shorn her locks. Each piece of hair that fell to the floor felt like a shedding of skin which no longer fit. In the end she was all eyes, and curls to her collarbone. Breathing heavily, she placed her hands on the counter and bowed her head. If she was going to make a new life she was going to start from the ground up. The woman Everett loved had died along with him. She had to figure out who this new Estelle was without him.

§

Snake

He didn’t need a calendar to tell him what day it was—he spent three hundred and sixty-three days dreading it. He hadn’t always been on the path of an outlaw. It took one act of senseless violence to show him just how fucked up the world was. People go along blindly believing the law will bring them justice, but too many times things slip through the cracks.

Past

A loud crash yanked him from his sleep. Sitting up, he reached for the bat that rested in the corner beside the nightstand.

“X?” his wife whimpered. The moonlight flooding through the window highlighted her wide brown eyes full of fear, and her trembling dark pink lips. He cupped her oval-shaped face in his hand and ran a thumb over her high cheekbones.

When he placed a hand to her lips, he nodded. “Stay here, and lock the door behind me until I tell you otherwise, J,” he whispered, slipping from the bed in his boxers and a T-shirt. Their four-year-old baby girl, Jocelyn, was in the bedroom across from him. He strained to hear more as he slipped from the room and walked down to his daughter. Stepping inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. His heavy sleeper hadn’t budged. He saw no signs of tampering with the window above her bed.

The crunch of glass turned his blood cold. He lifted the bat, ready to swing if necessary. He moved to the hall and found the living room window in ruins. A brick wrapped in loose-leaf paper rested on the thick beige carpet. He glanced out of the gaping hole and spotted three hooded men all in white.
This can’t be happening
. A cross blazed on the front of his lawn—Klu Klux Clan.

“Son of a bitch,” he barked.

“We told you to get your nigga and half breed out of our town. Now we’re going to make sure you get the message,” one of them snarled.

He wanted to step aside and show them he wasn’t afraid, but that would leave his girls unprotected. His hands clenched around the smooth aluminum, and he gritted his teeth.

“You got nothing to say, boy?” one of them drawled.

When his father died and passed on the family store to him in Dawson Springs, he’d seen it as a chance for a new start. They’d been barely scraping by back home in Northern Kentucky, so he’d quickly packed up his small family and moved them deeper into the state. The resistance they received had been something he expected to blow over. Small towns rarely liked change, and he knew some of the older people might be prejudiced against Janelle. Still, they’d made a pact to stick it out, and see if they could make things work before they looked into selling the store.
We should’ve left this shit hole in the rearview mirror
.

“Well if he doesn’t want to come out, we’ll just give him a little motivation.”

Xavier watched, stunned, as they set the bushes in front of the house on fire. Making a decision, he pivoted and ran for the bedroom.

“J, get Joce, and get the hell out of here.”

He could hear the crunch of glass, and the sound of boots behind him. Turning, he swung. Bat met flesh with a loud thud. The impact made its way up the bat into his arms. The man cried out. The door opened behind him, and he blocked the path as his wife ran from the room to their daughter’s.

“Get that bitch,” a cruel voice cried.

The man in front of him tackled him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. They grappled, and he used his legs to kick out at the bastard. His wife screamed, and he saw red. He rolled over, beating the man beneath him into submission. Pushing to his feet, he ran toward the screams. The sight of Jade on her knees in front of a robed man, and a sobbing Joce in another’s arms stole his ability to reason. He fisted the handle of the bat and charged toward the group of men. The crunch of bone and cries of pain spurred him on until he was overpowered. On the ground, he balled up to avoid the blows rained down on his body. Coughing blood—with his left eye swollen shut, and his breathing labored—he was forced onto his knees. A hand yanked his head into position.

“This is going to be the last thing you see before you die, boy,” one of them snarled.

He watched as they wrapped a noose around Jade’s neck and the truck drove off. Screams erupted from his throat; a loud bang echoed in his ears. Pressure exploded in his brain, and the world went dark.