“Why?”
Tag shrugs. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“Is he still here?” Not that I want to see him, but I do.
“No, he took off. Asked me to say good-bye. I hope you’re not seeing him. I told you before, he’s not the right kind of guy for you.”
I slump against the vehicle and sigh. “No, I won’t be seeing him again. He came in for a tat, but I have a feeling he won’t be back.”
Tag’s eyes widen. “I thought you’d start screaming at me about interfering in your life. I know you like him and—”
“He isn’t my kind of guy, and I’m not his kind of girl.”
“If you say so.” He pulls open the passenger door. “You can ride up front today.”
“Gee thanks. No treating me like a criminal today. I feel honored.” I pull my door closed and fasten my seat belt while he climbs into the driver’s seat beside me.
“Can I stay at your place tonight? I don’t feel like being alone.”
Tag grimaces. “Actually, my place is a mess. I’ll come and sleep on your couch.”
“But your place is always a mess. It’s never bothered you before.”
He stiffens and glares. “I said I’ll come to your place. I’ve found someone to take my shift.”
When I startle at his uncharacteristically sharp tone, his face softens. “After a traumatic event you should be somewhere comfortable and familiar.”
Emotion wells up in my chest at his oblique reference to the night I made the worst decision of my life. The night I didn’t listen to Tag and my whole world changed.
He turns on the radio and the sad notes of No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” fill the vehicle. Just what I need. A tear, unwanted and unexpected, trickles down my cheek.
“You okay?” He looks over and I shrug. But no, I’m not okay. Memories assail me. I’m outside the Psi Beta Pi frat house, eighteen years old, heart pounding with excitement that socially connected college bad boy Luke Rotherberg, star quarterback on Tag’s football team, has asked me to go to the post-game party with him. Me—newly minted high school grad, starving artist, plain, and shy; the girl who just had her first art exhibition in the school gym; the daughter of a cab driver and a florist with none of his high-society connections.
Overwhelmed by the attention, I didn’t listen when Tag warned me that he’d heard rumors about Luke and that it wasn’t safe to go to the frat party alone. And I didn’t pay attention when my skin prickled as Luke took my hand and told me he was going to show me the time of my life, or when my blood chilled when he winked at his friend. Instead, I thought about all the girls who were desperate for his attention and how Luke had picked me. So I told Tag I wouldn’t go and I went anyway.
And when he pinned me to the bed and tore off my clothes, I screamed for Tag. Because he had been right and I hadn’t listened. Because he had always been there to save me when we were kids. Because in my heart I knew he would come.
And he did.
But too late.
“Tag…” My voice is nothing more than a whisper. Too much emotion. Too many bad memories. Too much pain resurfacing tonight.
“Oh God. I didn’t think.” Tag reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I didn’t mean to bring it all back. I’m just messed up right now. Fucking messed up.”
“Join the club.” A wave of sadness sweeps over me, not just for the part of me I lost that night, but because for a moment Ray found her, and now she’s lost again.
And whoosh, he is gone
Four days after the shooting, the feds finally remove the police tape from Rabid Ink and let us back into the studio. Everything has been destroyed—workstations, chairs, tables, equipment…even the paintings on the walls.
Christos, Rose, Duncan, and I visit Slim, who has been discharged from the hospital. The bullets didn’t hit any major arteries, and he is already up and around, although he can’t move his left arm very well. Unfortunately, the shop reopening might be delayed because of issues with his insurance company. Concerned about losing clients, he asks us to find temporary chairs in other shops until he can rebuild, and, if possible, to stay together. Easier said than done. Four tattoo artists, no equipment, and a receptionist with an attitude. Not a recipe for success.
And neither is trying to forget about Ray.
Two kisses and I can’t get him out of my mind. Two kisses and he is burned into my skin. At night, I dream about him. During the day, I hear his voice in every café and on every street corner. Alone in my bed, I fantasize about his hands on my body, his deep voice rumbling against my chest. Then I pull out my vibrator and make the fantasy real. And when I climax, I moan his name.
Always practical, Jess asks for her twenty dollars because she won the bet, then tells me to get over him. She points out that I barely knew him; I don’t know where he lives or what he drives or whether he shares my addiction to potato chips. She thinks my inability to move on is a result of crushing on Ray too long before we met. I tell her she would know since she’s been crushing after Tag for longer than that. We have a fight.
Of course, our fights never last long. By way of making amends, she offers to set me up with her brother’s best friend’s cousin’s sister’s ex. I tell her there is something about Ray that makes my heart pound and my knees weak, and until I figure out what it is, her brother’s best friend’s cousin’s sister’s ex will have to wait. Then I invite her to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner because I know Tag will be there. I can make amends too.
Mom and Dad are delighted to see Jess. Since she practically lived at our house after we met, they have adopted her as a surrogate daughter. After a warm greeting for Jess, Mom turns to me.
“Oh, Sia.” Mom sighs and gives me a perfunctory hug as she switches to her admonishing tone. “Did you have to wear leather? And those piercings?”
“This is how I’ve dressed for years, Mom. I’m not going to change.”
She fiddles with her pearls and gives me a resigned look. “You used to dress so pretty, all those floaty dresses and skirts.” She runs her hand along the pink streak in my hair. “Why do you do this? You have such beautiful hair.”
“Mom, please. Can we not talk about my appearance and just have a nice dinner?”
Mom and Dad don’t know about what happened at the party. Tag and I kept it a secret from everyone except Jess, who was at the hospital that night with problems of her own. So they don’t know why I stopped painting or why I threw away everything that reminded me of the girl I used to be. They don’t know why I needed a fresh start, a new me, Sia the tat artist who has no past and has suffered no pain. All they know is one night after a football game, Tag went to a party, fell out a window and dislocated his shoulder, and after that he couldn’t fight anymore at Redemption.
“Sorry, darling. Sometimes I just miss the way you used to be.” Her brow wrinkles and I know she’s trying to think of a way to make up for her outburst. “You’ve added butterflies.” She gestures to my shoulder. “Well…they’re nicer than the thorns.” Then her gaze travels upward, and her mouth tightens when she looks at my ears. “You have some new…piercings too. I like the little cross.”
My
ears
and
other
places
too
indelicate
to
mention.
I smile because I know she’s trying, and except for the changes in my appearance and my new career, we usually get along fine.
“Mom, leave her alone.” Tag joins us from the kitchen, a scowl on his face. “Doesn’t matter what she wears or how she looks; she’s still our Sia.”
I shoot him a grateful look, and Jess sighs and stares longingly at Tag. She always envied me having an older brother, although I told her many times, it wasn’t all it’s cut out to be.
Dad and Tag discuss the mortgage situation; in other words, Tag tries to give Dad money and Dad refuses to take it, while Jess and I help Mom set the table. Mom is very particular about the dinner table—linen tablecloth, expensive silverware, china plates. Everything properly arranged and in its place. Although we never had a lot of money growing up, she always bought the best we could afford. The pearls were my parents’ only extravagance, a gift for Mom the day I was born.
Mom relaxes over dinner and gets us up to speed on the neighborhood gossip. She doesn’t talk about her search for a new job as a florist, and I don’t ask. I’ve already put an envelope with as much cash as I can afford in her purse, knowing she’ll call me at home later and refuse to take it. But in the end she’ll have no choice because they don’t want to lose their house.
Dad regales us with stories about the people he’s driven around in his cab. Always, I am amazed at what people will do in the back of a cab, and despite Mom’s protests, he provides graphic details, sending Jess and me into fits of hysteria. Jess shares stories from the vet clinic that turn my stomach. I don’t tell them my tattoo parlor was shot up by a street gang or that I kissed a hard-bodied underground fighter in a dirty back alley and would have fucked him if my PTSD hadn’t chased him away. Tag doesn’t talk at all.
Jess shoots Tag surreptitious glances from beneath her lashes, but Tag seems at best indifferent to her presence. After our meal, Mom and I head to the kitchen to prepare dessert and Mom tries to smooth things over between us with a girly conversation, asking why Jess and Tag never got together.
“He doesn’t like her.” I dump a carton of whipping cream in a bowl and fish around in the drawer for the beaters. “She’s done everything she can to let him know she’s interested. I’ve asked him a gazillion times. I guess she’s just not his type.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “He does like her. And they’re perfect for each other. She needs him in a way he needs to be needed. And he can give her the security she never had at home. He just can’t see it.”
After dessert, Tag offers to help Mom clean up in the kitchen, and Jess and I kick back and relax on the worn, beige sofa that has sat in the same place for the last twenty years. Dad turns on the TV, and we watch a few minutes of a survival show before my phone buzzes.
Priority: Confidential
Bay Area Underground Fight Club (BUFC) Fight Night
Jack London Square. 8 p.m.
Headlining: Misery vs. The Predator
Code Phrase: “Soon you’ll be wanting to leave.”
Underground fight promoters go to great lengths to keep their fights off the CSAC radar. They screen and limit attendee lists, text event announcements only two hours before the fights start, and require everyone to say the code word or phrase to get in. With so many Redemption fighters as clients, it wasn’t hard for me to get on the list of the top BUFC promoter. And after seeing Ray fight at that first event, I pulled in favors to get on the list of every underground fight promoter in the Bay Area.
Jess takes one look at my face and then leans over to check the message. “Are you going?”
“No.”
She glances over at Dad and then lowers her voice. “You’ve never missed one of his fights.”
“I’ve never felt so embarrassed.” I pick at a thread on the seat cushion. “I practically threw myself at him and he turned me down. I’ve never thrown myself at a man before. The whole panicking-because-he-pinned-my-arms thing was humiliating beyond belief, and just underscored the fact that I am not normal and never will be. My biggest fantasy is a damn trigger, and as expected, he went running in the opposite direction. Plus there’s a boxing match on TV after this. Good wholesome entertainment.”
The survival show finishes and the boxing match starts. Tag joins us in the living room, his phone in his hand. “You going out tonight?”
Jess and I share a glance. He must be on the promoter’s list as well, although I’ve never seen him at a fight except to drive me home, and he would never step into the ring. Still…
“Uh…no. We’re watching boxing with Dad.”
Tag shakes his head. “Torment wants to see us at Redemption.”
“Now?”
“You know Torment. He has a proposition for you, and he’s not a man you keep waiting.”
* * *
An hour later, Tag, Jess, and I are having a drink in Torment’s office at Redemption. Despite the hour, the gym is still busy and the steady whir of cardio machines is interrupted by the occasional clang of weights and the thud of flesh hitting flesh. Of course, Jess insisted on coming with us. Although she claimed it was to give me moral support, I know she just wanted to spend more time with Tag.
Torment leans back in his chair and strokes his chin. Even such an innocuous gesture is threatening when Torment does it, and I shiver and dig my nails into my palm.
“I heard about your studio.”
Is this Torment making small talk? I glance over at Tag, but he is lost in thought.
“Uh…yeah. It needs to be totally renovated. Slim’s fighting with his insurance company, but he figures we’ll be back in operation soon.”
Tapping his fingers on the desk, he says, “What are you doing for work in the meantime?”
“We’ve been looking for somewhere temporary to set up shop so we don’t lose our clients. Hasn’t been going so good. Rent is expensive and no one wants to give us a short-term lease given the kind of work we do. We’re thinking of splitting up and taking chairs with other shops until Slim has things sorted out.”
Torment sniffs. “No one will find you if you split up. You’re a team. Teams stick together. Isn’t that right, Fuzz?”
Tag’s head jerks up, and from his vacant expression, I can tell he didn’t hear what Torment said. “Yeah…sure.”
Torment scowls and Jess sucks in a sharp breath. What does Makayla do when Torment is angry with her? I’d probably run screaming in the other direction.
“Come.” Torment stands so quickly, I almost fall out of my chair in my haste to join him. He stalks out of the room, and Jess and I scurry after him, trying to keep up with his long strides.
“What’s with Tag?” She keeps her voice low. “He’s not himself.”
“I told you. I think it’s his new case. I told Mom and Dad, and they tried to get him to talk about it, but he clammed right up. I don’t know what to do.”
We pass Rampage outside the snack shop and he gives us a big wave. “Hey, girls. You didn’t miss anything at the fight tonight. Headline match got canceled. The Predator didn’t show.”
Jess and I exchange a puzzled look and then I pull to a halt. “He didn’t show? When has he ever not shown?”
Rampage shrugs. “Never happened before. Misery’s saying he was too chicken to face him. Called for a rematch next week even though he could have just claimed the no-show as a win on the underground circuit and moved up the ranks. He’s desperate to fight the Predator.”
“Rampage.” Torment’s voice booms down the corridor as he closes in on us. “I hope you’re not discussing any illegal, unsanctioned fights in our licensed facility. You should also hope that I never catch you at an unsanctioned fight.”
Rampage pales. “I thought the threat was from the CSAC.”
Torment stops in front of us and folds his arms across his massive chest. “If I ever catch you putting your license at risk, you’ll be begging the CSAC to take you in by the time I’m finished with you.”
“He’s one damn scary dude,” Jess whispers after Torment stalks away. “It’s like they’ve taken all alpha male-dom, rolled it up in one mouthwatering package, and called it Torment.”
We break into a light jog to catch up to Torment, now on the threshold of the new addition to the warehouse. The plastic is gone and the corridor is bright and newly finished. Walls gleam and a warm, hardwood floor has been installed over the concrete. The sharp scent of fresh paint lingers in the air, and bright track lighting gives the hall a soft glow.
“What are you adding in this wing?”
Torment stops in front of a double glass door and pulls out a set of keys. “Newest thing. All the major MMA gyms have one.” He pushes open the door and gestures for us to follow him. “All my boys get tats. Why not offer them a safe, clean, convenient place to get them done?” He flicks on the lights, and I behold my dream studio.
Spacious, light, and sophisticated, it is the opposite of Slim’s cozy, stereotypically cramped and slightly garish shop. From the exposed beams in the ceilings to the angled alcoves, and from the gleaming hardwood floor to the polished oak reception desk, Torment’s tattoo studio leaves nothing to be desired.
“This is amazing.” I walk past the black leather hydraulic client chairs, trailing my fingers over the gray granite counters, and heavy-duty workstations, the best money can buy. He has everything I could ever have imagined in a tattoo studio. Bright lights, high-quality furnishings, antique mirrors, and tons of space for all our equipment.
“It’s not quite finished.” Torment leans against the reception desk. “I’ve commissioned murals for the walls and I’m trying to decide whether to go bohemian or exotic with the decor. I’d like to offer it to you and your coworkers rent-free until your studio is operational. You can help with the decorating, iron out the kinks, and I’ll be able to test out its viability as a business in the gym.”
Stunned speechless for a moment, I can only stare. “But…you would have no problems filling those chairs. Any tattoo artist I know would die to work in a studio like this.”
Torment gives an irritated grunt. “Not looking for dead tattoo artists. Looking for live ones. Especially one who I can trust and who does good work. You fit the bill and if your friends trained under the same master artist, then I have no problem offering them the other chairs. I’ll buy the supplies, and I have a team to manage the business side of things. You want to advertise or market, you let them know what you need. You keep what you earn minus ten percent to cover expenses.”