Shane (Damage Control 4)

Part I

Cassie

Nine months ago I kissed the wrong boy for the wrong reasons. This time around watch me try to catch the boy I really want—no tricks, no lies. This is going to be one rocky ride…

How not to screw up like I did: A guide for girls

Never try to make the boy you want jealous by kissing another. Bad, bad idea. Trust me.

Never kiss a boy whose name begins with a J and ends with an E (as in Jesse). If the urge hits, run the other way.

Never assume it will blow over, or that you will be forgiven for said kiss. You won’t be. Ever.

Never trust your heart when it tells you love will be easy. Love isn’t easy. Period. It hurts and burns and turns your world upside down.

Never give up on the boy you love. In fact, this is rule number one.

Chapter One

Shane

“And then you turn the screw to the left to slow down the tattoo gun, ‘cuz it’s better for these longer lines, and when you start shading it in… Shane, hey, fucker. Am I speaking Chinese? Are your ears blocked? Have you heard a damn word I’ve said?”

I blink, returning to the noise of Damage Control and Zane glaring at me from narrowed eyes. I swear, even his Mohawk is bristling with annoyance.

Fuck. “Sorry, man.”

“Don’t be fucking sorry. Get your shit together. You’re almost there, and I need more inkers. You’re up next—or you would be, if you concentrated for one fucking minute at a time. At this rate, Seth will be ready before you are, dislocated shoulder or not.”

Slamming the tattoo gun down on the counter, Zane strides out of the cubicle, muttering and pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He rarely smokes nowadays, unless he’s stressed or pissed off, so yeah.

Fucking awesome.

In the past month, he’s been training me in some more advanced techniques. I lean back against the counter and try to remember what he spent the past hour explaining to me. It was about the tattoo gun and its many tricks—tricks I can’t remember now.

How stupid is that? I mean, Zane’s the co-founder of Damage Control, best friend of Rafe, the owner. He has years of experience under his belt already. I’m still wet behind the ears, and I’ve pissed him off.

Again.

It’s getting to be a regular occurrence these days. I can’t focus. Too tired. Too damn scattered.

“Shane?” Ocean has stuck his blue-haired head inside the cubicle, staring at me with equally blue eyes. He’d be like a Japanese cartoon if not for the muscle he packs in his tall frame and the dark stubble on his jaw. “I just saw Zane storm out. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I roll my shoulders. Pain radiates up my neck, I’m so fucking tense. “He wanted a smoke.”

Instead of taking a hint and leaving me be, Ocean steps inside the cubicle. Zane’s cubicle, with his jaw-dropping drawings of dragons and other monsters lining the walls, and a photo of Dakota, his girlfriend, pinned at the top, sticking out her tongue and giving a peace sign.

More photos are stuck next to the cubicle door. The Inked Brotherhood in various poses—partying mainly, glasses in their hands. Many of the pics are from Asher and Audrey’s wedding a few months ago. Cassie is visible in one of them, in a tight-fitting black dress and sky-high heels, her ruby lips pursed in the shape of a kiss.

Cassie…

“Shane. Hey.” Ocean is frowning at me. He’s planted himself right in front of me, arms folded over his chest. “Seriously, you okay? You spaced out like you’re on drugs or something.”

That brings everything back into focus. “The fuck you say.”

Not that I didn’t do drugs once. I did.

But the thing is that Seth and I have a rap sheet claiming we possessed and trafficked drugs. And although Seth’s mom confessed she set us up and that we had nothing to do with the drug trafficking, the charge is still hanging over our fucking heads.

“Relax. I wasn’t accusing you of anything.” His frown deepens. “You need anything, you let me know, right?”

I nod, slumping in relief when he finally walks out, leaving me alone. Ocean is a nice guy. That’s the problem. All of these guys are nice and happy and helpful.

How to tell them my mind’s unravelling like thread? That I can’t sleep, can’t function? And as for the why…

Why now?

I’ve kept it together quite well up to now in my fucked-up life, if I say so myself. Sure, the nightmares never left me, and most days I feel like I’m dragging my past behind me like a cement block—but I function. I work in construction, I train here, I clean the shop when my shift’s up, I even go out with the guys for drinks and pool.

Like a normal guy.

Maybe that’s the problem. I’m way too fucked-up to keep up the pretense forever. Maybe there’s an expiration date on my disguise.

Why else can’t I fucking fake it anymore?

***

“How was Christmas?” Zane’s girlfriend, Dakota, shoots me a smile as I walk past the reception desk of the shop to get my stuff from the lockers by the office.

“Okay.”