Zane (Inked Brotherhood 3)

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Emma loved you like her own son, and I put the needs of her other kids, our kids, above you. I shouldn’t…” He shakes his head. “I should have told you to come with us.”

“My friends are all here,” I whisper. “My job. I can’t.”

He nods. “Then we’ll visit you. As often as we can. And you should come over, too. Whenever you have the time.” He sighs. “I may be too young to be your dad, but I sure as hell think of you as my younger brother. Emma’s death… it rattled me badly, but that hasn’t changed. I hope you know it.”

“Yeah.” My eyes sting. “Listen—”

I don’t expect him to grab me in a bear hug. He thumps his fist on my back. “Family, Zane. I made a

mistake, but you can count on us, for everything you need. I hope you know that.”

I see Ash get up and move toward the door. He’s blurry, and my breath hitches as the pressure in my chest finally reaches a breaking point.

Shit. I pull back and wipe a hand over my wet cheeks. Matt lets me go, his eyes suspiciously bright. He gives me a piece of paper with his new address and landline phone number. Pats my shoulder and then follows Ash out, leaving me alone to try and get myself under control.

Matt and Emma were like the parents I never had. Having at least one of them back in my life is a damn miracle, and for someone like me who doesn’t believe in miracles, that’s pretty damn awesome.

***

What a fucked up mess.

I stare at my ruined Mohawk in the mirror. I’m not vain, but I’ve had a Mohawk since I was fourteen. Sure, the teachers tried to get me to cut it all the time. I got expelled more times than I can count, and my foster families hated it.

Which is why I kept it. It’s part of who I am. Part of my war against my past. Yeah, that’s it. It’s a war symbol.

Which I apparently sheared off with the scissors while taking a break from trashing my apartment. Yeah, I got wasted off my ass. Really wasted, not just drunk. Shitfaced. Hammered. Plastered.

Passed out on the floor and damn near checked out.

Jesus. I never gave my drinking habits much thought all these years. Getting drunk at parties is normal for me. Then again, this getting drunk alone at home is recent, and I hope I can get out of it. I have to.

I will.

Meanwhile, I run my fingers over what’s left of my Mohawk, the short blue strands flopping on my forehead. The shaved sides of my head are now covered in dark stubble. It feels so weird. I grab my gel from the bathroom shelf and struggle to style the middle strip so that it stands up. It’s a sort of fauxhawk.

Fucking ridiculous.

My hands shake. I brace myself on the sink as the room tilts a little. I have circles under my eyes so black I look as if someone punched me. I’m thinner, and the bones of my face stick out.

Hell. I’m not vain, I tell myself again. It’s just that… Dakota is here, in the other room, and I look like shit. A guy is entitled to feeling a bit sorry for himself when he wants to look good for his girl but instead looks like roadkill, doesn’t he?

Emma would smack my arm and tell me to get over myself.

Emma. The memory of her death hits me so hard I double over. There are moments I forget she’s dead. How can I forget something like that even for a second?

“Zane?” Dakota pads into the bathroom behind me. “Are you okay?”

Her arms slip around my waist, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Okay.”

“Come on.” She straightens and tugs on my arm. “Food is ready.”

“Not hungry.”

“You will be when you smell this.”

I grin in spite of myself. In spite of Emma’s memory. “Another recipe from your great-great-aunt or something?”

“Yeah. Aunt Carolina’s recipe.”