Tyler (Inked Brotherhood 2)

With shaking hands, I grab my wallet and pull out a photo in its plastic pocket. I run my thumb over it—over the impish mouth, the large eyes, the long dark hair, and then lower, over her slim neck and her body.

Another ritual, one I can’t get rid of. I took the photo one day in the park, by the water. It was summertime, and she wore a white bikini and cut-off shorts. I can almost smell the water and cut grass as I look at her, I can almost feel the warmth of her skin under my fingertips. I can almost taste her.

She’d just turned fifteen. I was seventeen going on eighteen. A time so close to the end of my life as I knew it, and I still had hope, not realizing it didn’t matter what I believed or expected.

I put the photo back into my wallet and bury my face in my hands. Can’t stop thinking of my high school girlfriend. Can’t stop wishing for drugs to take away the pain. Can’t stop thinking I have no one left in the world—no friends, no family who wants to talk to me. Asher won’t even look at me. Erin doesn’t even know I’m alive.

I’m cut off from the world. Dad saw to that. Then Uncle Jerry.

And then myself.

***

It’s late afternoon by the time I leave the apartment and walk around the block, trying to orient myself and get acquainted with the neighborhood. My plan is to look for a job like the one I had in Chicago—bouncer or waiter. The tattoo shop where Zane works isn’t far. I spot it, the lights of the storefront beckoning in the encroaching darkness.

‘Damage Control’, the name of the shop flickers in neon blue over the door.

I hesitate for a few seconds. Zane seems like a good guy, but I barely know him and he’s good friends with Ash. He must have heard the worst about me—and yet he didn’t seem mad at me at the hospital where they’d taken Ash. He even pleaded my case with my brother, asking him to hear me out.

And Ash refused.

Shoving my hands into my jacket pockets, I stride into the shop and study the designs taped on the inside of the glass. Butterflies, faces, skulls, hearts and swords. I’ve always been intrigued by tats and sport a few of my own, but nothing on display draws my attention, so I turn away.

“Hey!” The door opens and a guy steps out. “Wait.”

A tall, blue-tipped Mohawk, slanted dark eyes, arms covered in complete, colorful tat sleeves. Speaking of the devil... “Zane.” I halt where I stand, waiting to see what he wants.

He runs his hands over the shaved sides of his head. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“Yeah.”

“Does Ash know you’re here?”

I grimace. “No.”

A pause in which we stare at each other awkwardly. The air is heavy, the clouds hanging low over our heads, dark like bruises.

“I just arrived,” I say, not sure why I feel the need to explain. “Today.”

He nods, glances back inside the shop. The breeze is frigid. “How long will you be staying this time?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Finding a job.” And Ash, but I’m not discussing that with Zane.

Another pause.

“Thinking of getting a tat?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

/> “Come in. Have a look around.”

Not sure this is a good idea, I’m about to refuse, when fat raindrops start pelting down. They splash on my head, and chilly water trickles down my neck. Dammit.

It won’t hurt to have a look at his designs, will it?