Tyler (Inked Brotherhood 2)

“What’s in yours?” he asks.

I glance down at my box, and I don’t want to open it. But everyone’s eyes are on me now, and I have to see, dammit. Have to know what Dad’s sick mind has conjured up this time.

Time slows as I lift the lid and throw it aside.

My breath freezes in my throat. I always think I’m prepared and ready, that my skin is inches thick and nothing can touch me anymore—and then shit like this happens.

A teddy bear, old and scruffy, its fur worn in places. Rob, that’s the bear’s name. I used to sleep with this toy when I was little. One of its arms is missing, and its body is covered in stiff dark brown stains.

Written across its chest in red marker is one word: ‘Bastard.’ Torn pieces of paper lie underneath the teddy bear, and I don’t have to check to know it’s my birth certificate.

“What the hell is that?” I hear Asher’s horrified whisper.

That’s me, I want to

say.

The words hover on the tip of my tongue—the truth, burning like acid—but instead I stand up, letting the damn box fall with a thump to the floor, and get the hell out of there.

***

My head swimming, I stumble down the stairs. I need fresh air, need to get out. My chest hurts; breathing hurts.

Can’t get the damn bear and the word marked on its chest out of my head. My vision is graying at the edges, and I grab the banister not to tumble down the stairs. Goddammit. What I need is a Xanax, but I cut that shit. Can’t go back to it—can’t go through another withdrawal—although it feels as though I never got out of the first one, anyway.

I slam my hand on the banister and stagger down the last steps into the lobby. The open door is like a beacon, and I hurry outside. Cold wind blasts in my face, clearing my head. I head toward my bike and dig into my back pocket for my wallet. Need to see her. So I take out her picture and rub my thumb over it.

My chest still hurts. It’s not working. It’s just not enough anymore. Shoving the photo back into my wallet, I pull on my gloves, swing my leg over the saddle and rev up the engine. Time to get the hell out of dodge. Guess I’ll have to track Ash down and try to talk to him another day. Right now, I can hardly get enough air in my lungs to speak.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

Forcing the litany in my head to stop, I lean forward and close my eyes for a second. I think I hear my name being called from behind me, but I release the brakes and ride away.

The engine vibrates as I accelerate, swerving through the streets, narrowly avoiding head-on collisions with oncoming cars. My jaw’s clenched so hard my teeth hurt, and my fingers are wrapped so tightly around the handles I’m not sure I could let go if I have to.

Leave. Leave. Lea—

Stop, dammit. I swerve into a narrow street, barely missing the wall, and slow down. I force deep breaths into my lungs. All these coping mechanisms—the compulsive behavior that kept me sane with Uncle Jerry and later when I moved to Chicago—should be behind me, just like Dad and his sick games. I don’t need the counting, or repeating words and actions in threes, or even stroking her picture.

God, what I need is to stroke her. In the flesh. Move my hands over her warm, soft skin and kiss those lips… I imagine my thumb brushing over her soft mouth, down her smooth cheek, and my blood ignites.

By the time I reach my building and park the bike, I’m so hard I ache. Erin… All the women I’ve ever been with since I left Madison have borne her face in my mind. Some even complained I called out her name as I came.

She’s in my blood, under my skin, no matter what I do, and now the memory of seeing her is so fresh my body remembers just how it felt to be with her, inside of her. Being one with her.

And these thoughts, these images and sensations feel too good to shove aside— especially since right behind them lurks the sick fear and the memories from a basement where I thought I’d breathe my last—so yeah, so what if I’d rather think of Erin. I’d rather imagine I’m with her, that she keeps the nightmare at bay, warming me up, making me forget.

I lock my bike and shuck off my gloves, open the heavy building door and climb up the stairs, trying to ignore my throbbing dick. By the time I unlock my door and relock it behind me, by the time I shrug off my jacket, fold it and lay it on the bed, more images have played out in my mind—Erin stretched out beneath me, naked, whispering my name. Her eyes are half-closed, her skin flushed, her hands on her breasts, begging me to make her come.

Christ. I need a cold shower.

I stumble into the bathroom and shed my clothes as I start the water running. I jump under the spray before it even gets warm, but the cold isn’t helping this time. My dick throbs in time to my frantic heartbeat. I reach down, wrap my fingers around it, and grit my teeth as fiery pleasure shoots up my spine. Oh fuck. If just the thought of her does this to me, what would it be like to really touch her again?

Stupid, Tyler, I tell myself, closing my eyes and letting my head thunk back against the tiled wall. She’s moved on. She doesn’t want you. Barely remembers you—and yet she’s pissed with you, enough that she ran away when she realized who you are.

Fuck it.

I drag my fist up my cock, then down, drawing out the exquisite torture. I need to come—my balls are tight and aching, and my stomach muscles are clenching already in anticipation.