“Tell me again why going into business with three brothers was a good idea?” Noah asked.
“Because you taught us all, so you know we’ll tattoo properly,” Enzo replied.
“Yeah, there’s that,” Noah said.
The conversation shifted to less important things, like ordering equipment and supplies.
Enzo enjoyed the familiar conversation. He understood what it took to run a successful tattoo shop. For all the shit his brothers gave him, they worked well together and wanted to prove themselves capable of good things just as badly as he did. They’d all been written off early on in life. It made them hungry for achievement and accomplishment. It was why they’d climbed the ranks so fast. They’d set the bar high right out the gates, and earned a reputation for solid work, done swiftly for a fair price. As time passed, they raised their prices accordingly and kept their clients.
They ended their meeting, and he moved to his chair, grateful for his full schedule. It would be a relief from the mental anguish ripping him to shreds from the inside out.
EXHAUSTED, HE PLOPPED onto his sofa, popped open a fresh bottle of whiskey, and took a long drink. This was the moment he’d dreaded all day—when he would find himself alone in his house. Was Rhys right, or was Noah? Had he lost Ave, or should he be gearing up to fight? Why would now be any different from before? He was in the process of healing, but he had a long way to go, and setbacks were to be expected. So, how can I ask her to put her hat in the ring with me? He took another swig and closed his eyes. This would be the point where he blamed his mother for all his woes, but he had to take responsibility for the way he chose to deal with the fucked up shit she did. It was a painful thing. He tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle; his knuckles turned white.
His mother was a strung out junkie who had no concept of right or wrong, and no business trying to raise a child. He did what he needed to do to survive, but he wasn’t that person anymore. The past couldn’t be changed, but it also didn’t dictate his future. He repeated the words, hoping it would sink in, and he could actually believe it.
Full of whiskey and memories he would rather forget, he called the one person he always did.
“Enzo?”
“Ave,” he slurred.
She sighed. “Have you been drinking?”
“Only thing that helps,” he said.
He heard her excuse herself.
“Are you with him?” he scoffed.
“If you’re asking me if I’m with Keir, yes I am.”
He grunted.
“What’s wrong, Enz?”
“The counseling session brings up bad shit. I hate it. It’s like reliving your worst nightmares, only they’re not a dream, they’re reality. Things you’ve lived through.”
He could almost hear her wince. Sober, he never would’ve called, drunk he couldn’t stop talking.
“I’m sorry, Enz. I know it’s not easy.”
“Are you with him now?” he whispered.
“No.”
“I saw him put his mouth and his hands on you, Aibhlinn. I hated it.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you’re mine ... and I don’t share. You tell him that, or next time I won’t be able to restrain myself.”
“Enz ...” Her voice wavered. “Y-you can’t say this to me.”
“Why? Shit’s true,” he said.
“No, it’s not, and you wouldn’t even be saying this if you were sober.”
“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” he retorted, swirling the remaining alcohol in his bottle.