Not a lot I can do about that right now. It’ll have to wait until morning.

I finally take some time to check through my bookings for tomorrow morning. They’ll all have to wait. Unless they want someone else to work on them.

Sending a message to my small group of artists and helpers, I let them know I’m taking a short break. Trusting them to run things the way they know it should be done.

Next, I send a generic sounding “I’m unavailable, but…” notice to the appointments I have booked, giving them the option of having one of my staff do their ink instead.

Only one text’s back sounding pissed, but too bad. It’s a little impersonal but I don’t have the energy to deal with anything but Abby.

Abby and our future are way more important right now, plus I’m pretty sure my creativity is gonna be at a low for a while.

At least until I get what I want and know Abby’s where she belongs. Then I should be able to focus on day-to-day tasks again.

I’ve got enough cash stacked from years of saving. And there’s plenty more where that came from.

It’s as if each day that passes there are a hundred people that want ink done or want ink gone.

And I don’t see that changing in a hurry.

By the time I do lay my head on my pillow, the sleep I thought might block my latest obsession is held at bay by the same things.

Wanting Abby. Needing Abby.

Feeling the empty space in my bed as well as my arms where she ought to be right now.

I even fight the urge to text Tasha and get Abby’s number.

That’d be as good as just calling up and telling her I’ve fallen hard for her best friend, and I can’t have that.

Not yet.

The long night is broken only by fitful sleep, dreams of my past until finally in a cold sweat I lay awake, watching the gray light of dawn as it starts to creep across my ceiling.

It’s still early when I get out of bed, opting for action instead of just lying there wondering what if.

That’s something Tasha might do, something her mom used to do...

I can’t think like that though. Not anymore.

And even though it’s too early for a lot of things, I take my time to shower and shave.

Getting myself looking and smelling like a man who has someone to look good for is a change from my regular rough appearance.

It’s still just jeans and a T-shirt, but the nice ones I keep for special occasions.

For days like my birthday, or to pick up my girl.

With a full breakfast in me, I fire up my ride as the sun slowly arcs over the distant hills, stopping only to fuel up, I make my way straight back to Abby’s.

Like a bee to a honeypot, I thunder at the maximum speed the law will allow until I’m in her driveway.

Now what?

I can see her mom’s car is there but Tasha’s car is gone.

And this bike is a hundred-decibel doorbell, letting the whole street know I’m here.

Well, here goes…

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Abby

The phrase “touching a nerve” doesn’t even come close when it comes to talking about Tasha’s mom who left when she was little.

I mean, I’ve often been asked about my dad. It never really bothers me that much.

But Tasha shocks me by being so cut up over it all still. Lowering her voice to a near hiss once we’re alone.

After her dad’s gone.

I mention it just after he leaves. But Tasha brushes it off.

Now I’m pressing her again with it, but not to upset her.

In fact, Slade’s the real reason I’m even bringing her mom up at all.

The thought of Slade as a younger man, a dad even.

It makes me more than just a little curious.

I wanna know everything about him, and I figure his past might be a good place to start.

Bad idea.

“I don’t have a mom!” Tasha spits at me, her face contorting with rage before I apologize for even mentioning it.

“Sorry, Tasha. I just always wondered is all,” I explain.

“Just hard to imagine your dad with anyone…” I venture, but that only makes matters worse.

“Oh, I see. Now I get it,” Tasha snaps, sounding more like she’s arguing with her boyfriend than talking to her best friend.

“Tasha.” I gently put my hand on her arm, but she snatches her arm away.

“I saw how you were looking at my dad, Abby. It’s just… pathetic,” she growls, narrowing her eyes before chuckling to herself.

“Is that why you want a tattoo? So my dad can have his greasy hands all over you?” she says in a cutting tone.

Now it’s my turn to feel my anger rise, and I feel my face heat with color as I fight the urge to say something horrible straight back to her.

Tags: Flora Ferrari Romance
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