Tyler (6 page)

Depression clings to me as I pass by a store to pick up some stuff on the way home. My finances are like a sinkhole, sucking every penny I toss into the debts, but my parents are adamant that I should go to college and live like girls my age. I get that and I appreciate the opportunity. Mom barely finished school, and Dad works in a hardware store. They want something better for me, and I want that, too. I love teaching Spanish. A degree in that sounds great. Besides, after years having to stay locked up at home while my friends went to school and parties, met with boys and had fun, I want that, too, even if just for a while.

It’s just that, on some days I feel I’m in a theater play, pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m not a carefree girl. I have responsibilities. I have debts, for god’s sake. I should be working full-time and leave college for later.

I grab some groceries, thinking to make Zane his favorite dish: seafood spaghetti in white sauce—and take the opportunity to pass on Dakota’s request and maybe ask for Tyler’s phone number. Or maybe set up a meeting? Does Zane know where Tyler lives?

I guess I’m going to have to ask to find out. We all have our reasons for what we do. Dakota is right, and I feel a twinge of guilt as I unlock the apartment door and plop my grocery bags on the kitchen table. I should be cooking for Zane anyway—because he’s my friend and because he’s always there for me. Not to push some chick’s request on him and ask him for favors.

Crap.

Refusing to let myself drop everything and hide under my covers, I start cutting up the onions. At least that will give me a good excuse if the tears decide to return. The apartment is quiet; Zane is at work, but he should be back home soon.

I’m cooking the pasta and sautéing the mussels and shrimp with the onions and spices when I hear the door whine open and male voices. I recognize Zane’s, but it’s not until I see his companion I recognize the other.

Rafe.

Rafe’s a nice guy. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but he’s easygoing and polite. I turn with a smile as they enter the small kitchen, sniffing the air like dogs on a blood scent.

“Something smells great.” Zane gives a wolfish smile and comes to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “Is this my favorite food?”

“Yeah. Thought it’s been a while.”

“And the occasion is?” He lifts a brow, and heat rushes up my face when I think of the favors I need to ask.

“Do we need one?”

He shrugs and lets go of me. “Got enough for three?”

“Sure.” I turn to nod at Rafe. “Do you like seafood pasta?”

“Yeah, sounds awesome,” he says and slips into a chair at the table, folding in his long frame. “Zen-man here says your cooking rocks, and I’ve been dying for a taste.”

I turn back to my pan, a pleased smile on my face. “See?” I tell Zane who tries to filch a shrimp from the pan. I slap his hand away. “A man with manners. You should learn from him.”

“My pride is wounded,” Zane clutches dramatically at his heart and backs away.

Rafe chuckles.

I guess this isn’t a good time to bring up the two topics I wanted to talk to Zane about. I finish up preparing the pasta, mix it up and place the pot on the worn table. Zane places our chipped white dishes and silverware, and I grab the pot of grated parmesan from the fridge.

“Dig in,” I say and slide into the seat next to Rafe.

He serves himself, then passes the food to Zane, who heaps his own dish high with pasta before passing the noodle fork to me.

As always, Zane starts inhaling his food before I even finish serving myself. He groans with pleasure, his eyes closing.

“Keep your orgasms more quiet, man,” Rafe mutters, and I choke on my first forkful of pasta.

Zane shakes his head and sighs. “This
is
quiet, fucker. You haven’t heard me when I’m having a real good one.”

I put down my fork before I choke to death and get up to grab a glass of water. “Guys…”

“This is good stuff,” Rafe says as I return to the table. He gestures at his plate. “Zane was right.”

“Thanks.” He really is a nice boy. I beam at him. “There’s enough for second servings.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He really is a handsome one, too, with his cat-like face, golden mane and tawny eyes—but my tastes run to dark. Can’t get over a pair of inky eyes and a shaggy mop of hair, a square jaw and a broad smile. A smile I haven’t seen in years.

God, Tyler…

“Hey, Zane.” I nod at the pot. “There’s more for you, too.”

“Okay, spill.” A side of his mouth lifts in a lazy smile. “What do you want from me? Cooking my favorite food, telling me to have more…What’s the catch?”

Crap. Caught.
I suck a deep breath. “Do you know this chick, Dakota?”

His face falls. “Audrey’s friend.”

Right.
“Well, she wants you to ink her.”

“No way. I told her already.”

“Why not? What’s the big deal?”

Zane shakes his head stubbornly, his Mohawk swaying slightly. “Tell her I said ‘hell no’ and that’s final.”

“So you won’t tell me why not?”

“Ask her what sort of tattoo she wants, and you’ll understand why.”

I purse my lips. “Fine.” It’s his business, who he wants to ink or not, but his reaction seems a bit extreme.

“Oh, by the way, we saw Tyler today,” Zane says.

Trying to change the topic, much?
“Where?”

“He passed outside Damage.” Meaning, Damage Control, the tattoo shop—the boys have shortened the name.

Rafe puts down his fork carefully, his gaze flicking between Zane and me. “He looked like hell warmed over.”

My heart squeezes in a vise. “Why? What happened?”

Rafe shrugs and shoots another uncertain look at Zane. What are they hiding from me? “He looked spooked. The only thing I could get out of him was that there was a meeting with a lawyer this morning and that Asher was there, too.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I mutter, mystified.

Zane winces. “You wouldn’t know, but Asher sorta hates Tyler’s guts for going off like that years ago and not reporting in until now.”

I swallow hard. “Sounds like he let a lot of people down.”

Zane sighs and pushes a mussel around his plate with his knife. “Something’s seriously off with that fucker. My hell-radar is never wrong.”

“You got an infernal radar?” One of Rafe’s golden brows lifts.

“Fucker, I know the inside of hell like the palm of my hand,” Zane grunts. “If there’s anyone who can tell who else has been in the pits, that’s me.”

Although he’s grinning, my stomach knots up. I know he’s been through some bad stuff as a kid, but he won’t let me in, won’t tell me what really happened.

Rafe nods, as if he knows what Zane is talking about. Maybe he does. This whole brotherhood is so screwed up, it hurts.

“What else did Tyler say?” I ask.

Zane drops his knife on the table. “Nothing much. Told ya, girl, you should talk to him.”

I bite my lower lip, suddenly angry again at Tyler for his disappearing act and for tugging at my heart strings without even being here, at my part in pushing him away and never getting a chance to turn back time. “Maybe. Will you give me his phone number?”

Zane frowns as he pulls out his cell and scrolls down the numbers. He seems to be turning something over in his mind. “He might be at Damage tomorrow afternoon, you know. If you wanna drop by.”

“He’s thinking of getting a tattoo?”

Zane’s slanted eyes darken. “No, but he really should.”

Tyler

The cell rings as I come out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my waist, frigid wind blasting through the open windows. Marlene’s name flashes on the screen, and I let the phone ring and ring as I grab clean clothes and get dressed. No idea why she’s still trying. I told her from the start I don’t do relationships. I don’t do love. I don’t bring flowers and chocolates. I don’t cuddle, and I don’t stick around after fucking.

My mistake was letting her talk me into hooking up for more than one night. To her it was apparently a relationship; to me it was a serial one-night-stand.

I shiver with cold, so I ditch the wet towel and grab my clothes. Pulling on my worn jeans—so worn they’re falling apart, but money for new clothes isn’t on the table right now—I sit on the bed and grab my boots. The damn phone has finally stopped ringing, but I see two missed calls on the screen instead of just one. Curious, I scroll through the calls, and I see James’ name, too.

James is the only person in the world I call a friend—and even that isn’t entirely true. I press ‘call’ and lean back against the wall, propping my foot on the mattress. After four rings, he picks up.

“Tyler? You bastard, where are you?”

I smirk. “Told you I was going away.”

“Thought you’d at least leave an address or something.”

My smirk falls. A pattern, huh? Always going away without leaving traces.
Shit.
“I’m in Madison, man. Need to make sure my little bro’s okay. He’s been through hell, and it’s partly my fault, so…”

“Should’ve just said so, asshole.” He pauses. “You
are
coming back, aren’t you?”

I close my eyes and rub the throbbing spot between my brows. “Sure, sure. How’s everything?”

“Fucking perfect. Peaceful. Know why?” I can hear the grin in his voice. “You’re not here to wreak havoc, that’s why.”

I snort. “Sounds boring, if you ask me.”

James sorta took me in when I arrived to Chicago, after Uncle Jerry’s death. He gave me a job at his café and got my drugs for me. Never questioned what I had to do to keep sane. Never tried to stop me. I owe him big for that. But I’ve never felt close to him. He has his own walls around him and they’re solid titanium; no chinks I can see.

“That chick you’ve been seeing is stalking me,” James grumbles into the phone. “Tell her to go hang out somewhere else.”

“Damn. Tell her to go to hell.”

“You do that, Tyler. It’s
your
dick she’s after, not mine. It’s you who can’t keep it in his pants.
You
tell her to fuck off.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

He is silent for a beat. “I’m hiring a guy for now, to replace you. Until you decide if you’re coming back or not. I won’t wait long, got it?”

“Thanks, J.” That’s kinder of him than I expected.

He hangs up and I sigh, putting down the cell. I glance around the bare studio with its stained walls, fake wood floors and sparse, mismatched furniture, and wonder for the thousandth time what the hell I’m doing here. Why I think I can change anything for the better. I guess I never was a bright one.

But I can’t go back just yet.

My hands close into fists. I’ve come this far, I’m not giving up so soon. I’ve quit the pills, and moved here. I’m not leaving before talking to Asher—and seeing Erin one more time.

***

Zane’s job offer rattles inside my head as I climb on my Ducati and rev it up. As jobs go, I could do worse than holding the front desk at Damage Control. I didn’t realize Zane had the power to hire and fire people. Then again, he seemed to look for confirmation from Rafe at some point, which is even weirder. Kid is Asher’s age. Maybe the shop belongs to his family?

Trying to clear my head, I drive around town. Before I realize, I’m heading toward my old neighborhood. Dad’s house.

No, not Dad’s. Jake Devlin’s.

It appears at the end of the street, on the turn, just as I remember it. I’ve made a point of never coming back here, even when I was checking on Asher. I’d pass by his school, instead.

Cutting the engine, I just sit there and look. The garden is overgrown, and the fence is rotten in places. Rotten is a good word for this house and the man who owned it. I can see the window of my bedroom, and I wonder what it looks like now. Is it as I left it? Is it empty?

The lawyer’s message said I have to go through my stuff, see if there is anything I want to keep before the house is sold, but the thought of walking through that door turns my stomach. It’s hard escaping from the memories when I’m far, and I don’t know what will happen once I’m inside those walls—stuck inside the living memory of what happened.

Last time I was here, Mom was alive. I can see her in my memory’s eye, walking down the steps, her long dark hair fluttering in the wind. I loved her, dammit, even when she chose to ignore the way Dad treated me, the way he hurt me. Even when she called me a liar when I confided in her. I know she was sick already and wasn’t telling us. Maybe she didn’t want to believe. Maybe she didn’t have the energy to care.

Then I remember her eyes that night in the basement... Scared. She was finally scared for me, but I was beyond that by then. Dad had lost it completely and then...

Jesus F. Christ.

As I stare at the familiar, hated sight of the house, I realize I’ll have to tell Asher what happened here. If he’s ever to forgive me, he needs to understand my reasons for leaving. To know how Dad held a knife to my throat and threatened all of us if I opened my mouth to tell anyone about it.

And Erin...

No. Not Erin. Can’t tell her. I don’t know what she’d think about me.

Besides, the truth doesn’t guarantee forgiveness. I made mistakes. Hell, I’m a walking mistake myself. I’m only alive due to circumstance. Maybe chance has given me a second shot, and I should fucking use it.

Talking of second chances…

Revving the engine, I take a skidding U-turn and head back to town and Damage Control. My gloved hands squeak on the handles with every narrow turn I take, and the side of my knee brushes the asphalt.

Snow begins to fall, fat, swirling flakes that curtain my view of the town, turning it blurry and ghostly. On days like this, my scars itch, and the old fractures in my bones ache. It was a winter like this when I was sent away, my arms wrapped around broken ribs and burning wounds.

Goddammit, I don’t wanna remember. I’m over that shit. I’m strong now; what happened to me then can’t happen again. Nobody can touch me.

I park my bike outside Damage Control and pull off my leather gloves. I flex my hands. Snow is covering the sidewalk, erasing spills and stains. A fresh carpet for me to walk on.