Dearest Series Boxed Set (85 page)

D
id
you read
Finding Dandelion
and wish Brady had won the girl?
Shameless
is his story, which takes place right after
Kissing Madeline
. It can be read as a complete standalone.

B
rady
…

H
er slender hips
sway to the heavy beat of the Arctic Monkeys pulsing through the speakers as she glides closer.

“Gonna get naked for you,” she purrs, her shirt already hanging off her shoulder.

What?

“You only need to open your top and lower your bra.” I suppose I shouldn’t discourage her.

She licks her lips and unfastens the clip in her hair, sending blond waves tumbling forward. But when she shakes it loose around her shoulders, a wave of industrial-strength perfume hits my nostrils. I try not to wince, but the scent is nauseating.

Focus, Brady. Hot girl taking off her clothes. Eyes on the prize.

I glance around, wondering how long it will take for the guys to notice she’s stripping out of her clothes like a pole dancer on a Saturday night. This girl is hot, so it’s not like I’m complaining.

Might as well go out with a bang.

Her fingers start the slow descent as she unbuttons her silky shirt, but then pause between her cleavage. “Kim Kardashian has the same outfit. She wore it the other day when she and Kanye dropped off little North West at...”

Annnd
right there, my interest plummets.

Of course, my last night working here and I get Malibu Barbie. I’m half-wondering when she’s going to break out her phone for a selfie.

Yanking on my gloves, I watch her unstrap the twins as my irritation builds.

“We can pull the curtain closed.” I motion behind her to the partition I should’ve grabbed on the way in, but she shrugs with a grin and drops her bra.

Okay then.

When she slides into my chair, I lower the back so she’s reclining. I have to hold back a laugh when she thrusts her chest out.

I don’t know why I think this is funny.

Because you’re an asshole.

“So, Chastity—” Yes, her name is Chastity. It’s always the ones with the wholesome names. “You want these piercings horizontal, correct?” I make the motion across in case she doesn’t know which direction I’m talking about.

She nods and bats her eyelashes at me before she grabs her tits and pinches her nipples. “Do you want me to hold them up for you?”

I almost choke on my gum. “No, that’s okay.”

A flash of disappointment crosses her face, and I force a smile to counteract my fuck-off vibe. I don’t mean to be a jerk. I’m just exhausted. Working seventy hours a week landscaping while I moonlight here at the tattoo parlor will do that. So I try to reassure her. “You have ideal breasts for piercings.” Her eyes brighten, and she smiles back.

It’s true, though. Her nipples are high and distended. Maybe a tad long if you ask me. Not like
National Geographic
tits or anything. Just a little pouty.

Like someone’s been sucking on them.

My dick finally rears up like someone rang a dinner bell.

But then Chastity opens her mouth. “My sorority sisters dared me to do this. I couldn’t say no.”

That’s a terrible reason. I just nod. It’s none of my business. But it’s enough to make my cock tap out. He should be interested. I haven’t been with anyone in a while, not even Gwen. But seeing Gwen takes time, time I don’t have.

“Just relax. I’m marking the skin first,” I explain.

Chastity takes a deep breath, but when I touch her breast, she lets out a little moan.

I try not to laugh. This girl should
not
be turned on right now. Getting her tits pierced is going to hurt.

After marking a dot on both sides of one nipple, I repeat the process with the other, the whole time ignoring the flush of red down her neck.

I’m a dick for being amused by her obvious state of arousal. But she keeps opening her mouth. “I love that photo. Is she your girlfriend?” She motions toward the front of the tattoo parlor, where a larger-than-life image of me wrapped around a half-naked woman hangs on the wall.

Jesus Christ. I hate that pic. How a favor for a friend in art school last winter became an image plastered all over Boston to advertise the Wicked Tattoo Parlor, I’ll never know.

“No, that’s not my girlfriend.”

The redhead in the photo, Dani, and I were always
just friends
. Someone I definitely hoped would be more than a friend, but things didn’t work out that way. In fact, the douchebag she’s engaged to was here last week getting a tat of Little Red Riding Hood—for her, no doubt.
Fucker
.

But the experience taught me something important. That unless you find the perfect girl, putting yourself out there is pointless.

My foul mood must be rubbing off, because by the time I aim the piercing gun at nipple number two, Chastity is no longer interested in talking. Told you. Nipples and needles are no joke. But I have to admit I’m at a loss when the tears start.

If there’s one thing I can’t handle, it’s a crying woman.

I pat her shoulder. “You took it like a champ.”

When I’m done explaining how to care for the piercings, I motion toward her. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah, I do.” She licks her lower lip that’s stopped quivering. “Think you might have time later for a drink?”

Bad idea.

“Wish I could take you up on that, but my schedule’s pretty packed.” Not a lie. “Maybe some other time.”
Or maybe not.

Be nice, man.

I force myself to smile. “If you decide to get a tattoo, I’ll draw something for you.” Piercing helps pay the bills. Tats are what I love.

Her eyes brighten, and she nods.

I turn away before I let something rude slip. Because when I’m this exhausted, I have one mode—asshole—and I don’t want to treat this girl that way. Or any girl for that matter.

That's why I’m better off alone right now. Flying solo seems to be the only thing I have time for.

In between clients, I text my father an update on the Jackson property. He responds immediately.
Great job, son! Can’t thank you enough.

No thanks needed,
my thumbs tap out.

I stare at the screen, hoping we’re done and he doesn’t launch into another round of apologies, apologies that aren’t his to make.

Part of me feels guilty about not wanting to run my father’s landscaping company. But this was supposed to be temporary. Just until my brother Cal returned and he took over for my dad, who had a heart attack.

My jaw tightens.

Cal’s down in Texas, kicking back with his new wife—the one he eloped with after knowing two weeks—and their baby. Ironically, he was down there taking courses I paid for so he could return to Boston and take over our family’s company, but he got sidetracked when some chick tripped over his dick. How else do you have a baby nine months later?

I should be over it by now. Cal’s kid is a year old, and the writing is on the wall. He’s not coming back. But my parents keep holding out hope. They’re afraid he’ll get bored down there like he gets bored with everything. And in the time they’ve held off selling their business and retiring, they lost a great offer on the company and my father’s health has gone to shit.

As the night wears on, every time I flip on the ink gun, that staccato buzz heightens my awareness of the clock and builds a slow dread in my chest. It should be a relief to have one less thing to worry about. Except this is the part I love. This is the part that actually feels right when I’m not in such a piss-poor mood.

But I can’t keep doing this to myself. Running half a dozen crews on my father’s landscaping business and tattooing all night will put me in an early grave.

Chugging down some coffee, I nod toward the dude in my chair. He points to his bicep where I’ve already transferred a drawing of a pair of oars. “I’m rowing for BU in the fall,” he says proudly.

Mustering a smile, I tell him congrats and then focus on the lines I etch into his skin.

We get a lot of college kids in here. I used to enjoy hearing their stories and understanding the meaning behind the symbols I inked on them. Hell, I used to be one of those BU kids.

But now it’s tough to stomach the optimism in their voices. It’s a reminder that I was a dumb asshole for getting my master’s in art. For not going to law school. For not studying something that could’ve bailed my parents out of their financial crisis.

For thinking like a dreamer.

After my last client, I remove the key from my key ring and hand it to Rudy.

“You always got a place here, man,” he says, leaning forward for a bro-hug.

I grumble a thanks and a farewell, knowing full well my spot will be filled by the end of next week, as will the opportunity to partner with him on the new shop.

The whole drive home, it eats at me, missing these opportunities. But there’s no one to complain to, and even if there was, there’s nothing to say. I’ve made my decision.

The sound of my keys echoes in the dark apartment. I toe off my work boots, caking the floor in mud, but my roommate is probably over at his girlfriend’s, so he’s not here to bitch about it.

I’m yawning and so tired, I’m a little nauseous. As I head for my bedroom, I reach for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans to set an alarm. Cal’s message flashes on the screen:
I need to talk to you. I have some news. Stop being a cock.

My temple throbs.

It’s two a.m. here, which means it’s only midnight in Texas. He might be up. But can I really deal with talking about this shit right now? I’ve been up since five this morning when I hauled my ass to the Jackson property.

Scrubbing my face with my palms, I groan.

I’ll say something I’ll regret if I have that conversation tonight. I’ll call him tomorrow or next week or whatever.

With labored movement, I strip out of my jeans and t-shirt, and my muscles scream in protest when I stretch out in bed.

It feels like I’ve barely fallen asleep when the phone rings. I fumble for it and answer in a daze. The voice sounds a million miles away.

I shake my head and sit up.

“Brady? Did you h… h… hear me?” My mother’s voice warbles over the phone in between sobs.

I blink several times. My heart thunders in my chest, tripping over itself in an erratic beat. Rubbing my eyes hard, I try to wake up. She says it again.

What? No, that’s just…

A numbness spreads through all of my limbs.

My stomach clenches as she wails the words that gut me. “C… C… Cal is dead. Oh, my God. Cal is dead!”

* * *

A
s I heave
into the trash, that conversation with my mom races through my mind. Because when I told her to hang tight, that I was coming to see her, she drop-kicked me with something else. That upon learning the news that my brother, his wife Melissa, and their baby Isabella died in a freak car accident, my father had a heart attack and is in intensive care.

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe through the fear of losing my father. Through the regret and guilt of how I treated Cal. Through the shame.

The moment registers like the event horizon of a black hole, yawning before me like an abyss.

“Sir, are you okay?” a nurse asks me as I heave into the trash for the third time.

I wave her off, shivering when a cold sweat breaks out along my back and neck.

Cal is gone. My baby brother is dead.

Why didn’t I call him back? Why couldn’t I get my head out of my ass? I don’t know the details of the accident, but I can’t help but wonder if anything would’ve been different if I’d just picked up the goddamn phone. Would it have saved them somehow? Could it have kept them home?

A chilling thought grips me.
Was the accident my fault?

The loss of my brother reverberates through me until dry heaves upend my stomach and make me contemplate curling up on the filthy hospital floor.

By the time I reach the hospital room I’m pretty sure I’ve puked out my spleen, but the sight of my unconscious father with tubes sticking out of him makes me ignore my own misery.

My mother turns to me. Behind those puffy eyes, I see a flicker of relief. She’s hovering over my father, who is pale and hauntingly still. In three long strides I’m by her side, and I tuck her against me where she cries quietly.

“I’m here, Mom,” I whisper into her hair.

I inhale her rose perfume, which reminds me of family dinners and laughter and love. Closing my eyes, all I can see is my little brother’s face. That grin he’d give me when he broke my stuff. His light blue eyes that crinkled when he laughed. That mess of sandy brown hair he could never tame.

And God, the weight of not being there for him is crushing.

I grip my mom tighter. Her tears soak my shirt, and I hold her until her sobs still to whimpers.

Once she’s calmed down, we sit by my father’s bed, and she wraps an icy hand around mine. Her lower lip quivers as she smiles sadly toward the bed. “I… I can’t leave him. The doctor wants to do the surgery as soon as possible, tomorrow or the day after. I can’t leave your father…” She starts to sob again. “But I want to be there for my baby.” She always thinks of Cal as her baby even though he’s twenty-five.

Was
twenty-five.

Goddamn it.