Ocean (Damage Control Book 5) (6 page)

Fuck.
I wipe water from my face and make a grab for the hand towel. “Just a sec!”

Calm down. It’s okay.

Only it’s not. Not with the way Mom is deteriorating every day, and with Raine bound and determined to cut me out of his life.

I’m the older brother. I protect, that’s my job.

And I failed at it miserably. He’s right to hate me. I hate me, too. I just fucking can’t… Can’t fix the past. Or even the present.

The door creaks open, and I let the towel drop to the sink as her reflection greets me in the mirror. Her eyes look huge in her pale face.

“What’s wrong?” she asks quietly.

“Nothing’s wrong.” I gather the towel to hide my shaking hands and hang it awkwardly on the rack. “I should head home.”

Her slender brows draw together. “You don’t start work until the afternoon. Stay for breakfast.”

“I can’t.” I bend over to lift my jacket from the floor. “Thanks, but I really should get going.”

She’s biting her lip as I straighten, distracting me. “That must’ve been a hell of a nightmare.”

I flinch and barely hide a full-body shiver. “Can’t remember it.”

She’s looking at me through the mirror, our reflections side by side. I look like a half-drowned raccoon with black bags under my fucking eyes.

She looks… pretty. Real pretty, and hot, even in her wrinkled clothes from last night with her smudged eye make-up and her hair tousled.

Especially with her eye make-up smudged and her hair tousled. I imagine waking up to her looking like that after a night of pounding into her, of my face on her tits and my hand between her legs, and I groan between my teeth.

My dick starts to thicken in my pants, pushing against the zipper.

Oh fuck…
I’m staring at her and can’t look away. Why can’t I look away? Why do I want her so badly? And why now of all times, now that my life’s a worse mess than usual?

“Look,” she says, “you brought me home last night. Made sure I made it to my bed safe. Consider this my thanks for spending the night in my armchair.” She clears her throat. “And before you reply, you should know I make mean chili omelets. And pancakes. For realz.”

She winks, and it’s a hot bolt to my crotch. Looking at her, listening to her is doing something to my insides. Like a knot kept tight for too long, clogging my lungs, is unraveling.

What’s happening to me?

“Can’t,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She sticks out her tongue, smiles. Her teeth are a little crooked, her incisors cutting into her lush lower lip. It’s charming. Sexy. Kinda hypnotizing.

Like I wanna push her against the wall, suck her lip into my mouth and bite.

Hell.

“I’m outta here,” I mutter, turning, “just need to—”

“Sure, I’m only—”

We crash together, her elbow knocking in my ribs, and pain shoots through my chest, making me gasp.

“The fuck.” I wrap an arm around my middle, trying to breathe around the pain, while Kayla gapes at me. “Christ.”

She hangs back for precisely two seconds, then pushes at my arm and lifts my sweater. She’s lightning fast, this girl.

“Holy crap, what happened to you?” She pokes at my side, and I swear under my breath. “You’re black and blue.”

I grab her hand, stop her from poking the tender spot again. “Black and—?”
Oh. Right.
I look down at my bruised self. “It was the seatbelt.”

“What?” She’s blinking those big eyes, confusion written all over her face.

“Someone rear-ended my truck last night. The bruising’s from the seatbelt. See, I’m—”

“Holy crap. Nobody told me.” Red spots appear on her pale cheeks. “You should get checked out. Does it hurt when you breathe? Oh God, you carried me last night!”

“I’ll live,” I tell her, letting my sweater fall over the livid bruises. “It’s not so bad.”

“It looks bad.” Her full bottom lip quivers, and she bites it again. Goddammit, this girl is trying to drive me mad.

Against my better judgment, I put a finger under her chin and lift it until she looks me in the eye. “I swear it’s not that bad. And you’re light like a feather.”

She snorts, and it’s a bit watery. I frown. Before she glances away, I see her long lashes wet.

As if she’s about to cry for me. For the ugly bruises decorating my chest and the possibility I hurt myself carrying her home.

I’m so transfixed by that I don’t even breathe.

Nobody has given two shits about me since I was a kid. Nobody ever cared if I was hurt, if something was wrong.

Nobody has ever fucking cried for me.

The knot in my chest untangles a bit more and it aches.
Hell.
What am I doing?

“Take care.” Letting my hand drop from her face, I grab my jacket and hurry the hell out of her bathroom, her apartment, the bright energy that surrounds her, cursing myself all the way to the street.

***

The day drags. Despite feeling worn out and stretched thin from lack of proper sleep, I force myself to the gym for some cardio on the bike and a few rounds with the punching bag. Shane’s girl, Cassie, who mans the reception desk, keeps giving me questioning looks.

Why?
Is it my sexy raccoon look, complete with dark circles and three-day scruff? Or the fact I move gingerly, swallowing curses every time I lift my right arm or breathe too deeply?

Who the fuck knows? The moment she steps around the desk, seemingly intent on coming to talk to me, I throw in the towel and head for the men’s changing rooms to avoid her.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Cassie. I like her even more since she apologized to Jesse for kissing him against his will and since she moved into Shane’s life and turned it about. She’s a nice girl with a talent for making Shane smile.

Good enough for me.

Not in the mood to talk right now, though, and especially not about me.

And what if she wasn’t gonna talk about you, asshole?
a voice that sounds a lot like mine mutters in the back of my mind.
What if she wanted to talk about Shane, or about herself? What if she needs your help with something? Not everything is about you.

Did I say the voice sounds like mine? Scratch that. It sounds just like Raine’s.

You think everything’s about you, Shun. Well, it fucking ain’t. Fuck you, Shun. Don’t call me ever again. Go to hell. You’re dead to me. You—

“Ocean, watch out!” Someone crashes into me, and I see red as pain explodes in my side.

Ow, dammit. What the hell?

“Sorry, man.” I see the guy lift his hands through blurry eyes. He’s one of the co-owners of the gym, Derrick. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” I straighten.
Shit.
“Wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m good.”

Am I, though?
I wonder as he nods and turns away. The ribs will heal. They’re just bruised. But my head’s not here. I’m so fucking worried. About Mom. About Raine.

The good news is my truck is still running. The dented bumper seems to be the only issue—although the engine clunks when I slow down or accelerate. Don’t know what’s up with that.

Probably it’s just that the engine’s rusty and banged-up, like me.

But we’ve both made it through worse. We go some way back, my Chevy and I. Three years at least. Lasted more than any girl I’ve been with—not hard to beat that record, though, seeing as I’ve never been with a girl for longer than a night.

My Chevy’s nothing like the powerful, streamlined cars I used to race with back in Milwaukee. But she’s like an old dog—my faithful, trusted friend, not letting me down when everyone else does.

And that in my book is what counts the most.

***

“How’re the ribs?” Seth asks me as I prepare for my first appointment of the day, preparing my station and checking my tattoo gun.

“I’ll live,” I inform him, an echo of my reply to Kayla this morning.

Only she’d looked sad and worried. Not convinced at all.

And also cute and sweet and sexy, and shit, I need to fucking stop this, like, yesterday.

I grab my customer list for the day and stare at it blindly, struggling to focus.

Tired. So fucking tired. It’s the back and forth between Madison and Milwaukee, I think. Not the distance as much as the whiplash I get between my two lives.

Why do I do it? Why do I feel this obligation to take care of my old folks when they never took care of me?

They’re my parents, but they don’t love me. This is sick. I’m every bit as sick as they are for doing this, for checking on them, making sure they have food, that they’re okay.

Checking Mom’s still alive.

Seth mutters something about sucking it up and ambles away, presumably returning to his own cubicle.

Both he and Shane officially graduated as Zane’s trainees and were offered full-time jobs as inkers. It’s taken some of the customer load off of our backs—mine, Jesse’s and Micah’s. Even though they are new, they come with Zane Madden’s recommendation, and they’re so damn good nobody has ever complained.

“The hot cousins,” chicks call them. They’re like twins, even more so now that Shane’s hair is shorter than he used to have it.

My hair’s dark, too, but I’ve had it blue for years. I used to have it longer, and bluer, back when it was my signature trait, my color. My flag.

Goes with the name. Can’t beat that. Ocean and blue.

Besides, my brother used to call me that.
Blue.

I’ve kept my hair dyed, clinging to that persona, letting it be the one thing people see about me, that one thing that kept me sane and alive back then. That defined me. It was a rebirth of sorts. New color, new name, a new anchor to life.

New profession. Cars and speed. The one thing that destroyed my life and made my brother hate me. That split us up and put a rift between us.

Sometimes I wanna rip my hair out from the roots. Or shave my head and be done with it. Done with mourning and remembering and hoping.

Or so I tell myself.

My customer walks in, and I nod absently at her, forcing my mind back to the present. We’d already talked on the phone about what she wants. A butterfly on her ankle.

She’s a tall, pretty brunette with big gray eyes that remind me of Kayla’s.

Kayla.
Dammit.
Jesse Lee hasn’t come in yet, but as soon as I’m done here, I’m gonna find him and introduce his face to my fist for the prank. As if Kayla would ever say she likes me or she trusts me, or whatever.

Asshole.

As I show the customer my drawings, and we discuss colors and size, I wonder if Kayla has any ink on her. And if not, if she’d like some.

If she’d let me put some on her.

Damn.

No reason why the thought should get me hard, but fuck if it doesn’t. This keeps happening, despite my resolve to stop thinking about her.

It’s so damn confusing, I think as I set about preparing my materials for the tattoo. One moment I think she wants me, the next she pulls back. One moment she seems not to even care I’m around, and the next she seems worried about me.

Add to that my back-and-forth between my body wanting her and my mind reeling me back, and it’s like whiplash.

“I like your hair,” my customer tells me, and I realize I’ve paused—again—with the tattoo gun in my hand. “Nice color.”

“Thanks.”

“And your T-shirt. What’s that logo?”

“DeathMoth. A local punk rock group. Zane Madden’s girlfriend is the vocalist, and Rafe Vestri the drummer.”

“Cool.” She keeps peeking at me and smiling, her cheeks coloring. Wait, is she checking me out?

“This will sting a little,” I tell her, my mind racing.

“I don’t mind some pain,” she whispers. Bats her lashes at me. “Mixed with pleasure.”

“Uh-huh. Are we talking about after-work hours?” Just to be sure we’re on the same page.

“Yes.” She colors some more. “If you like.”

Okay. She
is
hitting on me. Check.

I mean, hell, it’s not like it doesn’t happen. I may not be exotic looking and shit, but chicks seem to dig me, blue hair and all. Can’t say I understand it, but I’m not gonna complain.

I should say something. Give a witty comeback. Show her we’re on the same page. That I get off work at eight.

She’s attractive. Long legs, great rack, shiny hair. Pouty mouth. Last night I’d planned to bang a random girl, so… Why the hell not?

Very good question. In fact, there’s no good reason why not.

Then why am I not saying anything?

The silence stretches. I turn this over in my mind as I focus on her skin, outlining the tattoo, then choosing the colors to fill it in with.

“Look,” she says eventually as I work. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You probably have a girlfriend.”

“It’s okay,” I mutter, not looking up.

Because there is no girlfriend. There is no
reason
.

Only I can’t get Kayla out of my goddamn mind, and I don’t understand how the hell the idea of fucking another woman makes me feel like I’m cheating.

Joy.

***

Jesse doesn’t come in to work until late. I hear him talking to Tyler, so I wait for them to finish, and then I barge into his cubicle to confront him.

I’m not even sure why I feel the need to do this, why I’m so mad at him for it.

He looks up from where he’s sitting on his stool, a preoccupied frown on his face. “Hey, Shun, what’s up?”

I wince at the use of the nickname. Jesse probably doesn’t remember how much I hate it or why.

Shun
, my brother’s voice says in my memory.
It’s all your fault. Screw you, Shun. Screw—

A hand claps on my shoulder, and I jerk back. “Ocean. Hey.”

Fuck, I keep spacing out. There’s a concerned look in Jesse’s eyes I don’t want to see directed at me.

My breath rattling, I shake his hand off. “You.” I have to stop and swallow hard. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

“Do what? Put my hand on your shoulder?” His brows draw together and his eyes crinkle, as if he’s torn between amusement and annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

“No, dammit.” I jab a finger at his chest. “You came and had the balls to tell me that Kayla fucking asked for me. At the bar. Before you left. You—”