Zane (Inked Brotherhood Book 3) (26 page)

“Easy now,” Tyler mutters, dropping me on the sofa and sinking down next to me with a sigh. He rolls his shoulders and winces. “You’re one heavy motherfucker.”

“You’re just out of shape,” I counter and lean back, doing my damn best to hide how dizzy I am.
Shit.
Dizziness sucks ass.

Tyler chuckles but has no chance to reply as the rest of the crew burst into the apartment, talking and laughing. They make themselves at home, which is good. I’m not in the shape to play host. I’m so damn tired I’m already drifting off.

Someone slides next to me, wrapping slender arms around me. Dakota, my sleepy brain informs me, her scent hitting my subconscious before I even hear her voice.

“Rest,” she whispers and kisses my cheek, a whisper of a touch. “I’m here.”

Peace settles over me. She really is here, here to stay, and the knowledge is like a warm blanket spreading over me, pulling me into restful sleep.

***

Erin made my favorite dish, seafood spaghetti. Well, what
used
to be my favorite dish. Dakota’s curry is to die for. But I can’t tell Erin that, especially when I can’t even finish even one plate, and she cooked it just for me. I’m just not hungry.

The guys have been amazing, hanging out here, fixing the apartment, making sure there’s food and that I have my painkillers and whatever the hell else the doctors prescribed.

Can’t shake the feeling they’ve decided to watch over me, making sure I won’t pull any more crazy stunts.

They shouldn’t have worried. I have Dakota and she lights up all the dark spaces inside of me. I’ll be fine. Nothing’s the matter with me other than the fact I’m tired and mourning Emma.

I stare at the new door and the window. I need to pay the guys back. Need to thank them for helping me, standing by me, putting up with me. Hell, for literally saving my life.

As for the window… I frown, trying to recall how the hell I managed to break it. I must have been so fucking wasted.
Jesus.

I drop on the armchair and try to catch some rest, but Ash plants himself on the sofa, and I have to endure a long lecture on how I always tell others to open up and talk to each other, while I keep everything inside.

He’s right. And yet…

“I thought I could do it,” I tell him. “Everyone has problems. I can’t go around whining all the time.”

“Whining?” He throws a sofa cushion at me, looking disgusted. It misses me and falls to the floor. “What’s wrong with you, man? Telling your friends your problems, asking for help, isn’t fucking whining. Asshole.”

I let that slide because he’s obviously upset and because I’m too damn exhausted to get up and punch him in the face. “People depend on me,” I say.

Ash groans. “Cut yourself a little slack. Dammit, Zane, you’re just eighteen, like me.”

“Ah, fucker,” I say, “I’m a lot older than that. Inside.”

I wait for his flippant come-back, but Ash just looks… sad.
Dammit.

“You know,” he mutters, “I’ve known you for all these years, and you never really told me much about your childhood.”

I shudder at the thought of telling him about it. “Good.”

“I just…” He shrugs, his brows drawn together. “I hope it wasn’t so bad.”

Fuck, I want to shrug too and tell him it wasn’t. Lie—for a good cause. I didn’t live in this city as a child, and I didn’t know Ash. There’s nothing he could’ve done anyway.

I settle for silence.

Ash breaks it when he says, “I hope you’ll trust me enough to tell me one day.”

Dammit.
“Ash. I’d trust you with my life. You know that. I just don’t like talking about the past.”

He shakes his head, chews on the inside of his cheek. There’s something more there, something bothering him.

“You know you talked in your sleep? Coma, whatever. The doctors said you can still dream when you’re in a coma, go figure. You said some things…”

I talked?
Hell.
This is news to me. “What sort of things?”

Ash punches a cushion, then bends forward, letting his hands hang between his knees. His gaze shifts around the room. He doesn’t look at me.

“You were pleading with someone to let you go,” he finally says. “To stop. You were in pain. Said your back hurt. You pleaded, Zane. Begged. You sounded scared out of your fucking mind.” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “And you wouldn’t wake up.”

I stare at him unblinking.
Shit. Holy fucking shit.

“I know you have burn scars on your back. I’ve seen them under the ink. I know you won’t let girls touch you when you hook up.” His hands curl into fists, and he nails me with his pale eyes. “So will you trust me enough to tell me what happened to you?”

Hell to the no.
“Fuck off.”

He grunts and gets to his feet. “Fine, asshole. Forget I ever cared.”

I watch him stride across the living room, heading for the door.
Fuck this.
He can’t bully me into telling him about my worst nightmares, my memories from hell.

But he’s my friend. My brother. If anyone deserves to know, it’s him.

I can’t. Fear wars with shame, a deep-rooted horror that twists my guts. Not ready. Telling Dakota was… different. No idea why.

But he needs something from me. A kind of reassurance.

“Ash!” I call just as he opens the door to go. I struggle to my feet, cursing my body for taking so long to recover. “Wait.”

He stills. “What?”

“Those are some damn scary memories,” I say through gritted teeth. I stand there, face bowed, hands fisted by my sides. This is like chewing nails. “I hate them. Don’t ask me to talk about them. Please, fucker.”

“You should tell someone what happened.” He still doesn’t turn, but his back has relaxed a fraction. “It might help, man.”

“I’ve…” The truth wants out. “I’ve told Dakota what I remember.”

I fully expect him to stomp out and go, maybe not talk to me for a year. I talked to Dakota that I only just met recently instead of to him, my old friend.

But he doesn’t. Slowly, he turns around. “It’s easier, isn’t it? Talking to the girls?”

I sink back into the armchair, totally wiped out. “Yeah,” I croak. “Sometimes.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Do you… Do you mind if I ask her?”

I open my mouth to curse, but find myself nodding. “It’s okay.”

It is, I realize. Talking about the memories is like opening new wounds on the old ones. But if I don’t have to talk about them, I’m okay with Ash knowing.

He tips his head. “Thanks, man.”

As if I’ve given him a present instead of my shitty memories.

Then again, in a sense I’m laying myself wide open, bare all the way, for him to see, like I did with Dakota. He’ll know my darkest fears, see right through to my soul. I’m giving up control by tearing down my secrets, my walls.

Trust. It’s all I have, and I trust them both.

“Maybe someday you can talk about it,” Ash says, and I shrug, not sure I’ll be able to. “Anyhow…” He frowns and glances over his shoulder. “There’s someone here.”

I try to see past him, and he steps aside.

“Hey, man,” Matt says. He glances from Asher to me and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Can I come in?”

***

“…said you were out of hospital. I know I arrived way too late, but I had to see how you are.” Matt stops and stares at me, as if expecting something.

A reaction.

Shit, he’s really here. For a moment I thought I was dreaming—then I remembered Emma, and her funeral and sort of missed the rest of what he was saying.

I scrub a hand over my face. “Did you say Ash called you?”

“I don’t even know who he is,” Ash grumbles from my right.

When did Ash sit back down on the sofa? Wasn’t he on his way out?

“Rafaele Vestri called me,” Matt says.

I blink at him stupidly until my brain restarts.
Rafe.
Rafe called him?

“I’m Matt, by the way.” Matt extends his hand to Ash. “Emma’s husband.”

Ash shakes Matt’s hand, his gaze clearing. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Yeah. We sometimes came to visit here, before Emma fell sick.”

Ash nods, looking partly glad and partly horrified. I wonder why he stayed, but then I notice he’s sitting between Matt and me, as if to protect me. Or protect Matt from me? No idea.

It really makes me wonder what expression I wore when Matt came in.

“Rafe said you were in a coma. That you were in the hospital.” Matt frowns. “I didn’t know. If I’d known, I’d have come earlier.”

No idea what the hell to say to that. “Why are you here now?”

He flinches. “Because… we’re family, Zane.”

“You left.” Anger warms up the cold spaces inside me, so I welcome it. I’ve hung on to anger all my life to survive. Anger hasn’t let me down as much as people have. “You took the kids and left.”

“Try to understand.” He tugs on his short hair. “I had to take them away, far from home. They miss their mom. I was only trying to help them get through this.”

I nod, because I can’t speak without yelling at him to get the fuck out.

After a while, he seems to get the message anyway and stands to go. I still want to yell at him.

And I don’t want him to go. Not really.

I lurch to my feet before he takes a step. Something is tightening in my chest. Chances are I’m gonna fucking break down for the first time since I can remember myself.

Matt shifts his weight from foot to foot nervously. He may be in his mid-twenties, but in the span of a few months, his hair has gone gray. How didn’t I notice before?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Emma loved you like her own son, and I put the needs of her other kids, our kids, above you. I shouldn’t…” He shakes his head. “I should have told you to come with us.”

“My friends are all here,” I whisper. “My job. I can’t.”

He nods. “Then we’ll visit you. As often as we can. And you should come over, too. Whenever you have the time.” He sighs. “I may be too young to be your dad, but I sure as hell think of you as my younger brother. Emma’s death… it rattled me badly, but
that
hasn’t changed. I hope you know it.”

“Yeah.” My eyes sting. “Listen—”

I don’t expect him to grab me in a bear hug. He thumps his fist on my back. “Family, Zane. I made a mistake, but you can count on us, for everything you need. I hope you know that.”

I see Ash get up and move toward the door. He’s blurry, and my breath hitches as the pressure in my chest finally reaches a breaking point.

Shit.
I pull back and wipe a hand over my wet cheeks. Matt lets me go, his eyes suspiciously bright. He gives me a piece of paper with his new address and landline phone number. Pats my shoulder and then follows Ash out, leaving me alone to try and get myself under control.

Matt and Emma were like the parents I never had. Having at least one of them back in my life is a damn miracle, and for someone like me who doesn’t believe in miracles, that’s pretty damn awesome.

***

What a fucked up mess.

I stare at my ruined Mohawk in the mirror. I’m not vain, but I’ve had a Mohawk since I was fourteen. Sure, the teachers tried to get me to cut it all the time. I got expelled more times than I can count, and my foster families hated it.

Which is why I kept it. It’s part of who I am. Part of my war against my past. Yeah, that’s it. It’s a war symbol.

Which I apparently sheared off with the scissors while taking a break from trashing my apartment. Yeah, I got wasted off my ass. Really wasted, not just drunk. Shitfaced. Hammered. Plastered.

Passed out on the floor and damn near checked out.

Jesus.
I never gave my drinking habits much thought all these years. Getting drunk at parties is normal for me. Then again, this getting drunk alone at home is recent, and I hope I can get out of it. I have to.

I will.

Meanwhile, I run my fingers over what’s left of my Mohawk, the short blue strands flopping on my forehead. The shaved sides of my head are now covered in dark stubble. It feels so weird. I grab my gel from the bathroom shelf and struggle to style the middle strip so that it stands up. It’s a sort of fauxhawk.

Fucking ridiculous.

My hands shake. I brace myself on the sink as the room tilts a little. I have circles under my eyes so black I look as if someone punched me. I’m thinner, and the bones of my face stick out.

Hell.
I’m not vain, I tell myself again. It’s just that… Dakota is here, in the other room, and I look like shit. A guy is entitled to feeling a bit sorry for himself when he wants to look good for his girl but instead looks like roadkill, doesn’t he?

Emma would smack my arm and tell me to get over myself.

Emma.
The memory of her death hits me so hard I double over. There are moments I forget she’s dead. How can I forget something like that even for a second?

“Zane?” Dakota pads into the bathroom behind me. “Are you okay?”

Her arms slip around my waist, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Okay.”

“Come on.” She straightens and tugs on my arm. “Food is ready.”

“Not hungry.”

“You will be when you smell this.”

I grin in spite of myself. In spite of Emma’s memory. “Another recipe from your great-great-aunt or something?”

“Yeah. Aunt Carolina’s recipe.”

I frown. We’re going to visit her aunt tomorrow at the hospital. I know Dakota is sad, that she loves her aunt a lot. “You said she’s an adventurous woman.”

“That what got you worried?” She winks at me.

I shrug. “Maybe a little.”

That’s a lie. Whatever Dakota cooks is delicious. All those aunts are pure geniuses. Not that I’m picky with food. If I was, I’d have starved since an early age at the foster homes and group homes. Sometimes the only food for weeks on end was stale bread and moldy cheese or old pizza. When I was on the streets, it was greasy burgers, and fries and other things I don’t even wanna think about.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate something good.

Take my childhood, for instance. It was fucked-up. Everyone I trusted screwed me over, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tell how amazing Dakota is.

How
good
she is for me.