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.
I throw my gloves into the tail case, lock and secure my bike and make my way to the shop. Chimes jingle as I push the door open and enter, shoving my hair out of my face.
“Hey.” Zane is wiping his hands on a towel. His Mohawk is drooping, and his fingers are stained with black ink. “That’s a sweet ride you got out there.” He nods at my black Ducati, visible through the shop front window. “Must be worth a lot.”
I shrug. My bike’s the only thing that really belongs to me. “She’s not for sale.”
Zane clucks his tongue. “Didn’t think she was. How’s it going?”
I lick my chapped lips. The urge to start counting in my head—to start repeating her name over and over again until my mind blanks—is overwhelming. “Came to talk to you about the job.”
He grins. “Want it?”
“If you’re still offering.”
“Damn right I am.”
Some tension leaves my body, and I nod. “When do I start?”
“Today if you want.” He gestures at the desk. “Megan helped out as long as she could, but she has her job at the café. Welcome aboard, Tyler Devlin.”
That easy? I narrow my eyes at him. Why is he being so friendly? “Grayson.”
“What?”
“Tyler Grayson.” I scratch the stubble on my cheek. “I’m not Jake Devlin’s son. So I ditched his name.” And took Uncle Jerry’s family name instead. Why the hell not?
Zane is staring at me with those dark eyes that give nothing away. Then he nods. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I’m relieved he doesn’t ask any questions. “Anything I should know?”
“Appointment book is there. List of customer numbers and details. The catalogs you’ve seen already. I’ll be around, and you can ask the guys. There’s Micah, Shane, Ocean, Jesse and Seth. Micah and Ocean work here, Jesse, Shane and Seth are apprentices. Now he,” Zane points at one of the tattoo artists coming out of a booth, “can tell you more. Hey, Micah, come over here and tell Tyler a few things about manning the front desk, will ya?”
So Micah walks over, a tall, blond boy, his hair hanging in his face, tattoos swirling up his neck and down his arms. In his quiet voice, he explains to me what my duties are. All the while, Zane is watching us, thoughtful.
I’d worry, but I’ve seen Zane with my little brother, at the hospital and afterward, at Dad’s funeral. He’s a good guy. If anything, Zane has been more of a big brother to Ash than me.
And that, dammit, isn’t hard, because I’ve sure as fuck failed Ash and everyone around me.
***
I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat. My mouth’s dry. My joints ache. Cold shivers go through me.
Then my stomach cramps, and I double over. Shit. I barely make it to the bathroom before bile rises in my throat. Falling to my knees, I puke my guts out into the toilet.
Another crappy night. I grab the sink to
rise to my feet and rinse the foul taste from my mouth. Then I splash cold water on my face and slump back against the tiled wall, exhausted.
How long? I itch to have the drugs back, but I threw them all away, flushed them down the toilet. Stupid.