Chapter Eleven
Ian
During my drinking days, I met a woman in a bar. No surprise—I was always at a bar, often enough that I had a stool that I thought of as mine, and the bartender knew to start pouring three fingers of mid-tier whiskey as soon as I walked in the door.
That woman and I—we went home together that night, and somehow, we never really separated after that. I was at her place or she was at mine if we weren’t at bars, and together, we were a poison that neither of us could stop taking. Drinking, fighting, breaking up, tearfully getting back together, and then the vicious cycle would repeat itself all over again. It was exhausting, and the entire time, some part of me knew that relationships shouldn’t leave me sad and frustrated and drained, shouldn’t feel like part of my sickness.
We broke up for good not long before my car accident and the start of my journey into recovery. And even though we never spoke again after our breakup, I still hadn’t forgotten how destructive it felt to be together, how that toxicity had stripped me of truly living life. Instead, I’d suffered through an utter absence of any joy and light that left me bewildered and exhausted all the time. And I was sure that she felt the same.
When I remembered that woman, that terrible relationship, it just reinforced for me that what Sam and I had, what we were building—it was uncommon and precious, and maybe one of the best things I had ever done. I always felt excited to see her, recharged and renewed by the time we spent together. It was art and music and laughter, explosive chemistry and flowing communication. We didn’t just have joy and light—it felt like we were those things.
“You’re…different lately,” George said over breakfast one morning at Angelo’s.
It had been a few weeks since that night at Sam’s house when she showed me her art and the explosive, shattering sex that followed—sex that threatened to break me down and remake me into a better man.
And maybe it had, I thought, in the best possible way.
Since then, we saw each other almost every day, and on the days we didn’t, when she needed time to work on pieces for her upcoming show, we ended the evening with long, aimless phone calls, talking about everything and nothing. I spent the night at her house more often than not, and a few other odds and ends had joined my toothbrush in her bathroom. Even Marge had grown used to me, not bothering to heave herself off her doggy bed and bark when I walked in the door.
“Different how?” I asked my brother.
His blue eyes narrowed as he stared contemplatively, chewing on his French toast. “Happy,” he finally said after he swallowed. “You seem really happy.”
“I’m usually happy,” I said, toying with the spoon in my coffee cup. “I’m a happy guy.”
George gave me a serious look. “It’s that girl, isn’t it? Sam?”
I hadn’t talked much about Sam with my family—only George and Nicky knew about her, but maybe it was time to change that.
“Yeah.” I smiled as I thought about that morning, the sleepy sex we’d shared—her tucked into the curve of my body, one hand cupping a lush tit while I thrust—
Two fingers snapped in front of my face. “Stay with me, Ian,” George said. “So, is it serious with this girl?”
I sipped my coffee. “Looks that way. I think—" I hesitated for a second, then blazed on, knowing with a doubt I was ready for this next step in our relationship. “I think I might bring her to family dinner on Sunday.”
George’s eyes widened. “You think she’s ready for that?”
“No. Is anyone ever ready to meet our rambunctious family?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, point taken. It’s a big step, though. And you haven’t been serious with anyone since—well, you know.”
Now it was my turn to grimace. “Don’t remind me, I’m still embarrassed about all of that bullshit.”
George waved a dismissive hand. “You don’t have to be. We got tired of talking about that train wreck of a relationship behind your back years ago.”
“Thanks,” I said, rolling my eyes as I picked up my phone to check the time. “Shit—Sam’s meeting me at the shop, so I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he called out behind me as I hustled out of Angelo’s and toward my car.
Sam was already at the shop by the time I got there—it was early, but one of the other artists had let her in, and she lounged in the waiting area, legs stretched out in front of her as she paged through the newest issue of Tattooist.
“There you are,” she said as she lowered the magazine. She gestured toward the open spread in front of her, where my pictures of Nicky’s sleeves appeared in glossy full color. “I was just checking out your spread. It looks incredible. Are you famous now?”
I laughed and leaned down to press a warm kiss to her lips. “Tattoo famous, maybe, but that doesn’t count for much.” I linked my fingers through hers and pulled her to her feet.
“Did you do these?” she asked as I led her down the short hallway to my private work area, past the paintings and flash decorating the walls. “They’re amazing.”
“Some of them.” We rounded the corner into my workspace and she plopped into my tattoo chair, kicking her feet up as I settled into the stool next to her. “One of the other artists who works for me is a painter, too, so it’s about fifty-fifty.”