Spider: A tattoo romance (Rough Ink Book 2) Page 8

  A car horn honked near us, and I knew it was my ride.

  I blinked back up at Spider. “I have to go.”

  He nodded, saying nothing.

  I turned and jumped into the waiting car, not daring to look back as it pulled away from the curb.

  12

  Spider

  As Emi sped off into the night, I rushed back into the bar to be met at the door by Harley.

  “You okay, man? I turned around and you’d disappeared. For a second I thought you’d intervened to stop those dumbasses fighting, because that’s the kind of thing I’d expect from you. But when I didn’t see you there, I figured you were taking the dump to end all dumps, or you’d gone AWOL. I was about to send a search party when I saw your blond hair through the window shining like a beacon. What happened?”

  “Honestly? I don’t even fucking know. That was by far the weirdest conversation of my entire life, and you know how much weird shit people drop on us when they’re in the chair—like we’re their therapist, or priest, or Dr. Phil, or some shit. This had nothing on any of that.”

  “What? Weirder than that dude who kept insisting he was a reincarnated nun and asking you to call him Sister Mary Magdalene?” Harley’s wide-mouthed grin was back with a vengeance.

  “Hard to believe, but yeah, way weirder than that.”

  “Wait! Don’t tell me anything else. I have a strong feeling we’re both gonna need a beer in our hands before delving into this one.”

  “You’re a smart man.” He was. Like stupid smart. He and his brothers had inherited their mom’s brainiac genes. She was a high school principal with a doctorate, who’d expected academic excellence from her three sons.

  “I know. It’s also my round, so let’s kill two birds.”

  I didn’t want to start the story and then get interrupted, so I held back until we’d given everybody their fresh drink, then moved discreetly to the side a little so we were close enough to still be part of the group but separate enough that hopefully nobody would disturb us while we spoke.

  “Okay, man, spill,” Harley said. “The curiosity is killing me over here, like the proverbial cat.”

  “Bahahaha! Did you just refer to yourself as a pussy?”

  “Really? That’s the juvenile BS you’re leading with? Must be big if it’s got you acting like a high school jock again. What happened?”

  As I recounted the story to a silent Harley, his facial expressions ebbed and flowed with my words, cycling through shock, disbelief, and confusion, with a hint of outrage. He was always like that. I could read him like a book just by watching his face.

  “Jesus. Dude, that is some weird, fucked-up shit. I guess the plus side is that she’s okay. Physically, at least. That should put your mind at ease a little, given you’ve been worried sick about her since this whole thing happened.”

  What?

  “How would you know that?”

  “How do you mean?” He looked confused for a moment. “Oh, you thought your little ‘saving a woman from getting shot—or worse—by her crazy boyfriend is like water from a duck’s back, and I’ve never even given it a second thought’ routine fooled any of us, did you?”

  Yes, I did.

  “No, I didn’t think I was fooling anyone, because there was no routine.” Lies.

  “Okay. If you say so.” He didn’t even try to sound convinced. “But heads up, if you want to convince anyone of that, especially Kota, you’re going to want to work on your poker face. Your disappointment was obvious when Emi sent flowers, cookies, and thank-you cards rather than coming into the studio or calling you.”

  I was about to deny it, but I decided not to bother. He wouldn’t have believed the bullshit I was about to spin anyway, and he’d be right not to. I was a little embarrassed that my childish hope that Emi might have thanked us in person was so obvious to everyone else, but I wasn’t about to sweat it.

  “Do you think she really didn’t remember you?"

  “It’s hard to know what to think, but my gut’s telling me she did. I mean, she sat and talked with me for a while, then let me kiss her, and she kissed me back like she really fucking meant it. Surely if she thought it was a genuine case of mistaken identity, none of that would’ve happened. And if she reckoned I was a deluded weirdo, I’d like to think she would’ve reached for the rape alarm and mace, not entered into a game of tonsil tennis.”

  “Wow. Well, the whole thing is crazy as fuck, no matter how you look at it.”

  “Wow is right. I mean, if my gut is right, then I hope she’s an actress or acting coach, because the performance she just gave could teach most Oscar nominees a thing or two. When I first approached her and tried to tell her who I was, I was pretty sure she was about to punch me in the dick, or taser me or some shit. It was when I described the work I did for her that I think she realized I wasn’t about to be given the brush-off with the amnesia routine. And that’s when she started to freak out and left.”

  Harley stroked at his goatee. It was his thinking pose; I didn’t think he even knew he did it.

  “And you didn’t think to say anything about the whole hostage situation, dramatic rescue, and pending court case? Y’know, ‘small’ things like saving her life?” His voice was laced with sarcasm, and I kind of wanted to punch him in the dick.

  “Yes, of course I fucking thought about it. In fact, it was all I could think of the whole time, but under the circumstances, ‘I know you remember me, because I’m the guy who helped save your ass when your deranged boyfriend almost killed you’ didn’t seem like a vibe I wanted to lay on her, you know?"

  “Fair enough, man. It’s like something that should be on Ripley’s Believe It or Not! I mean, and I’m not saying this to blow smoke up your ass, but I’m sure no woman who’s ever come across you—no pun intended—under any circumstances has then forgotten you, let alone a situation like the way you guys met.” He flashed his trademark grin. “I think the whole ‘throwing yourself on top of her in a siege’ routine would definitely cement you in someone’s mind, so the whole premise of her act, if that’s what it was, was absurd.”

  He had a point. I was distinctive in a way that most women seemed to dig, what with my height, tats, and blond hair.

  “Taking my looks out of the equation, how does someone forget what has to have been one of the most terrifying and dramatic events of their life?” It just didn’t add up.

  He did the goatee thing again, tilting his head in thought as he spoke. “Well, maybe that’s why she’s forgotten it.”

  “What? I’m not following.” It wasn’t unusual for Harley to lose me with his train of thought. He had a computer for a brain.

  “Well, I had some time to kill between clients a few weeks ago and hung out with Kota in reception for a while. I may have glanced through this magazine—”

  I laughed to myself. Though he would never admit it, Harley was a big fan of women’s magazines, and would sneak a read of them from cover to cover whenever he could. I thought it was for research purposes. That whole “men are from Mars” thing resonated with him big-time. I suspected he was always looking for ways to get a one-way ticket to Venus. Not that he needed to carry out covert market research to make that happen.

  It was ironic that he’d talked about how women were with me earlier, as though he didn’t do just as well for himself. Fact was, he was also pretty accomplished in that department—maybe because of his years of extensive research. Or because he and his genetically blessed siblings made the Wayans brothers look like they’d been punched in the face with the ugly stick and were smooth and smart as fuck.

  “There was an article about this condition called selective amnesia. Well, that wasn’t the official medical term, but that’s what it amounts to. In the article, this woman had suffered some kind of trauma and blocked it from her memory like it never took place. Not only can it happen, but it can be a long-term thing—like the memory never comes back. Or for some people, it can last as little as a couple of hour
s. Sounds like this could be something like that.”

  “You think? It’s pretty fucking wild if it is. Well, either way it’s wild, right? I mean, a person doesn’t pretend to forget all that shit and not have something pretty serious going on in their life. Scratch that. A person who gets held at gunpoint by her boyfriend doesn’t lead a normal life, period. We know this.”

  “True. I’m going with amnesia. Or she’s a spy or an undercover cop, and the whole thing was some kind of covert operation.”

  Say what now?

  “You watch too much Netflix. Apart from anything, if she was undercover, she wouldn’t have said that her name was Emi. It’s not the most subtle disguise.”

  “True. But maybe it could be some kind of double bluff or something. Or maybe that’s her undercover name. Or maybe she’s an alien or a cyborg and has had her memory chip erased.”

  “Harley, are you fucking high? As if her being undercover wasn’t out there enough, now you think she’s not even human? Sometimes I worry about your sanity. Really. For an over-the-top smart dude, you can talk some real shit.”

  He was laughing heartily by that point, and despite my worry and frustration, I couldn’t help but join him. His laughter was infectious, and I silently thanked him; I figured he was trying to lighten the vibe without saying so. It worked, until the sound died in my throat.

  “I feel bad. I wish I’d insisted on going with her or following her or something. I hope she’s okay, but I don’t have a good feeling, y’know?”

  “Yeah, man. All jokes aside, the freak-out you described doesn’t sound good, no matter what the real explanation is. But you couldn’t have done anything more than you did. Imagine what she would’ve thought if you’d insisted on getting in the car, or worse, followed her home. Any of that stuff would’ve come across as stalky and weird, even to a woman without her history.”

  “You mean more stalky and weird than insisting I knew her while she denied it?” The sarcasm in my voice was less than subtle.

  “Yeah, for sure. So what are you going to do?"

  “What are my options? I’ve given her my card. Again. Told her to call me any time. I don’t know what else I can do.”

  “How about the police officer that dealt with the whole thing? Could you try calling her?"

  “Officer Roberts? I mean, I could, but what would I say?”

  “Just tell her what you told me and that you’re concerned. Maybe she could call her or go check on her and see that she’s okay. Worst-case, she ignores you, but it can’t do any harm to try. I mean, it could do some good, you know?”

  I chewed on my bottom lip, thinking over Harley’s words before throwing back the rest of my drink. That was the thing about Harley. Despite his mom’s expectations, he wasn’t as book smart as his brother Hunter, who ran Arlo Jones’s renowned nightclub 12:AM Mass; he was more street smart and practical smart, which came in very handy for his friends.

  He was good at lateral thinking and approaching problems in creative ways that other people might not think of. It wasn’t something he traded on; in fact, often he seemed to prefer for people to think he was nothing but a pretty face until it mattered. But if you knew him for any length of time, it quickly became clear that there was way more to him than met the eye.

  “Yeah, you’re right. That’s what I’m gonna do. It’s either that or basically nothing. I have no way of contacting her directly, so this is the next best thing. Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t mention it. Can’t say I helped much, but I did my best.”

  “Nah, you helped plenty. Always do.”

  We’d just about wrapped up the conversation when Kota came bounding up.

  “Hey! What’s going on over here? You two look super serious. I always worry when two of the most laid-back humans on the entire planet look concerned. It means there’s a big load of the brown stuff about to make its way through the AC.”

  I hoped not, but a strong sense of doom washed over me as I absorbed her words.

  “It’s a story best told another day,” I explained.

  A day when she hadn’t consumed her body weight in tequila.

  While we were all about making predictions for the future, I would put good money on Kota soon needing to be put in a cab, then spending the rest of the night—and a good chunk of the next day—riding the porcelain pony. I admired her spirit and commitment to having a good time while matching the rest of us drink for drink, but I did sometimes wish she’d remember both that tequila was as unforgiving as a snake bite and that she was the poster child for the saying that “great things come in small packages.”

  Despite her ninja status—she was ex-Special Ops and, as demonstrated by the way she’d tackled Emi’s boyfriend that day, could take down guys double her size and not break a sweat—she shouldn’t expect to drink as much as large dudes and come out okay.

  “Why don’t we call you a ride and get you home? I’ll fill you in tomorrow, if you’re not too hungover to even come in.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I will not be hungover.” If you say so, sweet pea. “And even if I was, I would still come to work. I’m a professional, not some lightweight slacker.”

  “Okay, well, it’s a good thing it’s you who runs the book. You can give yourself favorable odds. Meanwhile, the smart money’s on you having a one-way ticket to Spewsville and not making it in until Sunday.” I hoped that wasn’t going to be the case, as managing bookings and seeing clients was a hassle without Kota around, even more so on a Saturday, when we were busiest.

  “Gee, thanks for your faith in me, friend. Challenge accepted. I relish the opportunity to take your cash tomorrow. It’s gonna be like candy from a baby.”

  Yeah, right. Judging by the way she was slurring her words, her bravado was unwarranted.

  13

  Emi

  Once I made it home in the Uber and into the apartment, I just wanted to collapse in a heap, but I had to wrap things up with Kristyn and pay her. The effort to listen to her talk through her evening with Noah and pretend to be normal was almost too much, but I managed it. Just.

  By the sounds of things, they’d had a ball together playing all Noah’s favorite board games, then settling down in front of the TV to watch movies. I’d told her it was okay for him to go to bed a little later than usual—it was the weekend, after all—and he’d taken full advantage, falling asleep on the couch during the second superhero flick.

  I was glad he’d had a good time in the company of someone he perceived to be a grown-up—in truth, she was in her late teens—who had time to do fun things. I, on the other hand, spent a lot of time telling him no. Not because I didn’t want to hang out playing games or coloring, but because I was pulled in a thousand different directions and never had the full time or attention to give to anything, including him. It broke my heart.

  After Kristyn left, I crept into Noah’s room, as I often did at night, and sat on the edge of his bed, watching the rise and fall of his sleeping body. I stroked his hair, not wanting him to stir, and as ever, I was amazed at his perfection. Nine years on, and I still couldn’t believe that I’d had a hand in creating something so good, and so right.

  He was beautiful inside and out—calm, gentle, and just about the most caring person on the planet. I didn’t deserve him, and if he didn’t look so much like me and his father, I would have suspected he’d been swapped at birth.

  As it was, I took his presence in my life as a sign of hope. That no matter how shitty and fucked up life could be, how gritty, and dirty, and real, and broken, there could also be light, and goodness, and beauty, and those things could outweigh all the bad shit and make it all worth it. Noah was the reason I could continue to put one foot in front of the other, especially on those days when even that simple act felt way too hard.

  With Noah depending on me, I had to carry on, no matter what. He needed me. Not only that, but he needed the best of me. With him to care for, I didn’t want to just manage or survive.
I wanted to be the best mother I could. I wanted to thrive. No doubt parenting was a tough gig, doing it solo even more so for most people.

  Though life was a thousand times easier without Tommy, it was still hard as fuck sometimes, but I was determined to give it my best shot. I may not have always scored goals, but there was nobody out there who could tell me I didn’t try my damnedest.

  I rearranged Noah’s bedclothes and kissed him on the forehead before returning to the front room. Sometimes I curled up on his bed and slept beside him, arms enveloping him until he woke me up in the small hours of the morning, shooing me away. He’d tell me he was way too grown-up to still have Mama sleeping next to him. That night though, I had too much on my mind to contemplate sleep even in my own bed, let alone squashed beside Noah in his.

  I went back into the living room and wandered over to what would once have been the fireplace. Now it was just a tiled area on the floor and a redundant mantle. Leaning against a small clay “pot” Noah had made for me when he was in kindergarten was a small black square of cardboard, just like the one Spider had given me earlier that night. I reached for it, then took it back across to the small table in the middle of the room that served as our everything space. We used it for dining, homework, games, dressmaking, even—when I had the time or inclination to get the sewing machine out.

  I fingered both cards, staring hard at the stark white text on the thick black paper. I’d immediately known where to find the first card because I hadn’t forgotten about it or how it had come into my possession. How could I forget something like that? Or someone like that? It was one of the worst days of my life. Every moment of it had etched itself on my psyche. Every agonizing second where I didn’t know if I’d make it out alive, if I’d ever see Noah again, or if I’d need to take matters—and Tommy’s gun—into my own hands and do something that would haunt me for the rest of my life.