Ink Slapped Page 4

  I freeze, staring at nothing. The way she includes the band in her words sends a chill down my spine. Hazardous words. Words meant to keep a thumb on me for a reason beyond my knowledge. “We don’t want your help. Agree to the divorce terms so we can be done with this.”

  Panic runs through her eyes. “I don’t want a divorce anymore,” she blurts, but her voice cracks.

  I feel my eye twitch. Our tension hangs in the air between us as both of our chests rise and fall. What changed? I see a little of the woman I fell in love with rising to the surface.

  Suppressing a nervous laugh, I run my hands through my hair and go through the motions of fixing two cups of coffee to perfection. I should’ve been a barista. I hold a mug out, almond milk and no sugar, just the way she likes it.

  She stares before snorting and looking away. “You’re such a goddamn boy scout. I love and hate you for it.” Her fingers clench the coffee cup. “Just say something already.”

  I hate feeling so conflicted, but I stay grounded in my current resolve. “I’m not sure what to say, Ms. One-Hit-Wonder.”

  By her expression, I hit the nail on the head. Blindfolded.

  She composes herself and sets the wasted joe on a shelf that separates my living spaces. “Okay, I shouldn’t have sprung this on you. Just think about it. When you want to know more, call me.”

  The way she says when causes my ears to get hot. “Just leave.” I’m proud my voice sounds controlled. Her heels tap and the door slams causing guitars on my wall to shake. It’s her passive aggressive way of telling me she’s pissed I didn’t bite her bait. Wiping my face with my hands, I run them through my hair again and slide down the cabinets to the floor.

  We’re legally separated as neither of us can come to an agreement for what is ours. Not just material things, but intellectual property as well—songs I’ve written, but she claims we co-wrote. The same songs she used to sing when we were all a band. When she signed with a label to pursue a solo career, she left us hanging in limbo. A song on her second album, a song I wrote for her, went red hot last summer. Our relationship went downhill as I struggled being with a superstar and trying to make it with the band—the band her label didn’t want because our sound isn’t marketable. In public, I was arm candy living in her shadow. I wouldn’t be so bitter about it if the band didn’t help her get to where she is. In private, the Rebels were forgotten, and we fought about everything. When she filed for divorce, I didn’t care much. She was never around anyway, but when she tried to take our songs and make me sell the shop, so she could take half my business, too? Not going to happen, so here we are.

  And now she doesn’t want a divorce? After I’ve so carefully removed myself from her life and trying to start over? A familiar heavy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s exhausting. The thing I want most is to make it on my own without being tied to Madison Hart-Gregor. And I’m doing okay. My auto shop is still going, and I’m hoping with new promo photos of the band, I can get into the spirits to bring the Rebs to a new chapter. Maybe I’ll write songs that have nothing to do with my woes.

  My phone beeps from its place on the nightstand. I take a second to pull myself together before grabbing it.

  Overcast. Best day for picture taking. You in?

  Taylor. If I’m being honest with myself, Taylor’s enthusiasm for her art inspires me to keep creating my own. If she didn’t connect me with Madison, then there’s hope for me to move on with my life.

  I don’t even have to think about it. Hell yeah! I hit send and turn to get dressed. My day is getting better already.

  There’s something real intimate about a woman doing my hair. Never noticed it before now. Too bad Taylor doesn’t have on one of those tight things she wears since her tits are in my face. Her t-shirt looks soft and worn. The graphic is beyond faded. She studies her work, and I don’t bother to hide I’m watching her as she does so. Without glasses, her eyes are a light blue, and I can’t help but stare at them. They meet my own and seem full of anxiety.

  She’s not wearing any lipstick, and the shape of her mouth is distracting… they really are as plump as they seem when covered with lipstick. I’m not ignorant of the tricks makeup can do to a woman’s features. Look who I’m married to. Queen of Illusion.

  Taylor loosens strands from the elastic band as if I’ve been fighting for my life. Her hands shake a little.

  “I’ll take shots with your hair all the way down, too, but Jaxon wears his hair like this mostly to keep it out of his face.”

  I already know this about Jaxon. I know a lot about her characters since I just started the third book. They kill demons like they breathe oxygen and fuck like jack rabbits with long, drawn out orgasms. My kind of story. Taylor’s appreciating expression makes me feel like I can pull off Jaxon’s hairstyle like he does. He only pulls half of his hair back in a knot as if he can’t be bothered to do all of it. “Yeah, I imagine hair can impede demon slaughter.”

  A laugh rushes from her. I grab her hand to steady it and let her know not to be nervous. “Glad I haven’t shaved in a few days.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered if you did. I can Photoshop facial hair. I wouldn’t inconvenience you.”

  “I love a woman with many talents.” I smile, surprised at my teasing words. She dusts some kind of powder on my face. Hoping this is all she plans on doing, I search for an evil eyeliner stick and find nothing.

  She returns the smile although it’s a little mysterious. My own dirty imagination conjures a few talents she might have.

  She seems to relax a bit more. “You’re a flirt.”

  “You don’t say?” What’s going on here? I feel slightly disarmed and punched in the gut.

  “I do, and I want to start the shoot there.” She points to an old broken-down 1972 Chevrolet Cheyenne which is heavy with rust and stripped of anything of use. The original rims are gone, and it sits on generic replacements with flattened tires. We’re in an industrial district, and the backdrop is an old manufacturing plant. Its cracked walls are abundant with overgrown weeds protruding from them. It’s exactly what I’d imagine an apocalyptic setting to look like.

  “You mean on top of the truck?”

  She grins and opens the back of her older 4Runner. Faded paint shows where a missing Toyota chrome emblem should be.

  When she turns, she holds an assortment of weapons. One is a belt adorned with throwing stars. Jaxon’s a pro at throwing these things, and Taylor’s eyes shine as she fastens it around my waist. A scene in the second book describes a demon taking one, and the star becomes possessed, taking on a life of its own. Her imagination blows me away.

  A huge smile consumes her face at seeing me geared up with Jaxon’s weapons. They are pretty cool. I palm a star off the belt. It’s real. “Wow.” The sun beams off the metal as I flip it through my fingers a few times and replace it with speed. I feel convinced I should be a ninja.

  “Yeah.” She grabs the waist of my jeans and stuffs a huge gun down the front.

  “Whoa! Watch where you’re pointing that thing.”

  Her laughter echoes through the abandoned parking lot. “It’s not loaded.”

  “Good. I’d rather lose a leg.” Curiosity gets the better of me. “Do you have a carry permit for this?”

  “Yes, but it’s only for props. I’ve taken pictures with it already.”

  “So, you know how to shoot it,” I state. I don’t think anyone should own a gun if they don’t know how to shoot it, but if she has her permit, she’d have taken a test.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  The drawn out, teasing way she says it causes me to pause and glance at her. I shake my head. “Shit-kickers and a gun? Remind me not to get on your bad side.” I eye said shit-kickers now—black and sparkling with glitter.

  Her mischievous grin widens. “That’s right. I’ll bust a bastard in the knee cap.”

  I laugh but stop when she bends over into the 4Runner. Her laptop is open as she scans pictures of demons and
dead bodies, but her jeans—I look to the old truck quickly. She makes me laugh and can cause my mind to go straight to the gutter in a split second. Adrian is one lucky asshole. How someone like him managed to snag Taylor is a mystery of the universe I’ll never understand.

  Taking my cue when she grabs her camera, I hop on the bed of the truck. The gun moves around, feeling cold and foreign in its place above my junk. Chunks of rust fall through holes in the truck bed. I find a place safe to stand and hope she doesn’t want to get any pictures on the left side.

  “Oh shit,” she yells with wide eyes. “There’s a step ladder on the other side for you to get on top of the cab. It’s stable up there.”

  “Uh, I’m just noticing it.” I climb on top from the back, relieved I won’t have to stand in the bed.

  “First, I need to know if you mind your face being shown?” Her hand circles her own face.

  “I’ll do whatever you want. Doesn’t matter if my face is clear or not.”

  She relaxes. “Good. It’d be a waste to cover it.” I smile at her compliment, but amusement crosses her features, and she points a finger at me. “No smiling.” Her face mimes a menacing look as she points.

  “No smiling. Only threatening badassery. Got it.” When I’m in place, she hands me a huge club. Not a police officer nightstick, but a Bamm-Bamm, yabba dabba doo-style club.

  “Okay, make like you’re getting ready to bash skulls.” She points, but I catch on to what she wants me to do from the pictures she’d been looking at a few minutes ago.

  I take a stance, waiting for her to start, but she stands with an open mouth. “What? Am I doing something wrong?” I ask, trying not to panic. I want this to be what she wants, but I admit it feels awkward trying to channel Jaxon.

  “No. Not at all.” Surprise flickers for a split second, but she smiles. “Carry on.”

  We go through the shoot, and she makes me feel like I’m a master at demon assassination. She takes several action shots and still poses, even shooting some when I jump down from the cab. She never once takes the camera from her face except to look at photos, change lenses, or to change settings because the sun keeps poking in and out of the clouds. After a few ground shots, she asks me to take down my hair.

  I do as she says. “Need me to take off my shirt?” I know Jaxon has some shirtless scenes. For some reason, Taylor loves to write him staunching bleeding with his shirts. Reaching behind my neck, I swipe the shirt over my head before she has the chance to answer.

  She smirks, and I think she might say something, but she continues taking photos. I pose, holding different weapons as if I used them on demons, and then do some absurd poses to make her laugh. She captures it all.

  Still smiling, she says, “Class-A flirt.”

  “Just something for you to remember me by.” I shrug.

  “What do you mean?”

  I glance away. “I guess in case we don’t see each other when the shoots are over.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Must be what Adrian came to the bar for.”

  I can tell her what he said, but spilling would make me as much of an ass as him. “How do you know he came by?”

  “I was at Jimmy’s last night and saw him follow you out the door.”

  I balk at this news. My blood boils. I never knew she was there. Because of my submersion in my shit life. Time wasted because of Madison.

  The last thing I want to do now is waste what little time we have talking about Adrian. I have to unclench my jaw to speak. “He’s just looking out for you. I think he’s pegged me as some kind of womanizer.”

  Her eyes graze my naked upper body with parted lips. “I wonder why?”

  My neck grows warm. Normally, the blatant ogling would get under my skin, but holy shit, I like she finds me attractive. “Now who’s being a flirt?”

  She sucks her lips inside her mouth for a second. “Takes one to know one, right?”

  I raise my brows, flashing her my best grin. “So, you were at Jimmy’s? Should’ve said something and I could’ve introduced you to the band.”

  She taps her camera with a finger. “I guess I kind of got caught up in listening to you. Which by the way, where can I buy an album? Or download a song?”

  “We don’t have an album to download.” I shrug. We did but our band went to shit.

  A car pulling in the lot grabs our attention, and I take the second to adjust myself. It’s a bright red two-door Acura. Savannah hops out wearing ripped jeans and an old tank top.

  “Let’s get this show on the road. I have an hour lunch break.” Savannah stops, looking me over. “Looks like I’m a little late to the party.”

  Taylor’s uneasiness comes back tenfold, but Savannah doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal. I’m becoming increasingly aware social situations are not Taylor’s thing.

  After I put my shirt on, Taylor shoots a few of us together. I’m thankful they aren’t provocative. Savannah is professional about it and doesn’t try to cop a feel. The hour goes by and Savannah leaves after giving Taylor a hug.

  “I can tell she’s done this before.” I comment as we watch her car speed out of the parking lot.

  “Yeah, she’s used to it. You looked a little uncomfortable when she got in your personal space when you met. I arranged it so she wouldn’t have the chance.” She smiles and puts her camera in its bag. I open my mouth to thank her, but she continues, “Let’s talk band photos. Do you have any ideas?”

  “No, not really.”

  “It’s supposed to be sunny on Wednesday. We can do it during sunset. I was thinking a fire escape or something.”

  “Dragon Park,” I say, the idea materializing from nowhere.

  She beams. “I love that idea. So, Wednesday?”

  I nod. “I get off work at four-thirty or so. I’ll let the band know. Meet us at my place?” Another impromptu idea, but I continue on, “That’s where we practice.”

  She thinks about the idea and nods. “Text me the address.”

  “How did I do?”

  She shuts her 4Runner and looks at the ground before peering at me. “You were great. I’ll be forever indebted to you.”

  Forever indebted. I try not to show how much the words affect me. I swallow. “Nah, I had fun.” I wink, climbing into my truck. She gets into her driver’s seat and waves as she drives off. As I turn the ignition, I think for the second time how fortunate her bastard of a boyfriend is. Taylor is so much more than she lets on.

  Later, I’m in my studio with Crockett, Jack, and Milo. We’re supposed to be practicing, but Jack brought over steaks to grill instead. After we eat, we laze around like the true couch potatoes we are.

  “She walked right in?” Crockett asks with indignation and a little of his flair peeks out.

  “I hope you kicked her ass to the curb and got your key back.” Milo, our drummer, runs a hand over his short, black hair. Ever the wise one, he thinks of something that hasn’t crossed my mind.

  “Shit, my key.”

  “Just have the locks changed.” Jack removes his backwards cap, runs a hand over his sandy hair, and replaces the cap while never removing his eyes from the race on TV. A pointless sport, but what man can resist the guttural sound of a 90-degree pushrod v8 race engine?

  What do new locks cost nowadays? I’ve never had to think about it. Maybe Mick, another mechanic at my shop, has something lying around. “Good idea. I’ll look into it, but it’s not like I’m too worried about her stealing anything. She already has a tie to what’s most important.”

  “I think you should. You want her walking in on you screwing some other chick?” Milo questions, but Crockett rolls his eyes. I haven’t told him, but I’m sure he has an idea of my dry spell.

  “I wish you two would split already, so you can move on. Maybe with a certain corset-wearing author?” Crockett eyes me with a knowing smile, miming boobs as if he’s honking two bicycle horns.

  Jack scoffs. “Corset? Your queer is coming out.”

  “Oh, b
ecause I’m in the closet,” Crockett retorts.

  I ignore his last question and chime in, “That’s what those tight things are called?”

  Crockett raises a brow and laughs. “Yes, and if I were into vaginas, I’d be in hers.” A chorus of groans emanates my apartment, but it only makes him laugh harder.

  I switch subjects. Not that I mind Crockett’s openness, I never do, but him talking about being in Taylor’s vagina… He might like men more, but he’s full of shit. He’s seduced plenty of women. “Speaking of splitting, Madison informed me she doesn’t want a divorce anymore.”

  Crockett snorts, crossing his arms like he’s dismissing her already. “Fuck the cunt with a broken bottle,” but after another thought on it, he catches on, “What does she want?”

  I shrug and stare at the TV. I already decided not to tell them about her collaboration suggestion. Besides, she was feeling it out. Sounds like something that would get the guys’ hopes up only to crash and burn later. I’m not giving her any power. “I didn’t care enough to ask her.”

  Milo nods. “Good. You’re just now coming back into your own, Eli. Don’t let her get to you.”

  Yeah, we don’t need her. Which by the way, “Our band photo shoot is on Wednesday. I’ve seen Taylor’s handiwork. She’s good.”

  Crockett smirks and temples his fingers. “Can’t wait.”

  My hackles rise. “Go easy on her. She has a little anxiety.”

  He hears the warning and seems to understand because he nods. “Right.”

  I stand, feeling the need to play and relieve stress. “Get up, lazy asses. We need to practice.” I grab my Martin from its stand, sliding the strap over my head and relaxing as if the familiar weight of a guitar is a security blanket. “Oh, she’ll probably want to know the name of the band.”

  More groans erupt. Yeah, I second that.

  Two nights after Eli’s amazing shoot, I’m still editing his images, never tiring from studying them. I sigh at my fortuitous sequence of events. Not only have I found Eli who shares a dominating physical appearance with Jaxon, but he is photogenic as well. Not everyone has this trait—not even Savannah—although I’d never tell her. Eli has a rare inner radiance. Like the sun, he makes everything in his light glow along with him. Savannah worried he’d make her look like a frump, when in reality and just like the sun, he doesn’t cast a shadow but accentuates her inner gleam, too.