Water seeps into my shirt as I lie on my back on the unforgiving kitchen floor, my shoulder jammed against a cabinet while I inspect the water line to my dishwasher. Shit. I turned off the water main and threw down a couple towels to soak up the leak, but this place is a mess.
My phone chimes on the counter—a specific chime that only plays for one alert: Attic door open. Kelly doesn’t know I installed a security feature in her attic.
In the early days of her going through Clyde’s things, she would vanish from the world for entire weekends, drowning in her grief—dismissing calls, texts, food, and sleep. Then she’d walk into work after her days off like an empty, discarded shell of who we all knew her to be. It was bad.
I told her to let me know when she was going through his possessions, but it was always met with dead air, so I installed a device that would tell me what she wouldn’t. It’s not like I’ve placed hidden cameras around the house —though I’m not opposed to it—I simply want to know when she’s in the attic, where she’s possibly engaging in an emotionally draining task I can conveniently assist with.
I hop off the floor and head to my closet, changing into a pair of dry jeans
and a new shirt. My phone chimes again, this time with a text message from
Kelly.
KELLY What are you doing right now?
It’s her way of saying she needs help—needs me. If she calls, I’ll be there, no questions asked. A flooded kitchen and busted dishwasher can wait.
Nothing. You?
KELLY Going through Dad’s artwork.
That’s a big deal.
I quickly tap out a reply.
On my way.
Better prepare yourself. I’m throwing a rager of a pity party right
now.
I’ll pick up a keg.
She needs to get better about locking her doors; I didn’t even need to use my key. Walking through the kitchen, I tuck a fresh pack of her favorite Australian licorice in the cupboard and head for the hall when I hear the music. She’s playing his old Bob Dylan albums. The wood creaks under my weight as I climb up the attic ladder.
When I reach the top, I find her on the right side of the room, surrounded by piles of sketchbooks, framed paintings, and loose artwork. I raise an arm and brace myself against one of the ceiling trusses, then lean forward, scanning the length of the attic. It’s a large space; there’s a window at one end, but the rest is illuminated by two bare bulbs in the ceiling, each with a dangling pull cord. This is where she spends her weekends—well, Sundays and Mondays, when the shop is closed. Wonder if she’ll ever turn it into a bonus room rather than a mausoleum for his belongings.
With the music playing and her thoughts distracted, she hasn’t noticed me yet. A wave of dust motes swirls when she drops a cardboard box that reads CLOTHES on the floor and nudges it snugly beside a twin box. It appears to be a donation pile. Good start.
“Wow, Chaos.” I whistle, looking around. “Really went all out on the pity party, I see. No food . . . No drinks . . . Damn, not even a single half-deflated
balloon rolling around.”
A small smile tugs her lips. She sighs with big soft eyes and tearstained cheeks, seeming totally overwhelmed but somehow still drop-dead gorgeous.
“If you’re going to mope, at least put in some effort. This is just lazy.”
Her face cracks and she chuckles, rising to her feet. I stride over, dragging her into a bear hug and breathing deep. Years ago, I frequently held her. One embrace in particular let me believe we had something more, but she was still hollow from the loss. I was just imagining what I wanted to see —convinced myself of a story that didn’t exist. The timing wasn’t right. But
now . . .
“How are you doing?”
She shrugs. “I’ve separated his shirts and flannels, I’m keeping his favorites.”
“In addition to the one you’re wearing?” I comment, appreciating Clyde’s old Jimi Hendrix tee she’s sporting.
Kelly glances down and tugs the hem, holding it out in front of her. “I just
wanted to wear it for a little while.”
I hold her gaze. “You wear it well.”
“Thanks. I wanted to wait until you got here before I started on his art.”
She releases the fabric and inhales through her nose, blowing out a slow breath as she looks at the daunting task surrounding her, unsure where to start.
“It’s like purgatory’s garage sale. Can’t bear to look at his things but can’t let them go.”
“Nobody is rushing you to do this,” I assure her. After he passed, I helped her move some of his things into the attic so she could deal with them when she was ready, without the torment of facing them daily in the meantime. She said living within the walls was one type of grief, but looking at his artwork was another hell entirely.
She sits back down among the clutter. “Grieving is weird. Some days I feel at peace, other days it’s as if a boulder is sitting on my chest and I’m being crushed under the weight of it. And his art? This is all I have left of him. Dad’s soul is still alive in every brushstroke. How do I get rid of that?
They’re more than just his sketches and paintings—they’re the most beautiful parts of him. His creativity, inspiration, and emotions. The way he saw the world. The essence of who he was as a person and how he expressed himself.
I want to hoard all of his things like a dragon.”
Towers of sketchbooks and artwork he’s done in the past fill this section of the attic. It’s everywhere, even his old dusty posters stapled to the angled ceiling.
“Logically, I know I can’t keep it all, and it’s not like I’d ever throw it away, it’s gotta be worth something to someone, even sentimentally. There are more than a few tattoo museums and other shops that would be thrilled to have some of his stuff on their walls, right?”
“Absolutely. Nothing will be thrown away,” I promise. “How about we
go through the framed pieces first?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “That sounds good.”
She picks up a frame and holds it at arm’s length, smirking.
“Can I see?” I ask, stepping closer. I move a box to the side so I can sit on the dusty floorboards adjacent to her. She angles the painting to show me.
My brow scrunches at the abstract piece. “This isn’t his.” I remember this from the last time I was up here helping her when she let me take photos of all his flash.
“No, it’s mine,” she says, handing it over with a chuckle. “I was probably five or six.”
“Oh, well then this is definitely a keeper,” I reply, setting it aside in a keep pile. “Remind me to have you sign it later so it’s worth something.”
She grins, making a tsk sound at the suggestion. The next one she holds
up is a watercolor portrait of her mom.
“Keep,” we say in unison.
After that, it’s an assortment of various framed flash sheets. “Cap did this one,” she says, passing it to me. My eyebrows shoot up and I survey the aged paper in the frame. Wow. August “Cap” Coleman is known as the godfather of American tattooing. I set it in the keep pile.
The next dozen or so are Clyde’s. We have the majority of them at Black Rabbit, but it appears he’s squirreled away some extras at home.
“We could hang them in the shop?” she muses while shrugging.
I nod. “Camden came by the shop the other night. The Safehouse gala is coming up, and he was wondering if there was any of your dad’s work we could donate to the auction.”
“Oh.” She pauses and looks back at the framed piece.
“You don’t have to say yes,” I remind her.
She smiles. “If Dad were still alive, he’d donate it.” Sitting crisscross, she angles her body toward me, holding up both of the framed flash pieces.
“Which one?”
“The tigers and roses will sell for more,” I reply.
“Actually . . . let’s put them together as a set.”
I raise my eyebrows, didn’t see that coming.
“You sure?”
She nods, smiling. “Yeah . . . It makes it easier knowing it’ll be appreciated by whoever offers the highest bid.”
“Atta girl.” I take the two framed pieces and set them in a new pile. Now he’ll get off my dick about that donation.
“Oh, this one would be cool in the shop!” She hands me a large painting of a panther Clyde did.
It’s bold. She’s right, it’d be a fantastic addition. The brick wall by the
office would be perfect.
“Maybe that brick wall —”
“By the office.” I smile, finishing her sentence. “Great minds.”
I nod and set it with the two she’s donating to the Safehouse auction.
She hands me a framed jigsaw puzzle he glued together. “Don’t need this one.”
She struggles making a decision on the next three, but in the end, she donates two and only keeps one. Kelly pauses, gathering her hair in both hands, twisting the locks into a messy bun. She swipes the back of her arm across her forehead and scrutinizes the stacks we have yet to go through.
“Proud of you,” I say.
“What?” she mutters, moving another stack aside.
“You’re doing a good job. It’s not easy.”
Her shoulders relax, and she offers me a soft smile. “Thanks for being here. This probably isn’t how you wanted to spend your day off, but it’s really nice to not be alone.”
“Not that I ever mind doing this with you, but just out of curiosity, is there a reason you don’t ask Jason?”
“Come on.” She huffs out a breath. “Don’t start with me, Logan.”
“What? I’m asking in good faith.” I just want her to admit it, that I’m better at taking care of her than he is.
She sighs. “I almost called Jason. My finger hovered over his name. You know I’ve been putting off this part because it’s the hardest—figured I’d start
crying at some point.”
“He’s never seen you cry?”
“Once, when I was telling him about Dad. It was clear he was uncomfortable. He kept looking around, like he was hoping for something he could use as a distraction. It’s not his fault, some people just aren’t great at dealing with other people’s emotions. He tries. He’s a sweet guy, and he has good intentions, but perhaps I’m not yet ready to share all of this with him.”
I open my mouth to tell her he’s insecure but then decide better of it.
After all, I gave my word. “I’m glad you share it with me.”
“Well, you have a knack for helping me decipher what is actually valuable, and you’re a good sounding board when I’m trying to justify keeping something, even when it’s not the logical decision.” She grins, poking me in the side. “You’re an enabler.”
“Oh yeah?”
She shrugs. “In many ways, you loved my dad as much as I did, so part of me feels like you should have a say in it too. I trust you to handle his items with care and respect. You get it.”
“You know, I needed you too after he died. We had to lean on each other a lot to survive those early months.”
She scoffs. “I leaned on you a lot more than you leaned on me. That’s probably when our friendship was taken to the next level —”
“Next level?” I question.
“I just mean . . . You were my silent strength when Dad died. You’ve always been steadfast and reliable. You’re a rock.”
A grin spreads across my face. “I’m your rock.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. Jason is trying, and that
counts. He’ll get better.”
Ugh.
While she goes through a few more, I pop the lid off a box of photos and thumb through them. Some are Kelly’s baby photos. She was a cute kid. I wonder if she wants to be a mom someday . . . How have I never asked her before?
I continue flipping, then pause on one; she appears to be about five years old, with both arms wrapped around an absolutely massive dog that’s as tall as she is. Her face presses into its fur, both of them wearing huge grins. This hellhound must be patient zero of her obsession with dogs and why she squeals at every pup on the sidewalk and asks the owners if she can pet them.
I smile and place the stack of photos back in the box, then slide the lid into place.
“How are you feeling about the competition coming up?”
She snorts. “Petrified.”
“You’re good under pressure.”
“I am?”
“Yeah.” My lips twitch. “Remember when you pierced that woman’s ear and she started screaming bloody murder? Pretty sure the other customers in the shop thought you were harvesting organs.”
Laughter bubbles out of her.
“You barely flinched. The rest of us were ready to duck and cover. I don’t know how you talked her down after that.”
“Yeah, she was fun.” Kelly sighs happily. “Hey, is this Dad’s?” She angles another frame toward me.
It’s similar, but she’s right, it’s not his work. I take it from her. “This
looks like Scrotum’s work.”
“Scrotum? Who the fuck is Scrotum?”
I chuckle. “He’s a fellow artist, Jeremiah.” I point to the corner of the canvas. It’s tiny, but I can see a portion of the signature before it disappears behind the frame. “Yeah. Right here. J. Yelnatz.”
“Oh, I remember that guy!”
Kelly shifts her body against mine. Damn, she smells good, like fresh iris and orange. “Why do they call him Scrotum?” she asks.
“Because he was pretty close to being a dick, but not quite.”
She’s sent into a fit of giggles, and I pause, taking a second to admire how damn pretty she is when she laughs. My fingers itch to touch her, tilt that delicate chin toward me, and claim her lips. Instead, I force myself to look away and pick up a nearby sketchbook, opening the cover.
I turn the page, and Kelly calms her laughter, leaning over to take a peek.
“I love that one,” she says.
Her mom is posed with legs tucked up, head resting on her knees as she looks out a window.
“It’s achingly beautiful . . . in the best way possible.”
She smiles down at it, nodding.
The next page is different. It’s a portrait of teenage Kelly, standing barefoot in rolled-up jeans and an oversized shirt, painting on an easel and wearing a smile on her face as she dips her brush into the watercolor palette.
“That’s me.”
As if I wouldn’t recognize her. It’s like a black-and-white snapshot in
time, back to when I first met Kelly. She was so young then.
I flip another page.
“Whoa.” I bring the whole book into my lap.
She tilts toward me, straining her neck to get another look. When she recognizes the image, she smiles and sits back. “Aren’t those great?”
They’re realism sketches of her mom as a pinup model. “Damn,” I murmur, turning the page. I’ve never snooped in his sketchbooks. “Man, he
was down bad for your mom.”
There are so many in here.
She laughs. “Yeah, the first time I saw it, I slammed it shut. Felt like I was looking at my mom’s nudes, but he drew her the way he saw her. Each stroke was drawn with adoration, one line at a time.”
She laces her fingers together and rests them on my shoulder, leaning in while we marvel at the provocative imagery together. “Do you ever think of doing stuff like this?” she whispers.
If I turned my head right now, I’d have her lips on mine. The air feels thicker. I swallow and pull back, staring straight into her big green eyes.
Fuck. My dick stiffens before I can stop it, forcing me to tear away my gaze and think of Clyde. That does the trick.
“You mean when I paint?” I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah. I’d like to.”
She traces her fingers over the paper in a way that shouldn’t be as sexy as
it is.
“What’s stopping you?”
I shrug. “Finding the right subject.” She’s giving me an opening to ask for a favor I’ve had on my mind for some time now. “Will you pose for me?” My
voice comes out rougher than intended.
Her eyebrows rise. “Me?”
“You don’t need to be nude, just posing, emoting, et cetera.” My throat tightens as I imagine putting her in different positions.
“Sure, whatever you need,” she says, leaning forward and dragging a new stack of frames closer to us. She passes me one, and I cock my head to the side as I admire the bright use of color.
“Jason has asked to take photos of me.” She nods to the sketchbook in my lap. “Kind of like those.”
It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head.
Fuck Jason.
All I can think of is her naked and sprawled out, looking like living art,
and him cheapening her by taking a picture with his phone so he can rub one
out later.
“Of course he did,” I bite.
She furrows her brow. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“No.” She rotates toward me and puts her hands on her hips. “Say it.”
“Fine. Imagine he takes your photograph. Do you think he’ll point his phone at your body and snap something he can show off to his buddies? Or will he actually capture you? Will he even understand what he has in front of him?” I jab my finger into the sketchbook, open to the stunning piece of her.
“Like this.”
Her throat bobs when she swallows.
“That’s the difference between him and me,” I snarl, sounding bitter— because fuck it, I am. I withdraw my finger from the page. “I understand the distinction.”
She purses her lips. “He may not be as artistic as you, Logan, but not everything has to be buried under layers of creative critique. Sometimes, it’s for fun, or maybe he just likes the way I look from behind.”
There it is. My jaw clicks as I clench harder.
She claps the cover shut on the sketchbook and sets it aside. “You’re being a dick.”
“You’re selling yourself short.” I inhale and scrub a palm down my face.
“Why?” Kelly scoffs and reaches for another painting. “Because I enjoy sex?”
My lip curls. “No, but maybe I don’t want to think about you having sex.”
Lie. I have spent countless hours speculating that exact question, specifically how she likes to be fucked—usually with my dick in my hand.
“Oh.” She winces and looks away from me, appearing almost insulted— which piques my interest. “Sorry.”
I pick up a few small framed prints and sift through them. “For?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t know that bothered you.”
“It doesn’t bother me.” I set the prints aside and look at her. “I just don’t like thinking about you with other men.”
We stare at each other; it’s the most I’ve ever revealed about my feelings —and I know she senses it this time because her face pinkens with a blush, making my heart hammer against my chest.
She blinks a few times, then crosses her arms and tucks her legs in,
retreating from me. “I-I think we’ve gotten enough accomplished for the day.
It’s getting stuffy up here. Besides, I don’t want to keep you from enjoying the rest of your day off. We both know you need to take more time for
yourself.”
Shit.
My head drops between my shoulders before I lift my chin again, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “I don’t mind staying.”
She averts her eyes. “No, I’m good.”
This is why I don’t skip steps. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut.
“Okay.” I sigh.
“Here, um, don’t forget these.” She hands me the three framed pieces: two for Camden and the panther that’s going in the shop. “I’ll bring the rest next week.”
“Your birthday’s on Tuesday, have any plans?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t offer more than that. Ouch.
Rising to my feet, I shuffle toward the center of the attic where there’s more headroom. “You sure you’re all right here?”
“Mm-hmm.” She stands, brushing dust off the Hendrix shirt. “Yup. All set.”
“Hey . . . are we good?” I ask. That’s the more important question.
She pastes on a fake smile. “Of course.”
“Make sure you eat something soon, yeah?”
“’Kay.” ’Kay.
I maneuver the paintings at an angle while climbing back down the ladder and she doesn’t follow me. Fuck.
On the way home, I make a stop at the hardware store to get the piece I need for the dishwasher. While standing in line at the checkout, I spot a three-pack of pink velvet hair scrunchies in various shades next to the candy, lighters, and other random shit, then toss them on the conveyor belt with my item.
