All the Pretty Lies
Page 18

I smile when I hear his harrumph.
“Asshole,” he mutters before he continues. “Thought I’d check in. How goes the hunt?”
“Actually, I finally made some real progress.” I never expected those words to taste so bitter. I think immediately of the threats to Sloane’s brother and whether or not I had anything to do with bringing them to her front door. Hopefully not literally.
“You did? Great job, man! Maybe we’ll see some justice in our lifetime.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say absently.
For some reason, even though the pieces of the puzzle fit, they just don’t feel right. I tell myself that it has nothing to do with Sloane, but deep down, I have to doubt myself. At least a little bit. I can’t let her cloud my judgment. I’ve come too far. It means too much.
But still, I can’t disregard it either.
“You don’t sound very happy about it, brother,” Leif says in his laid back way. He’s the easy-going one of the family.
“I am. I…I just want to be sure.”
“Then be sure.”
“I will, dude. I just need some time.”
“That’s one thing you’ve got a shitload of.”
“Not necessarily,” I say vaguely.
“You talking ‘bout Reese?”
I sigh. “Yeah. You know how decisive he is. When I told him I thought I had him, he called the dogs as the words were leaving my mouth.”
“Then you’ll just have to outsmart the dogs.”
I smile. Even though Leif’s casual, fun-loving attitude bugs that hell out of me these days, I still love the simple way he has about him. Leif isn’t the type to complicate matters. He’s straight forward and smooth, just goes with the flow. He sees things as black and white. And for someone like me, someone who has lived inside the thousands of shades of gray, I envy that about him.
“I guess I will.”
“Bow-wow, dude,” he offers in his surfer way. “Bow-wow.”
I hear a click. I’m shaking my head as I dial Reese’s number. When his voicemail picks up, I realize he sounds very much like the bark that Leif was teasing about. It occurs to me that switching gears from Leif to Reese is the emotional equivalent of going from a hot tub to a pool of ice. I leave him word to call me when he gets in.
At least I won’t be getting frostbite tonight, I think as I ponder how aggravated he’s going to be when I tell him I need him to rein in the dogs until I investigate a little more. Something just doesn’t feel right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - Sloane
Hemi stands just outside the door, watching me climb into my car, like he always does nowadays. Lights flick on from across the street, from the vehicle of one of my brothers, like they always do nowadays.
I sigh as I shift into gear, waving to Hemi as I pull away from the curb. The lights from the vehicle across the street fall in behind me to follow. Just like they always do nowadays. It’s one of my brothers. Or my father. Always. Every night, one of them escorts me home. It’s the new norm. And I hate it. But they won’t stop until whatever the hell is going on stops. And that’s the kicker—no one will tell me what’s happening, only that there’s a threat. And that it’s not to be taken lightly.
I want to call bullshit, but I know better. It must be serious for them to be acting this way. Of course, the obtuse, suspicious, sheltered side of me has wondered a time or two if this could possibly be their way of thwarting my efforts to escape their net. But I reject an idea like that immediately. That would be so deceptive, I just can’t imagine it. If anything, my family is blunt to a fault. They tell me like it is. If they wanted to keep tabs on me, or Hemi, or anybody else, they’d probably just tell me, outright. But they’re all sticking to the same story, Dad included, which means it must be true.
I’m glad to say that their ridiculous safety measures haven’t seemed to dampen the growing attraction between me and Hemi. I was afraid he’d lose interest once he realized that we wouldn’t be doing the nasty any time soon. But, if anything, I think it is just heightening our awareness and raising the anticipation, which is frustrating but in a good way.
What began as just a few nights a week has progressed to me being at the shop every night, for a few hours at least. And every night, at some point, there’s always an opportunity for Hemi to show me something new, something breathtakingly new.
Sometimes, he has me work on him—shading his old tattoo, working on the new one he had me to trace onto his other side, or inking letters onto the side of his hand. I never argue, mainly because I don’t care what it is. Touching him is a treat—stroking his smooth skin, watching the muscles contract, feeling the heat of body.
He never takes his eyes off me, not even when I glance his way. Not anymore. Eventually, at some point during each of these episodes, he will stop me all of a sudden. He’ll take the gun from my hand and lay it down beside him. He’ll slide off the table and pull me to my feet. Then he’ll push me up against the cabinets where no one can see, and he’ll kiss me. With all the fire and passion and desperation I feel, he’ll kiss me. I only hope it’s not simply a reflection of my own feelings that I’m sensing. The mere thought of that is almost unbearable.
There have been a couple of times when he has helped me to tattoo myself, too. I wanted my mother’s initials on my foot with some vines that wrap around my ankle.
“Why don’t we work on you tonight?” he asked one night when only Paul and one client remained in the studio.
“Me? Really?”
“Yes, really,” he said with a smile, reminding me of other conversations we’ve shared that went by in a similar way. Sometimes it feels like I’ve known him forever. Like I was meant to know him forever.
“Like I’d say no to that.”
“I figured as much. Go ahead and prep your foot. I’ll be right back.”
I did as he asked and was sitting in the chair when he returned. He was carrying a folding screen.
“What’s that for?” I asked as I watched him set it a few feet from the end of the chair and then unfold it, further concealing us in our little corner.
“I’ve been thinking about bringing this over here for a while. Now seems like a good time,” he’d said with a shrug.
Despite his casual attitude, my stomach was a ball of butterflies just thinking about the additional amount of privacy the screen provided us. Pathetic, I know.
“You ready?”
“Yep,” I said, bending my leg and pulling my foot in close so I could work on it.
“Here, let’s do it this way,” Hemi said, lowering the back of the chair, flattening it out in a table position. When it was fully extended, he climbed up behind me, throwing one leg over me until he could scoot up flush against my back. I remember feeling the tight muscles of his chest against me. I remember inhaling and thinking that I could smell nothing but Hemi. Not alcohol from the prep, not the plastic from the new needle packages, not any other scents from anywhere in the room. Just Hemi. And it was heaven.
“We’ll do this together,” he said, his lips so close to my ear, I could feel them brush the shell.
Hemi wound his arms around me, taking my fingers in his, and together we gripped the gun and set the needles to my skin, inking the first letter. Our hands moved in a rhythm, like we had the same vision, like our art poured out in the exact same way. From the first line, the first stroke, it was beautiful.
Tonight was one of the first nights that we haven’t worked on him teaching me tattooing. I had mentioned as I was getting a granola bar out of my purse that I’d had a shitty day at school and hadn’t had much of an appetite for supper. Hemi said nothing as I wolfed down my snack, yet, less than an hour later, a pizza was delivered.
“What’s this?” I asked when the pizza guy brought it back to me.
“The guy up front said to bring it back here to the hot brunette.” That alone endeared to me both Hemi and the pizza boy. I gave him my brightest smile and happily took the box of pizza.
As he was leaving, he passed Hemi as he was bringing back a customer. Rather than bringing the girl back to his chair in his cubby, he walked the opposite direction, toward JonJon. I heard Hemi explain what the girl wanted then he handed JonJon a stencil and asked him to get it started and he’d finish it afterward. JonJon nodded agreeably, motioning for the girl to have a seat in his chair.
I found it a bit odd, as Hemi doesn’t normally let anyone else take part in his work. He does it step by step, start to finish. I watched curiously as he crossed the room to me, walking with purpose. Without a word, Hemi extended the folding screen at the foot of the bed, hoisted me up onto the counter then took a piece of pizza from the box and shoved it in my hand.
“Eat,” he barked. I was stunned by his stern command at first, but then, after a few seconds, he added, “I want to watch.”
I nearly dropped my pizza and jumped his bones. Only I couldn’t, mainly because impulsive sex is impossible for a virgin. And we were surrounded by a shop full of people. Neither of those facts was conducive to an impetuous tryst.
Dammit!
So, tonight, for the millionth time it seems, I left Hemi behind and we’re both…unsatisfied. I twist the volume dial on my car stereo, turning up the music. I don’t hear anything but loud bass, so it takes me by surprise when I see Scout’s SUV fly by me on the wrong side of the road.
“What the hell, Scout?” I mumble into the car.
That’s when I see the lights come on in our house, which is just up ahead. Like, all the lights—porch lights, interior lights, side yard lights. A prickle of unease makes its way down my spine and I see Scout blast past the house going Mach II.
I slow down and pull up to the curb, looking on with horror at the dozens of bullet holes that now dot the white vinyl siding.
My heart is thumping with fear and I hear my own blood rushing in my ears. I reach onto the seat beside me to dig inside my purse for my phone, but the little pocket where my phone lives is empty.
“Frick!”
Now what am I supposed to do? Instinctively, I know better than to get out of the car just yet. Dad would skin me alive if I did something stupid like that.
I watch, holding my breath and praying that the dear Lord above kept those bullets away from my father, who should’ve been the only one in the house tonight since Scout and I were both out and Steven and Sig are working.
Within a couple of minutes, I see the front door open and my father emerge. I exhale in relief, and even smile when I see that he’s on the phone giving someone the ass-chewing of their life. He’s waving his arm and, even from the curb, I can see the thick vein standing out in the center of his forehead.
I shift into park and cut the engine. As I make my way up the sidewalk, I have to pick through a field of empty shell casings as I go. Dad’s rant ceases shortly after I stop in front of him.
“What happened?” I ask.
Dad is boiling. “Some mother…” He runs his hands through his brown hair, trying desperately to hold his tongue in front of the tender ears of his daughter, the lady.
“You can say it, Dad. This can be your freebie.”
“Some… as**ole has just brought the wrath of the Lockes down on his no-good, shit-eating, shit-sucking, shit-for-brains head!” He growls so I decide it’s best to forego my applause over his creative and successive use of the word “shit” in an effort to keep from saying the F word in front of me. What a guy!
“Does this have anything to do with the threats?”
“I’m sure as shit it does.” This time I smile. He’s on a roll. Dad spots it and turns his anger on me. “Listen here, young lady, this is not a laughing matter. Someone could’ve been killed here tonight. If you’d been here, watching television in the living room…” Dad’s normally tan complexion goes pale underneath. “Oh sweet Jesus, what would I have done if you’d been shot, Sloane?”
In an almost visible way, the fury drains right out of my father, replaced by his ever-present worry over my welfare. He pulls me into his arms.
“But nothing happened, Dad. I’m fine. We’re all fine.”
He doesn’t say a word as he strokes my hair. It seems unnaturally quiet around us until the sound of an engine breaks the silence.
I turn, expecting to see Scout pulling into the driveway. Instead, I see Hemi’s car pull to a stop behind mine.
“Who the hell is that?” my father asks, every muscle in his body tensing around me.
“It’s the guy I work with, Dad. You met him that night you followed me home, remember?”
“Right. Something stupid like Homey,” he says snidely.
“It’s Hemi, Dad. Don’t be an ass.”
“Sloane,” he begins.
“Please don’t embarrass me, Dad,” I say from the corner of my mouth as he releases me and we turn to await Hemi. I would feel much more comfortable going to him rather than him coming to me (and Dad), but Dad would just follow. He’s in that kind of mood.
Hemi gets out of his car and takes the sidewalk to where Dad and I are standing. I see him look around on the ground as he walks, no doubt noticing all the brass strewn about. He’s frowning when he stops in front of us.
“Are you all right?” he asks without preamble, directing his question to me.
“I’m fine. I missed all the excitement. Scout and I were just coming home. He took off down the road. I assume he thinks he might be able to catch whoever did this.”
“What happened?” This time he looks to my father. “Hemi, sir,” he says offering his hand. “Met you a few days ago when you came to get Sloane.”