Walking to the bathroom, I turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound on my head. Grabbing the soap, I ran it over my skin, staring at the tattoo on my hip. “One Day.” I thought back to the day I got it—the day I told my daddy I’d gotten the UA football scholarship and was leaving home at the end of the school year. I was going to play for the Tide. It was the happiest day of my life, or had been until I met Mol. That tattoo was a symbol of my freedom, of my intention to get the hell away.
Switching off the shower, I toweled off and sat on the bed. The clock now read four a.m. Only a bastard hour had passed.
Reaching for my cell, I found the only number worth knowing.
Lying back on the bed, I listened to the voicemail greeting that kept me company most nights, then spoke:
“Hey, baby, just thought I’d call. It’s four in the morning and I can’t sleep… again. I dreamt about you tonight… God, I miss you. Being away from you is killing me. Come back, Shakespeare. I need you. I feel like I’m going insane. It’s Christmas tomorrow, for f**k’s sake. You should be here like we’d planned, just being with me, not in friggin’ England on your own. If you can’t talk yet, fine, but just let me know you’re okay, text, email, just something—”
The long tone cut me off, telling me I’d run out of time, and, throwing my cell to the floor, I lay back, closed my eyes, and let more memories rip me into shreds.
32
I was right to come back to Tuscaloosa. It may’ve only been the day after Christmas but I’d pretty much spoiled most of the holidays for my aunt, uncle, and Ally. Getting the news on Christmas day that my momma was being released without charge for her assault on Molly at the hospital—a restraining order and a court issued rehab program, her only punishment—was a complete head f**k. The news got me so damn mad that I couldn’t sit at the dinner table, celebrating the joys of Christmas, when my momma had gotten away with her crimes, and just to top it all off, I still hadn’t heard from my girl.
Uncle Gabe had tried to help, asking the police about the fact that my momma was the cause of Molly’s miscarriage and why wasn’t she being held accountable? But the fact was my mother never knew Molly was even pregnant when they’d had their argument, and the placental abruption occurred when Molly fell against the edge of the table after my mother’s slap. Molly hadn’t pressed charges for that assault, too busy grieving to even care.
So here I was, pounding down the highway back to Tuscaloosa, reeling from my mother’s lack of comeuppance and dreading the Tide’s training for the BCS Championship that started tomorrow and the fact that I’d have to face all my teammates.
After an hour, I pulled into a familiar parking lot, and Luke was already waiting just inside the main door—inked from his completely shaven head to his toes.
Standing as I entered his shop, he shook my hand, stating, “Rome, I’m so sorry, man… I saw it on the news. I don’t know what the hell to say.”
Slapping him on the back and swallowing hard, I replied, “I know, man. Thanks.”
I pointed at the black-padded table, all set up, and asked, “We good to go?”
Gesturing to the chair with one hand and giving me a thumbs-up with the other, Luke busied himself preparing the gun and ink as I peeled my shirt over my head and sat down, my jaw clenching.
Sitting down beside me, Luke asked, “So what are we going for?”
“Angel wings, white ones, big enough to cover most of my chest and torso.”
Luke paused, then nodded sympathetically and went to begin marking them on my skin, when I stopped his hand, gripping his wrist, looking him dead in the eye. “You make this the best f**kin’ work you’ve ever done. My previous ink is nothing compared to this. Any work you’ve ever done is nothing compared to this, you get me?”
“I get you. I promise, Rome, they’ll be just right.”
Sensing his sincerity, I freed his hand and an hour later, the outline was drawn.
“Go ahead, man, check it out.”
When I stood before the mirror, I couldn’t speak. The wings were just right, the perfect tribute to our child—two large wings starting on my chest and each tip ending low on my abs. Giving Luke an approving nod, I sat back on the chair, the buzzing of the gun blaring in the silent room.
“It’ll take about eight hours all in all. We’ll do half today, then finish up tomorrow if you’d like,” Luke said, hovering the gun just above my stomach, waiting for my answer.
“No,” I said harshly. “We start and finish today.”
Luke frowned. “Hell, man, that’s too much. Your body could go into shock. We’re gonna be covering some damn painful areas.”
“I don’t give a f**k. We do this today,” I growled, my voice coming out too strong. Luke was a friend and didn’t deserve my shitty attitude, but I needed this, needed to get it done.
“Bullet, man, the pain—”
“Is what I want! Now are you going to do it or do I need to find someone else who will? I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money to get this done as soon as possible, but believe me, that can change.”
Sighing, Luke answered, “Have it your way, man. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Let me know if you want to stop at any point.”
“I won’t.”
The minute the gun touched my skin, I closed my eyes. The pain would be worth it. Molly endured so much f**king pain; it was only right I did too, and our angel… our angel deserved this. Deserved to be remembered.
Switching off the shower, I toweled off and sat on the bed. The clock now read four a.m. Only a bastard hour had passed.
Reaching for my cell, I found the only number worth knowing.
Lying back on the bed, I listened to the voicemail greeting that kept me company most nights, then spoke:
“Hey, baby, just thought I’d call. It’s four in the morning and I can’t sleep… again. I dreamt about you tonight… God, I miss you. Being away from you is killing me. Come back, Shakespeare. I need you. I feel like I’m going insane. It’s Christmas tomorrow, for f**k’s sake. You should be here like we’d planned, just being with me, not in friggin’ England on your own. If you can’t talk yet, fine, but just let me know you’re okay, text, email, just something—”
The long tone cut me off, telling me I’d run out of time, and, throwing my cell to the floor, I lay back, closed my eyes, and let more memories rip me into shreds.
32
I was right to come back to Tuscaloosa. It may’ve only been the day after Christmas but I’d pretty much spoiled most of the holidays for my aunt, uncle, and Ally. Getting the news on Christmas day that my momma was being released without charge for her assault on Molly at the hospital—a restraining order and a court issued rehab program, her only punishment—was a complete head f**k. The news got me so damn mad that I couldn’t sit at the dinner table, celebrating the joys of Christmas, when my momma had gotten away with her crimes, and just to top it all off, I still hadn’t heard from my girl.
Uncle Gabe had tried to help, asking the police about the fact that my momma was the cause of Molly’s miscarriage and why wasn’t she being held accountable? But the fact was my mother never knew Molly was even pregnant when they’d had their argument, and the placental abruption occurred when Molly fell against the edge of the table after my mother’s slap. Molly hadn’t pressed charges for that assault, too busy grieving to even care.
So here I was, pounding down the highway back to Tuscaloosa, reeling from my mother’s lack of comeuppance and dreading the Tide’s training for the BCS Championship that started tomorrow and the fact that I’d have to face all my teammates.
After an hour, I pulled into a familiar parking lot, and Luke was already waiting just inside the main door—inked from his completely shaven head to his toes.
Standing as I entered his shop, he shook my hand, stating, “Rome, I’m so sorry, man… I saw it on the news. I don’t know what the hell to say.”
Slapping him on the back and swallowing hard, I replied, “I know, man. Thanks.”
I pointed at the black-padded table, all set up, and asked, “We good to go?”
Gesturing to the chair with one hand and giving me a thumbs-up with the other, Luke busied himself preparing the gun and ink as I peeled my shirt over my head and sat down, my jaw clenching.
Sitting down beside me, Luke asked, “So what are we going for?”
“Angel wings, white ones, big enough to cover most of my chest and torso.”
Luke paused, then nodded sympathetically and went to begin marking them on my skin, when I stopped his hand, gripping his wrist, looking him dead in the eye. “You make this the best f**kin’ work you’ve ever done. My previous ink is nothing compared to this. Any work you’ve ever done is nothing compared to this, you get me?”
“I get you. I promise, Rome, they’ll be just right.”
Sensing his sincerity, I freed his hand and an hour later, the outline was drawn.
“Go ahead, man, check it out.”
When I stood before the mirror, I couldn’t speak. The wings were just right, the perfect tribute to our child—two large wings starting on my chest and each tip ending low on my abs. Giving Luke an approving nod, I sat back on the chair, the buzzing of the gun blaring in the silent room.
“It’ll take about eight hours all in all. We’ll do half today, then finish up tomorrow if you’d like,” Luke said, hovering the gun just above my stomach, waiting for my answer.
“No,” I said harshly. “We start and finish today.”
Luke frowned. “Hell, man, that’s too much. Your body could go into shock. We’re gonna be covering some damn painful areas.”
“I don’t give a f**k. We do this today,” I growled, my voice coming out too strong. Luke was a friend and didn’t deserve my shitty attitude, but I needed this, needed to get it done.
“Bullet, man, the pain—”
“Is what I want! Now are you going to do it or do I need to find someone else who will? I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money to get this done as soon as possible, but believe me, that can change.”
Sighing, Luke answered, “Have it your way, man. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Let me know if you want to stop at any point.”
“I won’t.”
The minute the gun touched my skin, I closed my eyes. The pain would be worth it. Molly endured so much f**king pain; it was only right I did too, and our angel… our angel deserved this. Deserved to be remembered.
