Rox (Nameless Order: Heart Chapter #1)

11. Roxie

Eleven

Roxie

S itting in my car, I look down at my phone. I’m telling myself it’s because I have to mentally prepare myself for the day ahead of me. But I know that’s a lie. If anyone else knew what was happening to me, they’d know it was a lie, too. I’m hyper-focused on hearing from Max.

Max. He told me his name and his truth. His past is darkened, and he thought it would send me running. Little does he know. I’m not sure what he knows about my life and what I went through, but if he did, he wouldn’t fear his past when it comes to us. He’d see I’m here, ready to fight the memories with him.

I reread the last entire sentence of the message I sent to Mimic. Max. His name is Max. But who is he mentally? Is that something I’m going to have to deal with? Him being one or the other? Or will he always be Mimic? Did I push too hard? Did I break him by asking him to reveal his truth? Fuck, this is stressful.

Looking at my phone, I start to wonder if I fucked up further.

Me: Let me know you’re still breathing. I’ll leave you be until you’re ready. Just…please let tell me you’re okay.

While I wanted, no—needed, to know he was okay, I didn’t expect him to talk to me, to hold a full-on conversation. He didn’t owe that to me. He’d done a lot of talking that day in my room. I know it was hard. Anytime you have to open yourself up in the way he did, it’s nerve-wracking, and it takes a small piece of your soul. Opening yourself up for the judgment of all the unpretty moments of your past. My past is ugly, dark, and full of broken pieces. It doesn’t define me, though. It helped shape me the way Max’s helped him. I just wish he’d give me a chance to explain how I’d never think so little of him. He did what was needed to survive. And he did. Fuck, he did.

“Come on, Max. Anything at all,” I whisper to the empty car I’m holding myself hostage in. The low melody of Jelly Roll and mgk plays in the background. Time of Day feels more and more relatable the longer I listen to it.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the headrest. It’s been five days since I claimed Max as mine. Five days since he bolted from my room in a state of panic, looking as if he were a caged animal trying to find a way to escape. I saw it so clearly: the pain, the fear, the need to flee. So I let him go. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I fought harder, but I know it wouldn’t have ended in a way either of us liked. Watching him leave hurt so damn much, but I knew I needed to. Even though I didn’t stop him, I was still obsessed with knowing if he would be okay. I don’t know what I’d do if he went off and did something stupid in his moment of panic.

I feel like it’s harder because I understand him and his distance. Growing up, I gave myself that distance as well. I couldn’t handle the things I experienced. My parents did what they had to do to help, but it took a lot of time. Talking about it would help, but then it would also hinder it. Doing what I felt was right for me and owning myself got me over what that man did to me. I understand this, yet I still fucking hate it.

I’m selfish. I want him to come back to me and let me help him through it, regardless if he wants to. Stop being a selfish bitchbag.

I am. I’m so selfish. The man has spent God knows how many years jumping from being one person to another. Now, here I am, asking him to be a person he thought he had killed and buried so many years ago. He has lived what probably feels like a thousand lives since then.

Let him have his time, Roxanne. “I don’t want to,” I say to no one. My phone chooses that moment to vibrate, and I already feel a million times better.

Max: 3

I’m complaining because I can, but he’s let me know in his own way. I reached out that day, asking if he was okay, and after the first initial message, after that, it became a heart in the morning, and xoxo to tell me goodnight. I don’t respond, and it kills me, but as much as I complain and say I want to make him talk, I’m not going to. I will mentally be selfish as fuck, but I won’t project that onto him. Not yet, anyway. Believe it or not, I’m not blowing smoke out of my asshole when I say I understand his need for space. But let the record show I do hate it. Ugh, I’ve said that already. My mind has been in a constant loop of these thoughts. But I can’t help it.

One night together was enough to solidify the connection I feel for him. I know he’s waited for me longer than I have pined for him. He never tried to force me into his orbit. He allowed me to find my way to him—which shows me more about him and his character and adds to my respect for him. He cared for me when I didn’t know I needed someone else in my corner. He tried to show me I wasn’t alone in this battle or any struggle I would face.

Speaking of, I close my eyes and tilt my head again, taking in one more deep, cleansing breath before entering the shop. I’m being trained now, but Duncan is still the most infuriating person I have ever had the displeasure of dealing with. I don’t think in the whole time I’ve been here he has ever called me by my name. I could be wrong. The amount of rage I feel at his new way of addressing me: Girl. It makes me want to pull each of his dick hairs out, one by one, with a rusty pair of pliers. A sharp knock on my widow snaps me from my torture fantasy.

Speak the devil’s name, and he shall appear.

“You aren’t getting paid to take a nap, Girl. It’s Friday, you know what that means,” Duncan taunts me with an evil grin on his Skeletor-looking face.

Opening the door, I force him to jump back, giving me a slight reprieve. “Every day is a new adventure with you, D-bag. Care to share? I’m not in the mood for juvenile guessing games.” I snark at him while I brush past him, not waiting for an answer.

“Now, now, where is your sense of whimsy? Friday means it’s the day you get to spend the whole morning washing out the shitter. And it’s even better for me because I don’t have to look at your annoying face. Friday is my favorite day,” he sighs. He really does dream of this day. Assbag. I pull open the shop door as I roll my eyes. “And just because I want you to love this day as much as I do, I got you a gift.”

“Really, you didn’t have to,” I deadpan. “My boyfriend wouldn’t like me accepting gifts from men we equally detest.” I don’t know if Max would consider himself my boyfriend right now, but maybe the mention of someone will get this twiggy rat to back the fuck off.

“Ha, ha. You’re too funny. Here,” Duncan says, rushing past me and thrusting a still-in-the-package toothbrush in my face. “I know how you like using them to make all the corners shine.”

Before I can lift the fist I’m tempted to ram right into his face, the front door chimes again. His first customer is here, and unfortunately, I cannot kill him, at least not until after his clients leave with the mediocre tattoo they requested from him. I snatch the outstretched toothbrush and push past him to the back room to dump my things. As much as I want to scream at him and have Stanford deal with him, cleaning keeps me away from him and his bullshit. I’ll take the toilet over dealing with Duncan. But if he thinks I will scrub anything with this, he is sadly mistaken. Grabbing the real cleaning supplies, I make my way to the bathroom.

Scrubbing out the tiny bathroom, which is cleaned by the company the shop hires, I lose myself in thoughts of Max.

Where could he be? What is he doing with his space away from me? Is it just me, or is it everyone? He shows up for work, which I only know because Mom called me. But then she mentioned how he shows up, does the job, and leaves. He’s closed off. She asked if I knew anything about it, but I wouldn’t give her anything.

When she couldn’t get any information out of me, she mentioned how Dad came home upset. I kicked him out and let Max stay. I grunted in response before saying how she shouldn’t be surprised.

“He’s been a complete ass to me lately, mom. Just showing up because I decided not to drive up to the club? Come on. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

We’d gone back and forth for a little while before she tried again. She wanted all the gossip and every little detail about the night Max and I spent together.

“I’ve already told you, no. Stop asking. I’m allowed to keep things to myself. Jesus. Can’t either of you just let me be?”

“Hey, I’m on your side here.”

“Mom, I love you, and I want to believe you, but I know you’re loyal as fuck to your husband. Nothing I say would stay between us. Besides, nothing about someone else is for me to share. So, you wanna keep talking, or are we done?”

She didn’t like it, but she let it go after that. It was all true, though. What he told me wasn’t my information to give. If he wanted anyone else to know what secrets his past held, he would have told them years ago. And also, can we agree that there are some things you simply do not share with your mother? She’s one of my best friends, but there are lines I do not want to cross, and when I reminded her of what those talks would consist of and the fact that I came out of her vagina, she understood.

I know my mom doesn’t have a lot of friends outside of Mama Judy and me, but I just…can’t. Thinking about it, I wouldn’t tell Mama Judy either. She’s the grandmother I never had. Especially since my biological one was a gigantic piece of trash. She’s great, though. Omen didn’t let her go the moment he met her. They’re the Ol’ Ladies of the club.

Thinking of that, my brain spiraled over what Mom and Mama Judy could discuss and share. In the MC life, the Ol’ Ladies are close. They share a lot of the same fears over the lifestyle. While Dad and his guys are pretty low on the drama front, they do deal with battered families. There is a level of danger. The bad ones are trying to find the ones my dad hides.

The bathroom door bursts open, snapping me from the million different directions I was attempting to take myself. I don’t bother looking up. I’m positive it’s Duncan or one of his friends coming in to undo all my work. One of the many reasons why it takes me all day to clean such a small, already fucking clean, room.

“Roxanne!” An older man stomps into the room, scaring me. I shrink back and clutch the scrub brush as my weapon. Who is this old fucker? “Did you hear me, Roxanne?” He asks. I see his lips moving, but I don’t register what he’s saying. “You young kids,” he shakes his head, “if you weren’t so talented, I’d fire all of you. You have a visitor. I thought you knew boyfriends can’t hang around the shop!”

The owner. The man yelling at me is Garrett—the owner who can’t be bothered ever to show up. As far as I’m concerned, Stanford is in charge of everything around here. Garrett’s name on the lease would disagree.

He leaves the bathroom only to turn and come back, “I told Duncan to stop you from doing this. I hire people to clean this. You clean the stations, not shit.” He storms out again, hollering Duncan’s name.

Any other time that would’ve been funny, but now I can’t help but wonder, “Who the hell would be coming here to look for me?” I whisper to myself.

I drop everything and run to the front. Hoping it’s Max. There, with the same sour and surly expression on his face I’ve come to know, is Angel. He looks at all the art adorning the walls of the tattoo shop until he notices me.

“Roxie, can I take a moment of your time?” His rough and rocky voice makes me hope he’s sober.

I smile as I make my way to him. The grip on my arm stops me. I look to my left, and of course, it’s Duncan. I swear if he even tries to get me to go back into the bathroom. I’m about to bitch him out, especially with what I know now, but he speaks first.

“What is Angel doing here for you? You know him?”

I rear back some, shocked at his reaction regarding my best friend slash quazi-uncle. “Um, yes?” It comes out as a question because what the fuck? I get my arm out of his grip and grab Angel’s hand, pulling him out the front door. Once we’re outside and off to the side of the building, I let out a breath.

“Ang—”

“—I’m sorry.”

“What?”

He takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Roxie. I’ve been an ass, and I’ve been too busy trying to control your life as if you’re still the nine-year-old little girl who needed saving. I haven’t been listening to you. I’ve been too consumed with what I’ve felt is right for you, as if I knew better. I’m sick and fucking tired of feeling like I’m going to lose you because I can’t pull my head out of my ass.”

“I…wow. That’s, thank you.”

“I know I’m a lot, Roxie. I’m going to give you the typical answer: it’s because I care. I know that’s horseshit, but I do.”

“I know you do. You just went about it the wrong way.”

He laughs and pulls me into him. Our arms wrap around each other, and I smile. I am happy to have my friend back. “What do you say to me starting on that back piece for you as another form of sorry?”

I pull back, shocked but so damn happy, “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Also, you wanna come work at the shop instead?”

“If you would have allowed me to before I started here, I would have said yes. But I committed to working here. Duncan may be an ass, but Stanford is giving me the chance I wanted, and I’m going to see this out.”

He winces but then smiles, “That’s the right answer, Roxie. There’s always someone in a shop that you won’t vibe with, but continue to do what you’re good at. It’ll work out. Come by tonight, and we’ll get started.”

“Wait, how? You don’t know what I want.”

“If you think I can’t access what you’ve planned out, you’re crazy. Come by after work, Roxanne, and we’ll start.”

He winks and walks off as I stand there, wondering when he found the back piece I drew out. I can’t be bothered for too long by it. This is my family we’re talking about. If they want something, they’ll get it. Angel is no exception. With newfound happiness from getting my friend back and knowing my back piece is finally happening, I make my way back inside.