The Ink Vendetta

1. ONE

ONE

CORY

Two years ago

“To Hayes and Kinsley! May your love burn brighter than the sun, and last longer than Hayes! Cheers!” I raised my glass of champagne in the air briefly before tossing it back.

It was a joke I had discussed with the couple beforehand, but as I surveyed the room filled with their family and friends, most of whom I’d known my whole life, it was evident that it landed better with some than it did with others. That was pretty on brand for things where I was concerned.

I was an “acquired taste” as Kinsley liked to put it, but I knew that was my sweet, doesn’t-have-a-bad-word-to-say-about-anyone friend’s way of saying I was a cold-hearted bitch. Even Kinsley probably wouldn’t like me if it weren’t for our mothers enrolling their three-year-old daughters in a prestigious ballet class, but twenty-two years later and here we are—practically grandfathered into the friendship .

We may have bonded over our hatred for ballet through the years, but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Kinsley was tall, with hair so blonde you’d swear she bleached it, and light blue eyes, I was short, with midnight-black hair and eyes so brown they appeared almost black. Kinsley was a social butterfly and incredibly great with people. I was more of an antisocial raccoon. I liked nighttime, junk food, and had the equivalent levels of social grace.

There were also the tattoos. Kinsley didn’t have any; she barely had any freckles marking her perfectly tanned skin. I, on the other hand, had almost half my body covered in them. Vibrant pops of neo-traditional artwork from several artists, and a few pieces I’d done myself, covered both of my arms, my chest, and a good portion of one of my thighs. The goal wasn’t to cover myself head to toe, but I was a little addicted to the feeling and a lot obsessed with art.

On paper, our friendship didn’t make any logical sense, but something in Kinsley welcomed all the rough parts of me, and made me feel like those parts were just as good. Like if Kinsley was a flower, then I was the thorns. Maybe not as beautiful, but just as vital.

I placed a kiss on Kinsley’s cheek and hugged Hayes before heading back to my seat. I made the mistake of glancing over to where I knew my mother sat. Even in the ambient light of the country club, I could tell Annette’s face was burning with embarrassment at my crassness. She stretched her flawlessly painted lips tight in that fake smile she reserved exclusively for me .

“Great speech, girlie!” Allison said, briefly placing her hand on my shoulder.

I had met her a few times over the years, when I drove to visit Kinsley at college. While Allison wasn’t my cup of tea, she was the perfect roommate for Kinsley. They liked the same music, loved paint-and-sip wine nights, and they both knew the difference between “styling” and “wearing” clothes. I was happy that Kinsley had someone like Allison in her life, if only so that I didn’t have to do all the things Kinsley liked, but I hated.

“I didn’t look pained?” I joked and sipped the rest of my tequila soda until I made a loud, slurping sound.

Allison chuckled. “Oh, I didn’t say that. I said it was a good speech. You looked like there was someone holding a knife to your back. Or like you were wearing shoes filled with rusty nails. Or like—”

I cut her off with a light back hand to the arm. “All right, I get it! I told Kinsley she should’ve had you do it. I hate public speaking.” I waved my empty glass toward Allison. “I’m getting another. You want one?”

“Nah, I’m all set. I need to pace myself so that I can still dance when Shania Twain comes on.”

I grimaced. “Oof, yeah, remind me to be in the bathroom when that one plays,” I said over my shoulder as I made a beeline for the bar at the back of the dining room.

Kinsley was the type of girl who had her wedding planned before there was a ring on her finger or a guy in the picture. As her longest and best friend, Kinsley had naturally assumed I would be her maid of honor, but that kind of responsibility and pressure made me nervous. If we were being honest, we both knew Allison was a much better candidate for that role. So, Kinsley asked Allison, and I agreed to be a bridesmaid with the stipulation of giving a speech. I said yes, but the price was an open bar because there was no way I was speaking in front of people without tequila.

Which was how I found myself leaning against the bar for the third or fourth time that evening, since the reception started an hour and a half ago. Both bartenders knew my order at this point, so I just threw my tip in the jar and waited with what I hoped was a friendly smile on my face.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t having fun. Getting ready with Kinsley and the other girls while chatting away over mimosas surrounded by the smell of hairspray was actually a great time. It was just that weddings weren’t really my thing, or at least weddings at uppity country clubs with my parents in attendance weren’t really my thing. Even Kinsley’s parents I could do without, though they’d never been outwardly judgemental in the same way my parents tended to be.

Sure, weddings were beautiful and romantic to those in relationships, but I only ever found myself feeling exceptionally alone. I was fine with that ninety percent of the time, but something about never getting a plus one felt more and more like a slap in the face.

“Is this spot taken?” A low, rough voice sounded from my left. I glanced over and let my eyes travel upward to meet blue eyes that would’ve been piercing if not warmed by the most charming dimples I’d ever seen on a man. He was tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. He had his dark hair shaved shorter on the sides, and left longer on top. And damn, did he look good in a suit.

Judging by the looks of him, I figured he had to be one of Hayes’s work friends, but then, why had I never seen him before? He was ruggedly handsome, but in a way that was still somehow classically beautiful. Meaning he had a face I would’ve remembered if we’d met before.

I smirked over my drink. “Woof! Really? You’re going to go with the safe, classic ‘is this seat taken’ line?”

The man chuckled, and those dimples deepened, even through the light layer of scruff he was sporting. “The other option was ‘lovely weather we’re having,’ but I figured weather small talk might not be your thing.” His hands gripped the elegant wire backing of the barstool, and the contrast between his large, rough hands and the thin metal sent a chill down my spine. He pulled the chair out and settled beside me.

He probably played the bass. Bass players had big hands, right?

Stop thinking about his hands, I mentally chided myself.

“Is a conversation about the weather really anyone’s thing?” I forced myself to look away from his fingers before my mind got carried away thinking about all the things he could probably do with them, and focused back on our conversation.

“A weatherman’s for sure. Probably a pilot’s as well. I would venture that landscapers and construction workers care a great deal about it, too.” He set his empty glass on the bar and flagged down the bartender for another.

“Okay, Mr. Literal.” I rolled my eyes, but played along. “Seems like you care a lot about the weather. Are you in construction?”

“How do you know I’m not a weatherman?” he quipped with a flirtatious smile dancing on his lips.

I quirked an eyebrow at him and then let my eyes roam down his body. “I’m going to hazard a guess that you didn’t get all muscly like that”—I waved a finger through the air, motioning toward his body—“from formulating forecasts.”

That got a laugh out of him.

He took his drink from the bartender and nodded, taking a sip before answering. “I’ve seen some jacked weathermen. You ever seen the guy on channel seven? He’s an absolute unit.”

“I guess I’ll have to start tuning in to channel seven then.”

“Or I could just tell you the weather.”

“Every morning?”

He shrugged with a smirk. “Sure, why not?”

My cheeks warmed and my stomach flipped playfully. It had been a while since I’d let myself flirt, and even longer since I followed through with that flirting. But something about this guy made me want to change that.

I let my mouth drop playfully. “Are you flirting with me?”

He threw a thumb over his shoulder and glanced back. “I thought that was evident by my ‘Is this seat taken?’ line.” He shook his head in mock embarrassment. “Damn. I knew I should’ve gone with asking about the weather.” When his gaze found mine again, there was playful mischief dancing in those twin pools of blue that I just couldn’t look away from. This was fun. He was fun.

“I’ve got to give it to you. You’re good.” I saluted him with my drink.

“So, it’s working, then?” He shot me a roguish smile, his muscular forearm resting against the bar top.

“That depends. What are you trying to accomplish?” I leaned forward slightly. There was something about him, more than just his eyes and his charm, that had me utterly enthralled.

He hummed, the sound low in his throat, and then smiled. “Let’s say I just wanted to know your name.”

I leaned closer, my voice a whisper. “I’d say you’re a liar and a boring one at that.” I pulled back slightly, the buzz he was giving me somehow more potent than the alcohol I was drinking. “And that you should already know my name from the killer speech I gave.”

He wet his lips on a smirk and my eyes tracked the movement. “I, unfortunately, didn’t get the pleasure of hearing it. I had to take an important phone call.”

“A phone call? Who takes a phone call at a wedding?” I shot him a skeptical look.

“Touche, Miss . . .” He tried again.

“I’m not saying.” I smirked, sipping my drink.

He ran a hand over his cheeks, down to his chin, then leaned back slightly. “And why not?”

I turned toward him, my knee bumping his as I slid closer. “Because if we’re going to sleep together, I can’t have you falling in love with me. So, no. No names. ”

Desire sparked in his eyes, and he leaned forward. He smelled like whiskey and whatever cologne he put on for the wedding. I wanted to bathe in it, or roll around in it like an animal in heat.

“Is that what you’re trying to accomplish?” His husky voice sent tingles through my body.

“Let’s say it was, what would you say?”

“Oh, I’d say yes in a heartbeat. But I’d have a question.” He leaned closer and placed a hand on my leg where the slit in my dress revealed perhaps a little too much skin. His voice was low, so low that I almost didn’t hear him over the music filling the room. Shania Twain.

“If you don’t know my name, then what will you scream later?”

“Who says I’ll be screaming anything?”

“Trust me, you will.”

Let’s go, girls, indeed.

***

This was death.

My head felt like there were dozens of tiny jackhammers attempting to fracture my skull, and I still had the spins like I was on a never-ending Tilt-A-Whirl.

I lifted my hands and pressed them to my eye sockets. Tequila never did me dirty like this; it’s why it was my favorite.

Then I registered the soft breathing and heat emanating next to me and memories of the previous night washed over me.

I remembered the man with dark hair, beautiful eyes, and dirty mouth who had another two drinks with me at the bar before leaving the wedding. I’d followed him back to his room. I remembered opening the minibar and passing the bottle of whiskey back and forth between heated kisses. And no matter how drunk I might have been, I remembered in perfect, vivid detail the mind-blowing sex I had with the mystery man beside me.

We had managed to not share our names the entire night, and instead joked around by calling each other different celebrity names we thought the other resembled.

“Strip.” His voice was commanding, yet soft from where he sat at the edge of the bed.

“As you wish, Chris Hemsworth.” I smirked and reached around my back to slide the zipper of my dress down.

“Watch it, Megan Fox.”

I rolled my eyes and let the dress hit the floor. “Should I leave the heels on, Henry Cavill?”

He studied me a moment, then reached out, grabbing my hips and hauling my body to his until I was flush up against his chest. He palmed my ass with both hands.

“Leave the heels, Mila Kunis.” He unclasped my bra single-handedly, and then sucked one of my nipples into his mouth, biting gently. “And how did you wear a dress with a slit that high and not wear panties?”

I understood now what romance books meant when they said the main character growled.

I pushed my hands through his hair and tilted his head back. “Oh, Jack Sparrow, you’d be surprised how much I can do without panties.”

He didn’t look anything like Johnny Depp—my first celebrity name had been more accurate—but I needed to lighten the intensity of the moment, or I’d risk breaking my own rule.

He chuckled, sliding one of his hands up to the back of my neck to bring my face down to his until his lips just ghosted over mine. “That’s Captain Jack Sparrow to you.”

I removed my hands from my eyes and took a moment to look over at the sleeping man beside me. It was a shame my life didn’t have room for romance at the moment because he really was incredibly handsome.

But I had shit to do. Shit to prove .

And with that self-reminder, I inhaled deeply and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I moved slowly, in part because I was afraid that any sudden movement would make me vomit, but also because I really didn’t want to wake the man beside me. If he woke up, we’d have to do the awkward “thanks for last night,” “let me take you to breakfast,” “can I have your number?” dance and I didn’t want any of that.

Gathering my clothes and shoes from where they were discarded in a heap on the floor I crept into the hotel bathroom.

Once the door clicked shut, I inhaled another deep breath through my nose and turned the light on.

Shit.

Why were the lights in hotel bathrooms always so damn bright? I didn’t need the sun lighting my way to the toilet; regular light bulbs would do. One regular light bulb would do.

It was only after I was sure my nausea was under control and the pulsing in my skull subsided that I looked into the mirror and took stock of my situation.

My long, jet-black hair, which the hairstylist had delicately pinned up in an elegant updo, was now more reminiscent of a tumbleweed. The false lashes that framed my dark eyes clung to my actual lashes for dear life, and my lipstick was sitting not just on my lips but smudged around them.

I look like a clown.

I didn’t feel like a clown though. At least, not like I thought I would after going home with some random guy from my best friend’s wedding. I should’ve felt that classic one-night-stand emotional cocktail of shame, guilt, and disgust, but instead, I just felt relaxed—content even. And that scared me because I needed to stay focused on chasing my dreams. Men only derailed that.

I removed the lashes and washed my face, but didn’t dare risk a shower or using the toilet. The lights in hotel bathrooms might be bright, but nothing was louder than a hotel toilet.

Dressing as quickly as I could, I took one last look in the mirror before opening the bathroom door.

He was still in bed, sleeping soundly if the quiet snoring was any indication.

Why was that a little disappointing?

I snatched my purse from the desk, fumbling with my keys on the way to the door, and paused. Leaving now was the wisest choice, I knew that, but a small part of me desperately wanted to stay, grab coffee, and eat breakfast. Maybe get his number. But that was how relationships started, so I grabbed the doorknob and glanced over my shoulder at his sleeping form. “Bye, Chris Pratt,” I whispered.

Or at least, I thought I’d whispered it, but as I was stepping out of the room, I heard a deep voice, still thick with sleep without being any less attractive, call back, “Bye, Lucy Hale!”

I quickly slammed the door behind me and sprinted toward the elevators, trying to wipe the grin from my face as I did.

Turns out, I didn’t have to try all that hard because once I fished my phone out of my purse, the smile died on my lips. Fourteen text messages and five missed calls from my mother.

And it was only nine in the morning.

I didn’t bother listening to the voicemails or even reading all the texts; I had a pretty good idea of what they said.

Sighing, I dropped my head back against the wall of the elevator as I debated the pros and cons of returning her call. It was too early to talk with her, but the longer I waited, the worse it was going to be. Previous experience taught me that my mother knew no boundaries. If I didn’t respond to her through the phone, she’d show up in person. I groaned as I exited the elevator, clicking on my mother’s contact.

No surprise, she answered on the first ring. “Well, Cordelia, how nice of you to decide to finally get up.”

Good morning to you, too.

“Well, Annette, I figured you already got the worm this morning, so there really wasn’t a reason for me to wake up early.”

“Ah, good to see your humor from last night is still intact.” Her voice was pure, unfiltered disdain.

And there was the conversation I knew would be coming. I walked out of the hotel onto the busy sidewalks of Boston, and began hailing for a cab.

“So, you liked my speech?” I replied in a chipper voice, knowing it would rattle my mother’s cage.

This was our relationship, if one could even call it that. We may never have had the loving mother-daughter bond, but ever since I quit dance at seventeen and got my first tattoo with a fake ID, our relationship had fallen from mildly uncomfortable to combative and tense. It was as if she took my passion for tattooing as a personal attack and formal declaration of war. Everything with her since had been a battle—a power play.

If I was being honest, the constant fighting was getting exhausting. Every time I swore to myself that this time would be the last—that I would sever ties and walk away from her. But there was a small part of me, a part that apparently liked getting hurt, that kept holding out hope for the day that she’d accept me as I was.

Annette’s love was very much surface-level, and what she saw on my surface, she absolutely did not love.

“No, Cordelia, you know very well that I did not like your speech. What were you thinking, making remarks about your best friend’s husband’s sexual proclivity during a wedding toast? And in front of both of their families, no less! Do you have any idea—”

I let my mother’s voice drone on through the phone as I finally flagged down a cab and climbed into the backseat. After muting my end of the line, I gave the driver my address, and then opened a game on my phone.

The only thing Annette Eastwood cared about more than money was her image, which could likely be said about most wealthy people. The difference was that my family wasn’t as rich as the people my parents associated with, and that was a problem in her eyes—a problem she rectified by faking it until she made it. No one would ever suspect that the Eastwoods lacked a couple of zeros at the end of their bank account because my mother carried herself with the prestige and pompousness that came from excessive money. Our family image was spotless, or it was until I went and tainted it.

“It’s bad enough you look like a delinquent, but to talk like one as well? Your father and I raised you better than that!”

That was about as much of my mother as I could take in the morning.

“Thank you so much for your feedback, Annette. I’ll be sure to take all of that into careful consideration for my next speech. I’ve got to go rob a bank, but we’ll chat soon, okay?”

I hung up the phone and stared out the window.

At the end of the day, that was my mother’s biggest problem with me—the reason why I failed her as a daughter. It wasn’t because I made a sex joke in a speech at a wedding, or lost my job as a lifeguard at the country club the summer I got my license, or wore too much red, which apparently gave people “the wrong impression”—whatever that meant.

It was because I gave up dancing, gave up my Juilliard acceptance, chose tattooing, and marred my body with “disgusting drawings.”

I let myself feel the familiar sting that usually accompanied her words, and then packed it up and locked it away.

When I happened to look up again, I made eye contact with the nervous and unsure-looking cab driver in the rearview mirror.

I gave a reassuring smile, saying, “I’m not actually going to rob a bank,” and went back to the game on my phone which was now serving to try to help me forget two things: the conversation I just had with my mother, and the gorgeous man I left in bed at the hotel.