Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RAINE
W ith a groan, I roll toward the nightstand as my phone buzzes against the hard surface.
Buzz. Buzz.
I blink slowly, attempting to make my eyes work as I sit up straighter in my bed. I could ignore his call like I’ve done a hundred times in the past. Or, I could answer it.
Answer. It.
I slide my thumb across the screen, bring my cell to my ear, and croak, “Hello?”
“So she is alive.”
My dad’s grumbly voice wraps around me like a warm blanket, and I smile, shifting my phone to my other ear. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, Rainbow.”
“Hi,” I repeat, though my voice is even more of a croak than anything else.
“Did I wake you?”
I clear my throat and try again. “Yeah, but I forgive you.”
“Gee, thanks,” he grunts. “How are you?”
“I’m good. You?”
“Could be better,” he grunts. “Seems my youngest daughter is still avoiding me.”
“I’m not?—”
“Or she’s shit at returning phone calls.”
I lay back on my pillow and stare at the ceiling. “I believe I learned my hatred of phones from you.”
“Yeah, yeah. So, how’s the internship going?”
My nose wrinkles. “It’s, uh, it’s all right.”
“Is it?” my dad pushes.
I frown, sensing the shift in his tone. “Uh, yeah? Why do you ask?”
“Because I just got an email from Lucian. Since when are you looking for a new mentor?”
Sitting up again, I press my back to the headboard and tug my knees to my chest. “Since, uh, recently?”
“I thought you liked Lucian,” he grumbles. “Seems Lucian liked you.”
“Yeah, he was a really good mentor.”
“Yeah, I know he is. It’s the only reason I didn’t try to convince you to come to Etch ‘N’ Ink when you first showed interest in tattooing.”
My shoulders fall, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Dad…”
“What’s going on, Raine?”
“My apartment flooded, so I decided to find a new place, and the drive was too much?—”
“You moved?” he growls.
“I, uh, yeah. It was a spur of the moment decision, but I didn’t want to drive from Lockwood Heights to Cedar Springs everyday, so?—”
“Bo,” my dad prods. “What’s this really about?”
Oh, what a loaded question. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to come up with an answer not involving my abusive ex while also telling the truth or at least part of it.
“Dad…” My word hangs in the air, and I swallow thickly.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he murmurs.
“I was too ashamed to tell you what happened,” I admit. “And even now, I don’t really want to…you know. I mean, who, uh, who lets their apartment flood, right?”
“I’m gonna take you on. Mentor you.”
“Dad.”
“I’m serious, Bo,” he pushes. “It’ll be good for me to step back from the gallery for a little while, anyway. I could use a break.”
My mouth lifts. “Liar.”
“I would never,” he argues, but I can hear the amusement in his voice, and it eases the ache in my chest.
My dad’s an artist. A big, burly, fully-tatted artist who started out in the tattoo industry until a few of his pieces were displayed in a gallery or two, then, just like that, he became a world-renowned creative whose paintings go for more money than most make in a lifetime, let alone a year. He hasn’t worked in the tattoo shop he owns for over two decades, other than a quick pop-in here and there for his favorite clients. The idea of him stepping back from the gallery he opened with my mom a few years ago to mentor me is…a lot.
Thoughtful, sure. Intimidating, definitely. Unfair to every other starving artist out there? Yeah. One hundred percent.
“Dad,” I sigh. “I can figure this out on my own, remember?”
“That’s the beauty of family, though. Because of us, you don’t have to,” he reminds me. “Meet me at the shop at four, all right?”
“Daaaad.”
“I’m serious. ”
“So am I,” I push. “I don’t want any handouts. If I’m going to make it in this business, I need to make it because of my talent, not because of who my dad is.”
“I hear you, Bo,” he rasps.
“Do you, though?”
“You want to make it on your own, and you will,” he adds gently, “but there are a lot of shit artists out there, and if you’re back in Lockwood Heights, it makes sense to come to Etch ‘N’ Ink. Come on. Do your dad a favor and stop being stubborn. Just this once, yeah?”
Nibbling on the edge of my thumb, I consider my options while hating how few there are at the moment. I’m a nobody. A big. Fat. Nobody. Even with Lucian’s offer to help find me a new mentor, I’m stuck in the mountains for the foreseeable future, and asking Everett to drive me anywhere more than the bare minimum feels about as pleasant as having my toenails ripped out.
“Promise me you won’t treat me any different than you would a regular apprentice.”
His hesitation is louder than a blowhorn, and I pull my cell away from my ear, confirming he’s still on the line. Yup. The call is still connected, which means I’m not the only one dealing with a curveball from this conversation.
Good.
Because if I’m honestly caving right now, then I need to know it isn’t for nothing. And I need to know my super duper amazing—and super duper overprotective—family doesn’t get caught in the crosshairs of my screwup.
“I’ll see you at Etch ‘N’ Ink at four,” my dad grunts. “And give me access to your location again so I can see where you are every once in a while. Don’t think I didn’t notice when you stopped sharing with me. And it’s not because I’m stalking you, but because I care about you. ”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, though I know he sees right through it.
“That’s my girl. I’ll see you then.”
“See you, Dad,” I murmur when something catches my attention from the corner of my eye.
Resting his shoulder against the doorjamb, a shirtless Everett balances a plate in his hand.
I hang up the call and drop my phone onto my lap as I watch him carefully.
“How long were you eavesdropping?” I ask.
“Not too long.” Pushing himself away from the door, he strides closer and offers me an omelet. It smells amazing. Bacon, sausage, red peppers, purple onion. A sprig of, honestly, I don’t even know what herb it is, lies on top of the melted cheddar cheese, and my mouth waters.
“Did you make this?” I ask.
He nods. “Didn’t know if you preferred sausage or bacon, but, uh…eat up. It’s the most important meal of the day.”
“Thanks.” I take the plate, set it in my lap, and cut off a small bite with the fork he handed me, only to find a…I scoot the dark gray chunk from the omlet. Yup. It’s a mushroom. I hate mushrooms.
“There a problem?” Everett asks.
“Nope.” I push the stupid thing aside and cut off another bite, careful not to grab any mushroom with it before shoving it into my mouth. When my eyes nearly roll back into my head from the flavor explosion on my tastebuds, he asks, “You don’t like mushrooms?”
“This is great,” I point to my plate with the fork and go in for another bite while steering clear of the fungus bomb at the edge, praying he didn’t dice any stray pieces into the fluffy egg mixture.
As he watches me chew, Everett tilts his head. “You don’t like mushrooms.” It isn’t a question this time, and I kind of hate how easily he reads me.
I stop mid-chew and hold his gaze, trying not to squirm.
“You can tell me you don’t like mushrooms,” he adds.
Swallowing the most delicious omelet I’ve ever tasted—sans mushrooms—I argue, “Seriously, they’re great.”
His fingers brush against mine as he steals the fork from my grasp and stabs the mushroom, bringing it to my lips. “Prove it.”
My nose wrinkles, and he takes the bite for himself, chewing slowly as he holds my gaze, his own shining with curiosity. Once he swallows, he says, “You’re allowed to have opinions.”
“I know,” I murmur.
“And you’re allowed to tell me your opinions,” he adds, though it’s softer this time. I swear the low rasp of his voice is directly connected to the stupid organ in my chest as it picks up its pace.
“Here,” he reaches for my plate, but I tug it back.
“I like it.”
“I’ll make you another one,” he argues. “Without mushrooms.”
“Seriously, Ev, I want this one.”
“Stop trying to bullshit me.”
“I’m not bullshitting you.” I keep a firm grip on the plate, refusing to let him take it. “Seriously, I’m not.”
He stops fighting me but doesn’t let go of the dish, so I add, “I actually really like the flavor of mushrooms, but the texture messes with my head, and if I’m being completely honest, this is the best omelet I’ve ever tasted despite the fungus balls, so will you please let me finish it?”
His eyes fall to my mouth, but he lets go of the plate, and I take another bite of eggs, careful not to get any mushrooms with it .
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” he prods.
I cover my mouth so he can’t see me chewing and answer, “Uh, yeah. Have you ever been to Etch ‘N’ Ink?”
He shakes his head.
After swallowing, I explain, “It’s close to SeaBird. I need to be there at four.”
“I’ll be home in time to take you after practice and will hang out at the house until you’re finished. Does that work?”
“I might be late,” I argue.
“I can wait. Might wanna figure out what to do with your lip, though.” His eyes trail over me one more time. “Girls are on their way.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” he warns, pinching another mushroom between his fingers, popping it into his mouth, and sucking the edge of his thumb. His strong jaw flexes with every chew, and it’s weirdly…hot. Watching him clean up my mess and eat the scraps off my plate. “I’ll be home in a few hours.” Then, he walks away.
And as I watch him leave, my brows pull.
How can someone be so mercurial? So helpful but combative at the same time. It’s…dizzying. He’s right about the lip, though. I touch the still-tender cut and frown. My dad’s gonna kill me. But at least I’ll die with a belly full of deliciousness. Seriously. I cut another bite off and pick it up, studying the cheese’s string pull, perfectly tender vegetables, and bits of crumbled bacon folded into the fluffy egg.
Yeah, this man is…something else for sure.
“You have no idea how much I need this,” Finley announces as soon as I unlock the front door.
I won’t lie. I’ve been dreading this. Hanging out with girls I barely know all because Everett’s too stubborn to leave me alone. It’s…annoying. Thoughtful but annoying. Then again, I can’t decide if lining up a babysitter for me is the annoying part or if it’s the fact he thinks I need one in the first place.
Drake doesn’t know where I am. He has zero idea. And even if he did, the only thing he’s more obsessed with than me is hockey. Since he has hockey practice every morning, there’s no way he’d jeopardize his place on the bench by missing it to track me down. It also doesn’t help that I’ve only had one interaction with these girls, and even though they were nothing but friendly, I’m still wary. They don’t know me, and I sure as hell don’t know them, so why are we being forced to hang out together under the guise of a weekend morning hang out when we all know they’re only here to babysit me and hopefully keep Drake at bay.
Yeah, because these girls could stop him if he showed up on the doorstep. Then again, I guess there’s safety in numbers? Honestly, at this point, I don’t even know.
As Finley walks into the cabin like she owns the place—then again, I guess she does—Ophelia and Dylan trail behind, giving me smiles when they pass. Once everyone’s inside, I lock the front door, take a deep breath, and follow them into the kitchen. They each have sacks hanging from their arms, and I tilt my head as they set them on the counter, rummage through the contents, and place things in the fridge.
“What are you guys doing?” I ask.
“We’ve decided we’re vegging today,” Ophelia informs me.
“Oh! I brought you something,” Dylan adds.
She pulls a black and yellow gun from one of the sacks and tries to hand it to me, but I only stare at it. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s a taser,” she explains. “Reeves got one for each of us a little while ago. Thanks to his previous line of work?—”
“And Everett’s current one,” Finley chimes in.
Dylan bats her friend away and offers me the taser again. “ Reeves figured it would help him sleep at night if he knew all of us were carrying one since there are a lot of creepers out there.”
“Go figure you’d need it most,” Finley quips. “And in case you’re wondering, Dylan can confirm it definitely works.”
Dylan rolls her eyes. “I shot Reeves one time.”
“Yeah, and it was hilarious,” Finley replies.
Jutting her bottom lip out, Dylan folds her arms. “You said you wouldn’t make fun of me for it anymore, remember?”
Finley’s grin widens. “To be fair, you’re the one who brought it up.”
“You know what?” Dylan huffs. “One of these days, I really am gonna get a frog so I can threaten you with it.”
And just like that, the blood drains from Finley’s face. “Don’t. Even. Think about it.”
Confused by the chilly shift in the air, I ask, “I’m sorry, what did I miss?”
“Finley’s terrified of frogs,” Ophelia informs me as she starts digging through the cabinets for…something.
“I’m sorry, but who isn’t terrified of frogs?” Finley argues. “They’re slimy and squishy and unpredictable and?—”
“And the bane of Finley’s existence.” Dylan’s Cheshire grin is contagious, but I bite mine back and dig my teeth into the insides of my cheeks as she turns to me and adds, “They’re also the only leverage actually keeping Finley in check.”
“Har, har,” Finley grumbles under her breath. “At least my fear has merit. You and your aversion to anything pink and glittery is absolutely ridiculous.”
“I won’t crap my pants if I see something glittery,” Dylan argues. “Unlike you and your?—”
“Okay, enough fighting,” Ophelia interrupts. She opens the freezer and rummages through the shelves. “Fin, do you think your parents stashed any of Grandma’s famous cookie dough in here before they left?”
Finley scoffs. “You really think there’s ever any leftovers of that gold?”
“But I’m craving it,” Ophelia pouts.
“Can’t you call and ask for the recipe?” I chime in before I’m pinned with three pairs of eyes. Squirming from their scrutiny, I tug at my long sleeves and fold my arms. “What? Is that not an option?”
With a disgruntled push, Ophelia closes the freezer door. “Sometimes I forget most people look at recipes like they shouldn’t be held under lock and key.”
“Yeah, and then there’s our family,” Finley quips. She pulls out a bag of Cheetos and sets it beside a bottle of Diet Coke. “Don’t worry, though. I’ve helped my mom and grandma make those cookies a thousand times. I’m pretty sure I can remember the ratios.”
Pointing her finger at Finley, Dylan says, “You better because after your fight with Drew last night, you deserve the chocolate fix more than anyone.”
Finley folds her arms. “Who said I had a fight with Drew?”
“Come on. It doesn’t take a genius to overhear you screaming in your room,” argues Ophelia.
“I wasn’t screaming,” Finley defends. “I was…scolding. Loudly.”
“Because that’s what a boyfriend needs. A loud scolding from his girlfriend.” Ophelia snorts. “Take it or leave it, but in my opinion, the only time a guy should make you scream is when you’re riding his?—”
“Lia!” Dylan squeals.
“Yeah, I feel like that’s something I would say, not you.” Finley tilts her head and rocks back on her heels, tapping her finger against her chin as she studies Ophelia. “I don’t know if I should be offended or impressed. What do you think, Raine?”
“I think Ophelia’s onto something,” I admit.
“Yeah, Maverick’s dick,” Finley quips.
“Oh, shut up.” Ophelia smacks her friend’s shoulder, folds her arms, and turns to me. “You were saying, Raine?”
“I was saying that even though I think you make a good point, I’m not sure I’m the best person to give relationship advice, so…”
Finley laughs. “Good point. Speaking of which, how was your first night with my brother, anyway?”
“Fine.” I shrug. “We made lasagna, then went to bed.”
“Lasagna, huh?” Dylan smirks at her friends, sits at the granite island, and rests her chin in her hands. “Interesting.”
“And why is it interesting?”
“Because lasagna’s the big guns,” Finley points out. “Did he let you help?”
I hesitate. “Why do I feel like this is a trick question?”
“Come on. Answer it,” Dylan pushes.
My lips purse, but I give in anyway. “Yes?”
“Damn,” Dylan sits back in her chair and folds her arms. “I’m impressed.”
“Why?”
“Because my brother’s hella controlling. If he let you help, it’s because he wanted to be around you. Wanted to give you a glimpse of his world instead of keeping you at arm's length like he does with…basically everyone.”
“I think you’re reading too much into things,” I decide.
“And I think you aren’t reading into them enough. But don’t worry. We’re the queens of over-dissecting situations, so…maybe keep it in mind,” Ophelia teases. “But first, I wanted to ask if you’re okay with Maverick crashing our party since all the guys are at practice. ”
She isn’t looking at Dylan or Finley. She’s only looking at me. And I hate that I think I know why. “Why would I care?”
“Because you were kind of weird around him the last time you two were in the same room,” Finley chimes in.
Pressing my lips together, I stay quiet. I could tell them the truth. I could also deflect. But for some reason, I like these girls. I like their banter. Their chaos. Their inside jokes and innocent teasing. It’s a little pathetic to admit I don’t have many friends who are girls. And the few I collected over the years all kind of fell off the face of the earth after I started dating Drake. Or maybe it was me who fell off the face of the earth. Regardless, it’s nice. Nice joking about riding guys’ dicks and tasing boyfriends by accident. It’s nice opening up and chatting about…anything, really.
Finley pops the bag of Cheetos open and offers it to me. “You can fight it all you want, Rainey, but we will be friends one day.”
“And friends talk,” Dylan adds.
“Which means you should, too.” Finley nudges the bag toward me again. “Come on. Give us a chance.”
Reaching into the bag, I take a Cheeto and toss it into my mouth as Finley grins back at me like she just solved a cold case.
“Fine,” I concede. “My family doesn’t know I was dating Drake.” I hesitate. “Okay, they knew I was dating someone, but they didn’t know how serious we were or that we were living together or that he left me on the side of the road in the middle of the night?—”
Finley scoffs. “Yeah, he’s a real gentleman, that one.”
“Exactly,” I tell her. “It’s why I was acting weird around Mav. I didn’t…I don’t want him to tell them about…everything.”
Ophelia reaches across the island and puts her hand on mine. “I think if Maverick’s learned anything over the past year, it’s the understanding that sometimes people keep things close to their chest for a reason, and it isn’t fair to pry until they’re ready.” She leans closer. “But he’s also learned how much easier it is to carry a burden with help than by yourself.”
“Subtle,” Finley notes dryly.
Ophelia ignores her. “I’m just saying…”
“Yeah, I know,” I murmur.
“But for now, what do you say? Do you mind if he comes if he promises not to pry?”
“This isn’t my house.”
“Yeah, but it’s your safe space,” she argues. “At least for a little while, so you definitely have a say in who is and isn’t allowed to walk through those doors.”
A safe space.
I’d laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic.
Since when is a stranger’s house more safe than your own apartment? Oh, I know. When you’re dealing with an asshole like Drake.
What’s worse is knowing I made this bed all on my own. I’m the one who isolated myself. Like a frog in water, like I described to Everett, I took something for granted and replaced it with toxicity, and now I'm the one who boiled to death.
Okay, what a gross metaphor.
Doesn’t mean it isn’t fitting, though.
Still, I do believe Ophelia. And if she thinks Maverick won’t say anything to his parents, I do, too.
With a deep breath, I announce, “Maverick’s welcome whenever he wants.” I hesitate. “But maybe don’t invite his parents?”
The girls laugh, each sharing a knowing look as Dylan grabs some glasses from the cabinet and Ophelia reaches for the Diet Coke. “Don’t worry, Raine. We love our parents and know they’d do anything for us, but we also know what it’s like to make decisions they might not understand.”
“And I know you might not know us very well,” Dylan adds, “But we’re good at keeping secrets.”
“And we’re good at having each others’ backs, too,” Ophelia murmurs.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“And now…” Finley pops a Cheeto into her mouth. “We veg.”
It’s a solid hour later when the familiar knock of knuckles against wood echoes through the house. With a grin, Ophelia jumps to her feet and practically skips toward the door, returning with Maverick a minute later.
I wasn’t kidding when I said our families aren’t very close. Or at least not compared to my dad and his roommates from college. But still. His mom is my dad’s best friend’s niece. It might be a smaller branch of the family tree, but it connects us nonetheless.
Please don’t say anything.
My stomach knots as I peek over at him, offering a pathetic wave.
He lifts his chin in greeting, then plops down on the couch as Ophelia sits right next to him. Slipping off his shoes, he sets his feet on the coffee table and makes himself comfortable as Game of Thrones plays on the television. It was Dylan’s choice. Apparently, Reeves has been begging her to watch the series for a while now, and they’re already in season three. After giving me a quick recap that included a whiteboard and a very twisted family tree, we pushed play, stocked up on snacks, and got comfy on the couch. It’s been nice .
Relaxing.
I haven’t had a day like this in…I don’t even know how long.
But what I like even more is Maverick’s lack of interrogation. I’ve always known my cousin was a good guy, but he proved it all over again, and I kind of want to hug him for it.
“I’m gonna make some popcorn,” he announces a little while later. “Do any of you want some?”
“I’ll help you,” I offer. Standing up, I wipe my sweaty palms against my leggings and follow him to the kitchen. It feels awkward and forced, but I don’t see this conversation not having both feelings no matter how long I put this off, so I pull my big girl panties up and rip the whole thing off like a Band-Aid.
When I reach the kitchen, I tuck my hands into my elbows, and my lips scrunch on one side. I’m unsure what to do or say now that I’m actually standing here.
With a smirk, he glances at me. “Is this you helping?”
I clear my throat, grab a bowl from one of the cabinets, and hand it to him.
“Thanks.” Plastic crinkles as he rips the popcorn open and sets the trifold bag into the microwave, slapping it closed and pressing the popcorn button. Turning back to me, he murmurs, “A little birdie told me I’m not allowed to pry.”
“Yeah, well, the little birdie is very kind to stand up for me.”
He smiles. “She’s a goose. And geese can be pretty, uh,” he scratches the scruff of his jaw, “overbearing sometimes.”
My mouth lifts. “I can imagine. Speaking of overbearing…you’ve met my family, Mav. You really don’t think my dad or brother would kill Drake if they found out about what he’s been doing to me?”
His brows pull. “They love you.”
“I know they do,” I rush out. “And I know they’d do anything for me, and I mean anything.” I tug at the edge of my sleeves and squeeze them in my fists as I stare at the granite countertop. “But you know my dad, let alone Dodge.”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah, your older brother’s something else.”
“He’s insane, Mav.”
“He’s a rockstar, Bo,” Mav counters. “Being a little unhinged comes with the job title, don’t you think?”
“He thinks he’s untouchable,” I argue. “And he’s impulsive, and?—”
“And you think he’d do something stupid under the guise of protecting you.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. And when you factor in my dad and mom and Penelope, let alone Dodger’s PR team, it…it would be a disaster.”
He leans against the counter as if his strength is depleted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I get it.”
I pull back, surprised. “You do?”
“Yeah. I’m not saying you’re right to keep them in the dark, but I get why you want to.” He pulls me into his chest and rubs his hand along my spine. “Fuck, Bo.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and lean into him.
“Your secret’s safe with me. Besides, between my surgery and Archer’s…” He gulps. “I think it’s enough shit on our families’ plates. If it gets worse, we have to tell them, though.”
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I agree.”
“Good. For now, we do whatever Reeves tells us to. Your safety is our first priority. Then it’s everyone else's feelings and your brother’s protection.”
“Okay.”
The beep of the microwave makes him sigh. “Grab the bowl.”
“Okay,” I repeat, handing the bowl to Maverick. He empties the bag of popcorn into the glass, making me feel as light as the little puffed-up kernels covered in butter and salt.
He isn’t going to say anything.
My family never has to know. And honestly, it’s nice knowing I now have one less ax hanging over my head. One less thing to worry about.
Maybe I’ll be able to get rid of a few more after all.