Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
RAINE
“ Y ou ready yet?” my dad asks.
I peek up from my sketchbook and frown. “If I say no, will I be in the doghouse again?”
My dad’s been suggesting I give him or my mom or my brother or even one of his favorite clients a tattoo almost every day this past week. At first, it was only here and there. His offer to walk me through giving my first official tattoo. But lately, he’s more persistent. More pushy. I think he’s caught on to my fear, no matter how ridiculous it really is. But I’m not him. I’m not my dad. I’m not some…prodigy. I’m just me, and a small part of me is terrified I’m not enough. Terrified I’ll make a mistake. One someone will have to wear for the rest of their life unless they’re willing to pay for removal, and how would that look? The infamous Milo Anders’ youngest daughter. The screw up. The failure. The girl who couldn’t hack it.
At first, it was pretty easy to shrug off my dad’s offer to be my first guinea pig, saying I wanted to finish a piece in my notebook or do a few more practice runs on the fake skins instead. Apprentices use them to work on their craft and make sure the needle doesn’t go too deep or shallow. It’s great for newbies like me, even though I’m not stupid enough to believe tattooing on the fake stuff is anything close to the real thing. Human skin. Regardless, when I began working here, my dad bought my excuses, but over the last couple of weeks, he’s wisened up to my stalling tactics.
He plops down onto the swivel stool and casts a quick glance at the clock on the wall, giving me his full attention. “I have a few minutes before my next appointment. You can always give me a quick?—”
“Not ready yet.”
“Rainbow.” He scoots his chair into my periphery, grabs the edge of my notepad, and lowers it. “What’s going on?”
With a smile, I turn back to my half-finished drawing. “Nothing.”
“Is it about your boy?”
I scoff and look up at him again. “One, no, this has nothing to do with my boy. His name is Everett, by the way. And two, I thought we’d moved past this.”
“Not until you let me officially meet him,” my dad volleys back at me. “I’m still waiting for our introduction.”
“You’ve already had your introduction,” I remind him.
“I’d hardly call a two-minute run-in when you’re covered in bruises an introduction.”
With a sigh, I shift in my seat, running my tongue along the inside of my upper lip and across my teeth. I hate how he hasn’t dropped it yet. His determination to find the culprit behind the bruises Drake gifted me with. He doesn’t get it, though. Why I need him to let it go. Why I need any reminder of all things Drake to be shoved under the rug, never to see the light of day. But making assumptions and piecing together nonexistent strings, like Everett’s connection to said bruises, is a joke. And it’s one I don’t find very funny, especially if there’s any chance of my dad actually accepting Everett as my boyfriend and welcoming him with open arms.
Pinning my dad with a sharp look, I say, “Let’s cut to the chase.”
His mouth twitches as he shifts on the faux leather stool. “By all means, Bo. The floor’s all yours.”
“He didn’t do it,” I announce.
“And who did?”
“Dad,” I repeat. “He. Didn’t. Do. It.”
“And. Who. Did?” my dad returns, mirroring my inflection. He isn’t mad. Not really. But it’s still infuriating.
Curtly, I offer, “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
“You know, sometimes our conversations feel like I’m pulling teeth,” he points out, stating the obvious. “Who are you trying to protect?”
“I’m not trying to protect anyone.”
“Then why can’t you tell me the truth, Bo?”
Trepidation swims in my gut, and I push aside the tiny voice inside my head. The one willing me to open up to him. It likes to flare up when my dad looks at me like this. Like he cares and loves me and wants to make sure I’m safe. The funny thing is, since moving in with Everett, I’ve never felt safer.
“You want the truth, old man?” I ask.
“Before I turn eighty? Yes.”
I lean closer to him and wrinkle my nose, giving him a mock glare. “Here it is, but you won’t like it.”
“Ready whenever you are.”
“The truth is…” I pause for effect. “You need to look into cleaning out your ears because I already told you it was a bar fight?—”
His groan cuts me off. “And I already told you, I think you’re full of shit.”
I’m not surprised he doesn’t buy it. Thankfully, I also know he’ll drop the interrogation after he says his peace, the same way he has at least once a week since I started working here. Even so, it still makes me want to wrap up this conversation as quickly as possible so we can move on to things like my oldest niece’s first word or what kind of chaos Dodger is stirring up while on the last leg of his tour.
I paste on a fake smile and tilt my head. “Maybe you should have a little more faith in your daughter.”
“Maybe you should have a little more faith in your old man,” he counters. “How are things?”
“Honestly?” I hesitate as I reflect on the last few weeks since Everett’s attack. He didn’t go to the cops even though I told him to. Why? Well, call it a hunch, but I think it’s because of the original promise he made to keep the cops in the dark. In fact, he’s been quite stubborn about it, even giving me shit for telling him to press charges.
“Oh, so I can call the cops about Drake, but you can’t?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah? Well, so am I. What’s done is done. Now, come over here and kiss me.”
I let it go after that. Not because Drake deserved to get away with jumping Everett without repercussions but because Everett deserves to have a say in the matter like I did. It also doesn’t help knowing the owner of the gas station is a huge Grizzlies fan and most likely wiped the security footage before Griffin and Reeves even arrived on the scene. It’s also probably why Drake brutally pulled the trigger in the first place. Right time, right place, and all that.
Asshole.
Even so, it’s been nice. Having Everett all to myself while he’s healing. After the incident, he had to sit out of a couple of games, much to his dismay, but it’s been kind of fun to go to them together. Okay, together is a bit of a stretch. He’s still on the bench, and I’m still in the stands with Finley and Dylan, as well as Maverick and Ophelia when she doesn’t have a game. Yeah, you better believe Maverick sits front and center during every Lady Hawks game when Ophelia plays. It’s pretty adorable. But I’ve still been able to drive with Everett to the men’s games instead of separately, so I think it still counts.
The bruises have finally faded, and he doesn’t grunt when he stands from the couch anymore. Still, it hasn’t erased the image of Griffin and Reeves carrying him inside, no matter how much I wish it would. We don’t talk about it, though. The incident. Drake. Or any of the repercussions. I’m not sure there’s anything left to say at this point. Hopefully, Drake made his point, feels like he was vindicated, and it’s over. Done.
Hopefully.
The possibility is like a huge weight lifted from my shoulders.
Please let it be over.
Everett still drives me to and from work, and I still live under his parents’ roof. It’s strange. How comfortable we’ve gotten. I like it, though. The comfort. The routine. I was almost sad when Everett’s coach agreed to let him play at practice today. Apparently, the coach bought the whole “I don’t know who jumped me” line Everett fed him.
After their team physician checked Everett out and cleared him for playing, he’s been consumed with all things LAU. Well, and me. He’s been pretty consumed by me, too. My lips curve up at the memory of last night and the way he ate me out on the kitchen counter.
“Bo?” my dad prods. “How are things?”
I clear my throat and smile back at him. “Things are…really good, actually.”
“You sure? ”
“Yeah.” Other than Everett having the shit kicked out of him, anyway , I silently add to myself.
“And you and the guy are doing well?” he prods.
“His name’s Everett,” I remind him, well aware I’ve already mentioned it a handful of times during this conversation alone. “And, yes. We’re doing really well.”
He quirks his brow. “Well enough for an introduction?”
“You really won’t quit, will you?” I humph.
He grabs the base of my chair and drags me to face him. “Where do you think you got your stubbornness from?”
I bite the inside of my cheek and stay quiet. Part of me wants to laugh at the man’s audacity. The other part wishes I could take it back. Their first meeting. That I could bring Everett to a family dinner without any prejudice. That I could trust my family to give him an actual chance instead of assuming Everett’s the one who hurt me and lumping him in with assholes like Drake when it couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Your brother’s coming into town for a concert at SeaBird,” my dad adds. “I want you to bring him.”
I open my mouth to find an excuse but close it quickly, knowing he won’t buy it. Not in the long run. Not when this is the other question he can’t help bringing up every time I’m at work. Every time he sees Everett’s car parked in the front parking space. Every time he catches me climbing out of Everett’s car when I’m dropped off. Every time he asks about my love life or living situation, I have to dodge his questions instead of telling him the truth. My dad wants me to let him in again, and after months of pushing him away while he refuses to go anywhere, I have a feeling it’s the least I can do.
Chewing on the end of my pencil, I avoid my dad’s stare and mumble, “Not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Just trying to show I care while respecting your boundaries, Rainbow. ”
My lips bunch on one side as I take in the crinkles around his eyes. He really is a good guy. One of the best.
Giving in, I exhale, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He nudges my chin up and smiles. “That’s my girl. Is he picking you up today?”
I shake my head. “His friend is.”
“And who is this friend?” he prods.
“His name is Griffin, and before you ask, no. You can’t meet him, either.”
Clutching his chest, my dad spins his swivel chair away like he’s been dealt a fatal blow. “Breaking my heart, Rainbow. Breaking my heart.”
“Sure I am,” I toss back at him without bothering to hide my grin or rolling eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish this drawing in private.”
“You do know I’m your boss, right?” he challenges as I stand up and press my notepad to my chest.
My gaze flicks to the waiting area. “Your next client’s here.”
“Perfect. You can prep the stencil.” He snaps his fingers and points back to my chair. “Chop, chop.”
“Okay, but no actual tattooing yet. Right?”
“And why would we do that?” He snorts.
My butt hits the seat, nonetheless. It looks like I’m off the hook for another day.
Perfect.