Chapter 6
Water seeps into my shirt as I lie on my back on the unforgiving kitchen floor, my shoulder jammed against a cabinet while I inspect the water line to my dishwasher. Shit. I turned off the water main and threw down a couple towels to soak up the leak, but this place is a mess.
My phone chimes on the counter—a specific chime that only plays for one alert: Attic door open. Kelly doesn’t know I installed a security feature in her attic.
In the early days of her going through Clyde’s things, she would vanish from the world for entire weekends, drowning in her grief—dismissing calls, texts, food, and sleep. Then she’d walk into work after her days off like an empty, discarded shell of who we all knew her to be. It was bad.
I told her to let me know when she was going through his possessions, but it was always met with dead air, so I installed a device that would tell me what she wouldn’t.
It’s not like I’ve placed hidden cameras around the house—though I’m not opposed to it—I simply want to know when she’s in the attic, where she’s possibly engaging in an emotionally draining task I can conveniently assist with.
I hop off the floor and head to my closet, changing into a pair of dry jeans and a new shirt. My phone chimes again, this time with a text message from Kelly.
Kelly
What are you doing right now?
It’s her way of saying she needs help—needs me. If she calls, I’ll be there, no questions asked. A flooded kitchen and busted dishwasher can wait.
Nothing. You?
Kelly
Going through Dad’s artwork.
That’s a big deal.
I quickly tap out a reply.
On my way.
Better prepare yourself. I’m throwing a rager of a pity party right now.
I’ll pick up a keg.
She needs to get better about locking her doors; I didn’t even need to use my key.
Walking through the kitchen, I tuck a fresh pack of her favorite Australian licorice in the cupboard and head for the hall when I hear the music.
She’s playing his old Bob Dylan albums. The wood creaks under my weight as I climb up the attic ladder.
When I reach the top, I find her on the right side of the room, surrounded by piles of sketchbooks, framed paintings, and loose artwork.
I raise an arm and brace myself against one of the ceiling trusses, then lean forward, scanning the length of the attic.
It’s a large space; there’s a window at one end, but the rest is illuminated by two bare bulbs in the ceiling, each with a dangling pull cord.
This is where she spends her weekends—well, Sundays and Mondays, when the shop is closed.
Wonder if she’ll ever turn it into a bonus room rather than a mausoleum for his belongings.
With the music playing and her thoughts distracted, she hasn’t noticed me yet. A wave of dust motes swirls when she drops a cardboard box that reads CLOTHES on the floor and nudges it snugly beside a twin box. It appears to be a donation pile. Good start.
“Wow, Chaos.” I whistle, looking around. “Really went all out on the pity party, I see. No food . . . No drinks . . . Damn, not even a single half-deflated balloon rolling around.”
A small smile tugs her lips. She sighs with big soft eyes and tearstained cheeks, seeming totally overwhelmed but somehow still drop-dead gorgeous.
“If you’re going to mope, at least put in some effort. This is just lazy.”
Her face cracks and she chuckles, rising to her feet.
I stride over, dragging her into a bear hug and breathing deep.
Years ago, I frequently held her. One embrace in particular let me believe we had something more, but she was still hollow from the loss.
I was just imagining what I wanted to see—convinced myself of a story that didn’t exist. The timing wasn’t right. But now . . .
“How are you doing?”
She shrugs. “I’ve separated his shirts and flannels, I’m keeping his favorites.”
“In addition to the one you’re wearing?” I comment, appreciating Clyde’s old Jimi Hendrix tee she’s sporting.
Kelly glances down and tugs the hem, holding it out in front of her. “I just wanted to wear it for a little while.”
I hold her gaze. “You wear it well.”
“Thanks. I wanted to wait until you got here before I started on his art.”
She releases the fabric and inhales through her nose, blowing out a slow breath as she looks at the daunting task surrounding her, unsure where to start.
“It’s like purgatory’s garage sale. Can’t bear to look at his things but can’t let them go.”
“Nobody is rushing you to do this,” I assure her.
After he passed, I helped her move some of his things into the attic so she could deal with them when she was ready, without the torment of facing them daily in the meantime.
She said living within the walls was one type of grief, but looking at his artwork was another hell entirely.
She sits back down among the clutter. “Grieving is weird. Some days I feel at peace, other days it’s as if a boulder is sitting on my chest and I’m being crushed under the weight of it.
And his art? This is all I have left of him.
Dad’s soul is still alive in every brushstroke.
How do I get rid of that? They’re more than just his sketches and paintings—they’re the most beautiful parts of him.
His creativity, inspiration, and emotions.
The way he saw the world. The essence of who he was as a person and how he expressed himself.
I want to hoard all of his things like a dragon. ”
Towers of sketchbooks and artwork he’s done in the past fill this section of the attic. It’s everywhere, even his old dusty posters stapled to the angled ceiling.
“Logically, I know I can’t keep it all, and it’s not like I’d ever throw it away, it’s gotta be worth something to someone, even sentimentally. There are more than a few tattoo museums and other shops that would be thrilled to have some of his stuff on their walls, right?”
“Absolutely. Nothing will be thrown away,” I promise. “How about we go through the framed pieces first?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “That sounds good.”
She picks up a frame and holds it at arm’s length, smirking.
“Can I see?” I ask, stepping closer. I move a box to the side so I can sit on the dusty floorboards adjacent to her. She angles the painting to show me.
My brow scrunches at the abstract piece. “This isn’t his.” I remember this from the last time I was up here helping her when she let me take photos of all his flash.
“No, it’s mine,” she says, handing it over with a chuckle. “I was probably five or six.”
“Oh, well then this is definitely a keeper,” I reply, setting it aside in a keep pile. “Remind me to have you sign it later so it’s worth something.”
She grins, making a tsk sound at the suggestion. The next one she holds up is a watercolor portrait of her mom.
“Keep,” we say in unison.
After that, it’s an assortment of various framed flash sheets. “Cap did this one,” she says, passing it to me. My eyebrows shoot up and I survey the aged paper in the frame. Wow. August “Cap” Coleman is known as the godfather of American tattooing. I set it in the keep pile.
The next dozen or so are Clyde’s. We have the majority of them at Black Rabbit, but it appears he’s squirreled away some extras at home.
“We could hang them in the shop?” she muses while shrugging.
I nod. “Camden came by the shop the other night. The Safehouse gala is coming up, and he was wondering if there was any of your dad’s work we could donate to the auction.”
“Oh.” She pauses and looks back at the framed piece.
“You don’t have to say yes,” I remind her.
She smiles. “If Dad were still alive, he’d donate it.” Sitting crisscross, she angles her body toward me, holding up both of the framed flash pieces. “Which one?”
“The tigers and roses will sell for more,” I reply.
“Actually . . . let’s put them together as a set.”
I raise my eyebrows, didn’t see that coming.
“You sure?”
She nods, smiling. “Yeah . . . It makes it easier knowing it’ll be appreciated by whoever offers the highest bid.”
“Atta girl.” I take the two framed pieces and set them in a new pile. Now he’ll get off my dick about that donation.
“Oh, this one would be cool in the shop!” She hands me a large painting of a panther Clyde did.
It’s bold. She’s right, it’d be a fantastic addition. The brick wall by the office would be perfect.
“Maybe that brick wall—”
“By the office.” I smile, finishing her sentence. “Great minds.”
I nod and set it with the two she’s donating to the Safehouse auction.
She hands me a framed jigsaw puzzle he glued together. “Don’t need this one.”
She struggles making a decision on the next three, but in the end, she donates two and only keeps one. Kelly pauses, gathering her hair in both hands, twisting the locks into a messy bun. She swipes the back of her arm across her forehead and scrutinizes the stacks we have yet to go through.
“Proud of you,” I say.
“What?” she mutters, moving another stack aside.
“You’re doing a good job. It’s not easy.”
Her shoulders relax, and she offers me a soft smile. “Thanks for being here. This probably isn’t how you wanted to spend your day off, but it’s really nice to not be alone.”
“Not that I ever mind doing this with you, but just out of curiosity, is there a reason you don’t ask Jason?”
“Come on.” She huffs out a breath. “Don’t start with me, Logan.”
“What? I’m asking in good faith.” I just want her to admit it, that I’m better at taking care of her than he is.
She sighs. “I almost called Jason. My finger hovered over his name. You know I’ve been putting off this part because it’s the hardest—figured I’d start crying at some point.”
“He’s never seen you cry?”