15. Chase
15
CHASE
Some women shine in evening wear. Evie practically glows as she fixes Rick’s crooked tie, cursing my brother’s inability to dress himself. The gallery’s biggest event of the year starts in twenty minutes, and she’s got all three of us lined up like schoolboys.
“Hold still,” she scolds Zane, attacking his collar with purpose. The local arts council is coming to review our grant application, and apparently, we clean up nice or die trying.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” I tell her, already perfect in my suit because I’m not a savage like my brothers.
“Obviously.” She smooths Rick’s lapels one last time. “Rose has the girls for the night, so I can enjoy torturing you three properly.”
Tonight, we could fund our community programs for another five years. But watching Evie fuss over my brothers, I’m more fascinated by how she’s transformed us.
She works the room like she was born to it. Charming council members, directing staff, keeping us from saying anything too crude to potential donors. Every so often, she touches one of us—straightening Rick’s tie again, brushing lint from Zane’s shoulder, squeezing my arm as she passes.
Small touches with equal attention. Like she’s figured out exactly what each of us needs.
Hours later, when the last donor leaves and the grant is practically guaranteed, I find her in my studio. She’s kicked off her heels and curled in my leather chair like she belongs there.
“Successful night.” I pour two whiskeys and hand her one.
“Mmm.” She takes a sip, eyes closed. “Think Mrs. Peterson noticed I matched my lipstick to my tattoos just to spite her?”
“Noticed? She nearly swallowed her pearls.”
Her laugh fills my studio, and something in my chest tightens. “The girls okay with Rose?”
“Having the time of their lives. Apparently, Rose knows all the best bedtime stories.”
“Speaking of stories…” I settle across from her. “Tell me one.”
“About?”
“You. Before Wolf Pike. Before us.”
She’s quiet so long I think she won’t answer. Then: “I grew up in Seattle. Middle-class family, nothing special. Art school dropout because real life got in the way. Met the girls’ father young and thought I knew everything. Turns out I knew nothing.”
It’s the story from her resume. No more, no less.
“And now?” I gesture to her bare feet on my chair, comfortable in my space.
“Now I’m here. With three impossible men who drive me crazy in completely different ways.”
“Good crazy?”
“The best kind.” She studies her glass. “Rick with his protectiveness. Zane with his playfulness. You with your artist’s soul.”
“That how you see us?”
“That’s how you are. Different pieces that somehow fit.”
“Like you fit with all of us?”
Pink touches her cheeks. “Maybe.”
“I noticed the way Mrs. Wilson hugged you before she left. That woman adores you.”
“She reminds me of my grandmother. Always baking cookies, telling stories about the old days.”
“Tell me about her—your grandmother.”
“She taught me to bake.” Evie’s smile turns nostalgic. “Every Sunday, we’d make these horrible attempts at pie. The kitchen would be covered in flour, but she never got mad.”
“Is that where you learned patience?”
“God, no. That came from art school.” She sips her whiskey. “Two years at Seattle Art Institute before real life got in the way. The first time I kissed a boy was in the sculpture garden there.”
“Yeah?” I lean forward, caught by the soft look in her eyes. “How’d that go?”
“Terrible. He tasted like cheap coffee and tried using tongue immediately.” She wrinkles her nose. “Yours?”
“Sandra Mitchell, behind the high school bleachers. She bit my lip so hard it bled.”
Her laugh echoes through my studio. “No wonder you became a tattoo artist. Already used to pain.”
“What about your first time?”
She goes red. “Promise not to laugh?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Senior prom. Back of his dad’s Volvo. Most uncomfortable twenty minutes of my life.”
“Only twenty minutes?”
“Including the awkward apology after.”
We trade stories like secrets—her college adventures, my first tattoo apprenticeship. She tells me about meeting the girls’ father, thinking she knew everything about love.
“He was charming at first. Brought me flowers, wrote poetry.”
“Hard to imagine a poet hurting you.”
She stiffens slightly before relaxing. “People surprise you sometimes.”
The night deepens around us. Through my studio window, stars replace streetlights. Neither of us moves to leave.
“Your turn,” she says. “Tell me something real.”
“Like what?”
“Like how three brothers ended up sharing everything.”
I tell her about growing up tight-knit, about learning early that we’re stronger together. About our first shared girlfriend in college.
“And now?” She traces the rim of her glass. “How do you handle…this?”
“You mean, how do we handle wanting the same woman?”
Her breath catches. “Yeah.”
“Different pieces fitting together—just like you said. Rick’s the protector, always watching out for everyone. Zane’s all fire and impulse, making people laugh. And me…”
“The artist. The one who sees beneath the surface.” She uncurls from the chair, moving closer. “Each exactly what you need to be.”
“And what do you need, Evie?”
Her smile turns soft. “Would you believe me if I said all of it? Every piece of who you three are?”
Early in the morning, we’re still talking. I share stories about learning to ink skin and finding art in unexpected places.
“The girls will be up soon,” she says but makes no move to leave.
“Rose can handle morning chaos.”
“True.” She yawns, curling closer. “Tell me more about teenage Chase. Were you always this smooth?”
“God, no. I was all attitude and bad decisions. Ask Mrs. Wilson about the time I tried stealing her roses to impress a girl.”
She falls asleep in my chair around six, soft and vulnerable in the morning light. I cover her with my jacket, watching her breathe.
We’ve found something rare here—a woman who sees us completely and stays anyway.
Love might come with ink and motorcycles and three brothers who don’t know how to want anything separately.
Sometimes, that’s exactly enough.