CHAPTER TWO
TESSA
The best moments in life are when people shut the hell up. Everything tends to go south when they open their mouths.
Silence is my brand of sunshine. It’s a balm and a burn. Powerful and soothing.
By far the most underrated tool.
And underutilized.
“Remember to wear something nice,” my older sister’s voice pipes through my earbuds, proving my point with stark clarity. “And appropriate.”
“No worries. I have this lacy black number with purple jewels that cover my assets, which will coordinate with my amethyst Medusa and septum piercings. Is that what you had in mind?” I expel that sardonic answer while sketching a jewel-less nipple.
My real-life piercings are a source of contention, so mentioning them was simply a bonus. Both are tasteful and dainty, not that my big sister would ever assign those descriptors.
Eden huffs. She’s a delight. Well, she actually is with everyone else. “There’s no need to be rude. You’re invited, but my kids will be there. And Mom and Dad, well, you know—”
“She’s got it,” Violet cuts in since they’ve got me on speaker. “It’s my engagement brunch. It’ll be great, Tess. I trust that you’ll wear something perfect.”
That’s a subtle warning, too, but I appreciate the effort to act as though I’m not a heathen from a nudist colony.
There are three of us Lockhart girls. Violet is the youngest. We were close once, and deep down, I think the bond might still be there.
But in my family’s eyes, I chose wrong. Multiple times.
Not that they have any idea what kind of decisions I had in front of me.
Some were impossible. Regardless, they never let me forget it.
Violet finds a sense of belonging with them, so she had her own choice to make. It wasn’t me.
When we drown out all the noise of the world, we can view others through compelling transparency. Actions are like a person’s anthem, belting out their loyalty, unveiling their intentions, and declaring their ideals. Words get tripped over and twisted in life’s chaos; actions cut through it.
Eden clears her throat, raring for a fight, which means it’s about time to saturate myself in that coveted silence by hanging up.
The soft padding of footfalls and the click of a door precede Violet’s hushed voice. She must’ve stolen the phone. “Sorry about that, Tess. It’s just …” She trails off, but I don’t fill the space for her. The stillness is good.
Maybe she’ll let me in again. Sometimes, I think she’s barreling toward this wedding so she can preoccupy herself with something my parents will categorize as the right path.
I guess I’ve been guilty of that before too.
And while it didn’t pan out for me, I hope she finds peace.
The thing is, my family might judge me, but I’ve learned that even when we’re traveling the right path, life has a way of booting us off track.
An unwelcome flashback of the night that changed everything in my life pummels me.
I’m not sure what possessed me to rent a place downtown. It’s charming in theory and mayhem in reality. Especially this week. I’m getting too old for this shit.
Blocking out the raucous din of the idiotic Mardi Gras crowd, along with the clanks of bottles, the blares of horns, and the prowling saxophone, I listen.
To the moon bathing the house in haunted vows and the porch gate a tad off its hinges and the whimpers of truth emanating from inside.
The back door won’t rat me out, so I sneak in that way and trek through the kitchen to the tune of more bleats and cries and obscene beastly growls.
The amber light shudders, and I make a mental list.
Melted ice cream. Unraveled yarn. A crooked picture. Broken glass. Never-ending movie credits.
And my silent boots.
“Tessa, are you there?” Violet’s tone is laced with panic, drawing me back to her.
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, I got distracted. I’m at work.” That’s probably as upsetting to her as a confession of my flashback would be, but it’s out anyway.
“Oh,” she heaves.
The mere mention of my employment has her stuck, though I would argue that the crooner music in the background should have been a strong tip-off. I’ve worked here for eight years, with only an eleven-month gap. You’d think by now the shock value would have died out, but nope.
The Noires may be New Orleans royalty, but they’re considered devils in my neck of the woods.
“You were saying?” I place my drawing inside my sketch portfolio and shove it in a drawer, plucking a Pixy Stix out of another.
“Right.” She collects herself with a heavy breath. “Hunter is going to be there. I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
I tear open the paper tube and pour the blue-raspberry sugar into my mouth, muttering my reply as it dissolves around the ball of my tongue piercing. “Okay.”
Hunter is my ex. He was sweet, successful, and established. He was a friend for a long time, but even if he hadn’t been, he was the kind of man you took home to meet the folks. But the passion and heat were lacking. Out of all the things I lost back then, he isn’t one I mourn.
“Mom is hoping …” She stalls, and the hesitation screams that she’s formulating an entreaty. This should be good. “Don’t be surprised if there’s some pressure. She means well. And he misses you. So much. I think if you made some changes … he could—”
“Vi, I’ll be there for you, and—”
“Please, hear me out,” she breaks in. “You need your family. You’re just being stubborn. It shouldn’t be this hard.”
Mercy strolls into the tattoo boutique with a questioning expression. I wave her in and hold up a finger, letting her know I won’t be long.
But it’s the sight of her that fuels my response. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be this hard. I love you all. I’m here anytime you need me.”
“No, Tess. You’re there anytime we need you.” She sighs, probably lamenting the bite those words delivered. “Maybe we can compromise and both get what we want.”
Compromising, negotiating, deals—all things on my damn list. In my thirty years, I’ve found that those are usually fancy ways of someone trying to gain the upper hand.
Objectively, I can applaud the effort. I’m certainly not opposed to having leverage.
But if it’s necessary in a personal relationship, it’s a strong indicator that something’s off. And I’m over that shit.
Mercy reads my face perfectly, tapping the drawer with the Pixy Stix. I pull it open, waving my hand for her to pick one, and help myself to another while I finish with my sister.
“That sounds like us both losing. Instead, let’s take one win at a time. You’re engaged. We’re celebrating. And I’ll be there. Give Mom and Dad a hug from their favorite deviant.”
Realizing I’m done, she mumbles a goodbye, and I don’t wait another second before hanging up and ripping my earbuds out.
My sisters and my parents are good people.
If their intentions were rooted in harming me, this would be a whole lot easier.
I could walk away, confident my life would be better without them.
But it’s far more complicated than that.
Their frustration stems from wanting what’s best for me.
Not that they don’t blur that desire with their own selfish judgment, but at the heart of all of it is their love for me. It’s why I keep the door open.
Mercy plops down beside me, concern written in her brown eyes. “It’s a sugar-rush kind of day, huh?”
That’s her way of probing. She never asks a direct question about personal matters.
I love that about her. There’s always a quiet understanding that I could tell her anything, but that I don’t have to.
I’ve never had anyone in my life willing to accept whatever I gave them.
She’s been my safe place since she moved back here last fall, which is ironic because my intention was to become hers when I befriended her.
She’d been through some horrific experiences.
“Family and their misplaced desire to reunite me with my ex.” I puff out an exhale of relief that the call is over and scan the empty tattoo boutique.
I finished a client about a half hour ago.
This time of day is often empty, so Mercy and I usually get lunch together.
“Sorry I’m so behind today. I’d share more about that, but”—I circle my hand around at the eye-in-the-sky surveillance—“I don’t want to share it with them. ”
She laughs that off. She’s not naive. She’s simply unfazed. “You think they’re listening too?”
“To me?” I shrug, packing my purse. “Probably not. But now that you’re here? Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ryker has audio on your phone or jewelry. There’s no hiding from a Noire. They are … devious.”
“I’m a Noire,” she argues. That’s what she always says. And it’s technically true. She’s the queen around here. She’s not wired quite the same though, which she knows. “But he undoubtedly has a bug attached to something, so that’s valid. Let’s go eat at Café L’Ambroisie. It’s noisy there.”
Even as she admits to his stalkerish methods, she glows.
My lips quirk into a partial grin because, honestly, I’m enamored with their love story, even though that’s not really my thing. People aren’t exactly my thing either, but I love Mercy. So, seeing her happy is gratifying.
Since my station is already clean, I lock my desk, grab my purse, and hurl a middle finger at the eye in the sky.
They require employees to alert them that we’re okay with a unique gesture of our choosing anytime we leave our designated area of the resort.
It’s a safety precaution because our clientele is wicked and depraved.
Me not flipping them off would be cause for alarm, which brings me immense joy.
Unfortunately, my internal glee is short-lived.