Chapter 59
ZEKE
Project Dylan’s shooting range - Manhattan, New York
The mechanical whir of the target pulley whizzes through the shooting lane as it drags the shredded paper silhouette back toward us.
My hands are still vibrating from the recoil of my Glock when Tex grips down on my shoulders.
“Your grouping’s tight.”
“I told you,” I eject the empty magazine from the gun. “I remember how to fucking shoot.”
“Attitude’s strong too,” Nate adds, laughing as he types something into his tablet. He doesn’t even look up from the screen. “Your heart rate peaked at one-forty during the rapid fire drill, but it dropped back down within the ninety second window. Numbers look good.”
“So does your aim,” Tex whistles as he holds up the target.
“I told you, I was fine,” I grit out. “The shrink you’ve got me with doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
“Zeke,” Nate warns, finally peering up from his screen. “You know the drill.”
“Look, I just had to sit through Monroe’s psychoanalysis bullshit for over an hour,” I say, reloading the magazine. “Can we just shoot?”
“You’re deflecting,” Nate says, stepping up next to my lane. “Dr. Monroe says you’re using aggression to mask the anxiety of transitioning back. He literally warned us against you drowning it out with gunpowder.”
“I ain’t masking shit,” I growl, slamming the loaded magazine back into the Glock with a heavy clack. “I’m practicing. There’s a difference.”
Nate sighs, but Tex steps in, leaning his shoulder on the partition. He glances down at my freshly loaded weapon and then up at the target. A slow smirk spreads across his face as he slams the button to send a fresh target out.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Tex says, slowly pulling out his .45 from his back holster. “You get a tighter grouping than Nate and me both… we’ll drop the shrink talk for today and go home and relax.”
I pause, my grip tightening around the cold steel. “And if I don’t?”
“If even one of your shots is worse than ours,” Tex says, dropping his voice into a serious and steady tone. “You talk to us. You let whatever’s eatin’ at you out.”
“No jokes or deflecting either,” Nate adds, stepping forward.
“Deal,” I bite out. “Get your guns.”
Nate shakes his head with a quiet laugh as he lays his weapon case on the ledge. “You brought this on yourself, Zeke.”
For the next ten minutes, the range is pure, focused silence, shattered only by the deafening cracks of our weapons. We run a rapid-fire drill at twenty-five yards. A distance that makes even a millimeter of a hand-shake show up like a mile on paper.
I block out the vibrations in my hands and let the muscle memory take over. I squeeze the trigger.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
When the targets slide back to the lanes, Tex steps up to inspect the damage.
“Damn, y’all,” he laughs while looking over our groupings.
Nate’s silhouette has a neat, fist-sized hole right in the center of the chest. Tex’s is even tighter, a smoking circle where the poor bastard’s heart would be.
I pull my target off the clip. Right in the dead center of the skull lies a hole no bigger than a fucking silver dollar. Every single round is stacked perfectly on top of the last.
I toss the paper on the bench, giving Tex a smug smirk. “Look’s like I’m keeping my mouth shut.”
Tex stares at the paper, then looks up at me with a mixture of pride and frustration in his dark eyes. He lets out a heavy breath and claps me on the shoulder. “You really are an asshole, you know that?”
“I’m a great shot,” I correct him, holstering my Glock. “Now let’s go home.”
???
Mine and Bella’s Penthouse
I’m greeted by a flash of neon as soon as I enter the doorway.
“Ahh! Z!” Ivy yells as she charges at me.
“What in the world?”
I’m forced to catch her tiny self when she jumps up into my arms.
“Ivy?!” I laugh into her curly bob. “What the hell are you—Ah!” I hug her tighter. “What are you doing here?”
Ivy Cruz, to this day—and any day if she has any say in it, for the rest of our lives—is the only tattoo artist in the entire world who’ll ever lay a needle on mine or Bella’s skin.
She’s the one who did our Dylan tattoos, the massive one on my thigh for my parents, and a few others.
We met her in Miami years ago and she’s been family ever since.
She squeezes my neck so tight I can feel the dig of her silver rings against my skin. She smells exactly the way I remember: cinnamon apple body spray, a hint of cigarette smoke, and the faint chemical bite of tattoo stencil transfer spray.
I set her back down on her feet. My hands grip at her shoulders as I push her back just far enough to look at her. “Seriously, Ivy. What in the hell are you doing all the way in New York?”
The door bursts back open behind us before she can answer my question, followed by Bella’s squeal and a very confused-looking Cade.
“You made it!” Bella beams, running toward us. She drops her dance bag on the floor and immediately wraps Ivy up in a fierce hug.
Cade stands by the door, his eyebrows arched and looking at me for an explanation.
“Cade, this is Ivy,” I say, motioning to the little black and green haired thing clutching my sister. “She’s Bells and my tattoo artist from Miami.”
“The one that did our Dylan tattoos,” Bella adds, grinning from ear to ear. “And the Z on my shoulder.”
Ivy glances up at me, then tracks her eyes downward. “And the beautiful piece of work that I did way down on your—”
“Ivy!” I reach down and shove a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t yell at me, buddy,” she says, her voice muffled from my hand before nodding to Bella.
“She’s right,” Bella says. “You’re the sorry sucker that lost the bet.”
Ivy and Bella both burst out laughing.
“I love that one, babe,” Marisol calls out, not even glancing up from her magazine over on the couch next to Lex.
“Wait,” Lex says, yanking the magazine from her.
“Hey!” she yells at him.
He evades her slap, stands up, and heads over. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Don’t even think about it,” I grit out to the girls, feeling a rush of heat in my cheeks. “Ivy. This is Cade. Bella’s other boyfriend.”
“Nice to meet you,” Cade says, offering a warm smile.
Ivy wiggles out of my grip. “Likewise, pretty boy,” she chirps, already turning to unzip her backpack perched on a barstool. “Now, let’s cut the chitchat shall we? I didn’t fly all this way up here for nothing. Arms out boys and girls, I’m here to cover up some garbage.”
She nods down at the C singed into my forearm.
“That’s why you’re here?” I mutter, holding back the sting in my eyes.
Bella steps in front of me and interlocks our fingers. “That’s why she’s here.”
“You first, Z,” Ivy says to me. “Bells, go hit the showers honey. I don’t need all of the sweat from your dance practice getting one of my designs infected.”
Bella rises on her toes and kisses me on the cheek before heading out. I watch her disappear up the stairs, her light steps fade into the distance as she reaches the top.
“Alright big guy, hop up on,” Ivy says, patting the leather.
She pulls a pair of black nitrile gloves onto her hands with a quick snap and grabs her purple marker. She stares down at my scar, her neon-green glasses sliding down her nose slightly.
“So I have an idea,” she says, pushing up her glasses. “But I’ll have to freehand it.”
“Just make it disappear, Ivy,” I say, fully surrendering my arm to her. “I trust you.”
“Consider it gone,” she says as she starts drawing out her design.
Ivy pulls out her machine and clicks it together. The high-pitched, electric buzz of the tattoo gun suddenly fills the quiet kitchen as the needle bites in.
Cade pulls up a chair next to us, watching the process with a quiet respect. Lex doesn’t move from his spot against the wall. Nobody in the room talks. We don’t need to. The buzzing of the machine does all the heavy lifting as it slowly rewrites the story on my skin.
By the time the water in the pipes upstairs stops running, Ivy is putting the final touches on the bold lettering. She wipes the excess ink and blood with a paper towel, spraying it down one last time before stepping back with a proud grin.
“Look at that. Fresh as hell.”
I look down at my forearm. The ugly, jagged C is completely gone and swallowed up by thick and protective vines of ivy. And there, cutting through the wreckage of the scar in bold lettering are the words Claire used to keep me alive: Remember who you are.
A heavy, shaky breath leaves my chest. The weight of the brand and the feeling of being marked like property evaporates entirely in a warm rush.
“Thank you,” I whisper, reaching up to swipe at a tear.
Just then, Bella’s clean cherry-vanilla scent follows her as she walks back down the stairs with damp hair. Her eyes instantly land on me.
“Show me,” she whispers, jogging over.
I lift my arm and present the fresh, glistening artwork to her.
Bella’s hands fly to her mouth. Her eyes fill completely to the brim with tears as she pulls Ivy into her side.
“This is perfect,” she cries.
“Your turn, sis,” I say softly, offering her a genuine smile as I slide off the barstool.
She takes my spot and places her arm on the counter. I step up right beside her and slide her free hand in mine, intertwining our fingers together.
Ivy changes the needle, pours fresh ink into the tiny plastic cap on the counter, and grabs her marker to freehand the match.
The machine buzzes back to life as Ivy looks down at my sister. “Ready, baby girl?”
Bella looks up at me, a beautiful smile finally breaking through her tears as she nods up.
“I’m ready.”