Chapter 13
CONNER
I’ve seen five of the mask tattoos. Now that I’m looking for them, I spot more and more. Including one on Paisley’s calf and one on the inside of Zephyr’s forearm.
My curiosity is getting the better of me, and I really want to know if they’re as Jude claims. A membership initiation thing. What I find curious is that the shape of the mask itself is the same. What decorates the inside is different on each of the ones I’ve caught glimpses of.
Jude doesn’t want to talk about it. I get it. Memberships to places like this are exclusive. If you’re not on the inside, you don’t get to know all the secrets. I respect that, even as I concoct a plan to pry a little further.
I’m curious to know why this started. Did someone see the mask carved into the mantle and say yep, that’s the club’s mascot now?
Why are all the masks the same shape but differently decorated?
Is it like theater masks, where they’re all different?
Like Day of the Dead masks? Does the person who gets it tattooed on them get to choose the design, or is it like bikers, and someone else has to choose for you?
I have questions, and I’m dying to know!
One of the Van Doren twins is sitting outside overlooking the boathouse at the back of the island. I stand off to the side as I try to determine whether that’s Arek or Orev. From what I’ve observed, they’re truly identical. No way to tell.
Guess I’ll just have to ask.
I approach and take a seat with him. He looks at me, and yep, still can’t tell. There’s no recognition or familiarity on his face. Oh. Scar. I shift so I can see his jaw and there’s no scar. He also finds it amusing that I look.
“Arek Van Doren,” I greet.
“Conner Langley,” he returns.
“Sorry. It must be annoying that people can’t tell you and your brother apart.”
Arek shrugs. “No. It’s more frustrating that he has a scar, so we’re not identical anymore.”
“Oh?”
Arek nods, though he doesn’t elaborate. I pull out my phone and pull up the two images I’d grabbed from the internet as a means to further my story.
“Do you have any tattoos?”
He stares at me for a minute, likely trying to determine where this question is coming from. “Yes,” he answers eventually.
“What is it? Can I see?”
Once more, he stares. His gaze feels chilly, but I refuse to shiver. Arek leans forward and pulls his shirt over his head. On his left pectoral is the mask tattoo, littered with puncture wounds. Huh.
“Why that one? Why there? What makes you decide on a specific tattoo? There’s a reason behind all tattoos, right?”
He looks at me with amusement. “It’s a club membership symbol.” He waves a hand toward the castle. “About half have something similar. Why here?” He shrugs. “Don’t know. This is where Orev and I decided.”
“Orev has the same?”
“Identical,” he agrees.
“Why are you getting naked for Jude’s man?” Zephyr asks, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. He winks at me as he takes a seat with us.
“He asked to see my tattoo,” Arek says. “I like Lang alright, but he doesn’t blush much.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to determine what that means. Am I supposed to blush?
Zephyr snorts. “Why you asking about his tattoo?”
“I was thinking about getting one.” I turn my phone toward Zephyr and flick between the dragon and the sports car.
“Huh,” Arek says. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something hockey related.”
Oh… yeah, that would have made more sense. At the mention of hockey, my chest tightens. Summer without hockey is pretty normal. This fall is when I’m truly going to feel its absence in my life. Could I stand looking at a tattoo that reminds me every single day that I failed at my dream?
I don’t answer that. Instead, I look at Zephyr. “Do you have tattoos?”
He grins. “Yep.” He flips his arm over, and I get a clear view of his mask. His is all dripping. Like it just got out of a shower. He pulls his sleeve up, and there’s a racing number forty-two with a race boat zooming by.
Zephyr leans forward and turns as he pulls his shirt over his head, and I find that half his back is covered in honeycombs.
Like all the different masks I’ve seen, some of them are filled in, but the contents are all different.
There’s a bundle of honeycombs covering his left shoulder and then random clusters and stragglers over the rest of his back.
The artist is really good. The honeycombs look as if they’re embedded in his skin.
“Wow, that’s really awesome.”
He beams at me as he turns around. “Thanks. My brother is a tattoo artist. I enjoy being his canvas.”
“Why these specific tattoos? Do they mean something?”
“The mask is club membership.” He taps the mask on his forearm. He drags his finger through the forty-two and says, “This is the first race I won. That’s the boat and the boat’s number. It’s small, but I’m the one driving it too.”
“That’s cool as shit.”
He grins. “Thanks. My back…” He shrugs and sits back in his chair. “I fill in a honeycomb when something happens in my life. Something memorable. Like Maui, the tapestry on my skin is a record of my accomplishments. Unlike Maui, they’re a record of the good and bad because both make me who I am.”
“I like that. Can I ask why you chose the locations you did? You can’t see your back easily.”
Zephyr nods. He thinks about it for a minute and then shrugs.
“I guess the honeycombs are on my back because it’s a large, uninterrupted canvas.
I would hope that over the course of my life, I’ll be able to fill the honeycombs.
But it’s also kind of personal, right? So I don’t need the world to see it all the time.
It’s hidden, but not, like, on my junk hidden. ”
Arek snorts, shaking his head. Zephyr grins.
“The others?” He shrugs. “Pride, I suppose. I want to be able to see them. Part of my identity. A very proud moment. Things I love.” He shrugs again.
This turns into more of a life lesson than the investigative questioning that I intended it to be. I’m not sure I feel passionate about anything enough that I’d want it permanently represented on my body. Other than hockey, which I’m feeling mixed up over.
“Why did you choose those?” Arek asks.
“Because I like them?” My answer is more of a question than an answer. Obviously, it was just a lie from the start, but not one I put thought into. I guess that’s the difference between someone who isn’t serious about a tattoo and someone who is.
“Tattoos are forever,” Zephyr says. “Getting them removed sucks, from what I understand, so you should really feel certain. Commit to your design.”
I nod absently as I stare at the dragon on my phone screen. How did this conversation turn back to my passion? I wanted to know about the masks, not end up reflecting on how I fucked up my future.
“Thanks,” I say and get to my feet.
I wander back to the castle with no destination in mind. Stepping inside and feeling the cool vibe of the stone under my palm as I press my hand to the wall, I shove the thoughts about hockey away. Right this very second, I can’t change that. I worked my ass off, and it wasn’t enough.
My future was never going to be as a professional hockey player, and I just fooled myself into thinking it would be. Was it written all over the ice in front of me, and I ignored it? Did my agent suggest that I didn’t have what it takes, and I didn’t listen?
Then again, my agent signed me, so that means I must have shown some level of promise, right?
No, I hiss internally. Hockey doesn’t matter right now.
I stare at the floor, keeping my fingers trailing along the stone wall, and let my feet carry me forward, following an undetermined path.
They take me upstairs and around corners, through dark corridors and into rooms washed in sunlight. I stop in a room rich with dark wood, shelves of books, stained glass windows, bulky but elegant furniture, and art on the walls.
There’s a fireplace at the end that I wander toward. Sure enough, there’s the mask carved into the mantle. What do you mean?
Like tattoos, this is very specific and unique. Did the concept come from the owner who commissioned the lodge initially? Did it mean something specific to him?
Or was it the builder himself? Do the other buildings he’s constructed have these masks? Maybe it’s the equivalent of his signature. Maybe it’s his trademark design, so everyone knows that it’s his work.
I touch my fingers to the mask and trace the shape. It’s smooth and uninteresting.
Maybe it means nothing. Maybe I need something to distract me from the dark tunnel my life is heading down at the moment. Why can’t it be exactly what Jude said it was? The same thing that Arek and Zephyr said it was.
“What are you doing in here?”
I recognize Reynold’s voice without having to look at him. If I ignore him, will he go away? Let’s try it.
Seconds pass, and I don’t hear him. Maybe he left as quietly as he’d arrived.
“Answer me,” he snaps. “You have no business snooping. You don’t belong here, riffraff.”
“How pathetic you are that you feel the need to call people names like a three-year-old,” I drawl. “I have more talent in my pinky than you do intelligence. Money doesn’t define you. It only makes you ugly.”
“Get out,” he hisses.
“No.” I turn to look at him. “So we’re clear, snooping would have been me slinking around the room and opening drawers. Looking behind paintings. Shaking books to see if something falls out. I’m literally standing here staring at the architecture while you’re being lame as fuck.”
His hate is funny. He’s all red and blotchy.
“Do you enjoy being hated?” I ask. “Is it fun for you?”
His hands fist as he stares. “I don’t need people to like me.”
“I guess dying alone and unwanted is a dream of sorts,” I note.
He comes stalking toward me, fists clenched together. I let him come, watch as he pulls his arm back, and slide out of the way as he throws the punch. His fist slams into the solid mantle, and he shouts.
I watch him as he holds his hand to his chest and stares at me. He’d like to kill me. I’m pretty sure. Maybe I shouldn’t encourage his ire, but I can’t stop the smile that climbs while I stick my hands in my pockets.
“You’ve clearly never been in a fight before,” I observe. “That was rudimentary defense one-oh-one.”
“I’m going to bury you,” he growls. “No one will find you.”
I shrug. “You can’t land a punch. I’m not sure how you’re going to bury me.”
When he comes at me this time, I decide I’ll let him land a hit. That way, I have justification for giving him a black eye and knocking out his front teeth.
He doesn’t hit me. He shoves me, using his momentum to his advantage. I don’t try to stop my fall backwards. I’m not far from the bookshelf, so it’s not like I’ll actually land on my ass or anything.
Imagine my shock when the wall of books swings backwards and I tumble through the wall and land on my ass. I barely get my hands out of my pockets in time to prevent myself from knocking my head on the floor.
I look up to find the same shock I’m feeling written all over Reynold’s face.
Grinning, I shove the bookshelf door closed with my foot, waving as I do. His shock turns to fury as I disappear into the dark wall.