Paralyze (A New Paradigm #2)

CHAPTER 1

Three chairs.

Three buzzing machines.

Three voices other than my own.

That's how the week started.

It's dead in here now, but worse, like a body after the soul's gone.

Twenty-four hours ago Teken Ink was the most in demand tattoo shop in Northern Washington, now it's nothing but a fucking shell.

I look up at the graffiti mural that covers most of the right side wall, snarling at it, I kill the lights and stand in the middle of the floor.

Just me. Just my station highlighted in red and yellow from the neon lights of the Chinese restaurant across the street.

I covered the other two chairs in sheets and shoved them against the wall in the back room because I couldn't stand them staring at me, reminding me that I'm the rock that has to hold everything together.

I don't get to throw a tantrum and disappear.

I don't get to make a slew of idiotic decisions and still walk away with the girl on my arm.

Eden—more like a brother than my own flesh and blood—helped me build this place from nothing.

No help from our parents, just the two of us.

He was always there. Always stable when I needed him to be.

But the man's a runner, he's just never run away from me before.

Though he's never walked in on his girlfriend with another man's dick in her mouth, either, I suppose.

Shawn and Reeze. Eden's girl and our own artist, the one we moved over from Hawaii. The one who makes us thousands of dollars every week, together in Eden's bed. Fucking behind all of our backs.

Eden arrived solo this morning with the news that Shawn was sick, then Reeze took off between clients. His bike remained at the shop, so we thought he was close by. Turns out Shawn had picked him up a few streets over while our heads were down.

I should have seen the signs but I've been so fucking busy pulling twelve-hour days, fitting as many clients in as I can before it's too much of a hassel to travel this far north to a beach town that shuts down every winter.

It must have been the same for Eden. It had to be.

For weeks he's been staying back after Shawn left for the night, but…

so has Reeze. I scarcely recall a time when he hasn't been here with us.

If only Eden hadn't gone home on his lunch break.

If only he hadn't wanted to take Shawn some cold and flu tablets.

"You selfish asshole," I swear at myself, recalling the screeching tires of Eden's truck as he skidded into the lot behind the shop.

I take the keys from my pocket and unlock the back door.

Stepping outside my boots crunch over shards of headlight glass. It looks pretty glittering in the moonlight, but I grind it into the asphalt with my heel. Because fuck Eden and his lack of impulse control. Sure, he was wronged, but he didn't need to make it a thousand times worse.

I'd burst through the back door in time to see his steel-capped boot burst the headlight of Reeze's bike. Glass rained, then he threw it to the pavement, stomping on the gas tank and mirrors before his rage led him inside.

In front of my client, Eden tore Reeze's gear from the shop and flung it across the road. All his ink, needles, stencils, every last bit of his equipment, strewn across the main street of Broadrock.

Then Eden was gone.

No word.

No warning.

Like a giant fucking child he left me to pick up the pieces of yet another person's wreckage.

I pull down the roller that covers the back of the shop and the metal crashes against the ground. The air is damp with Pacific Northwest drizzle and Broadrock feels even smaller tonight than it usually does.

I turn the key to lock the roller, and I hear the distant wail of a siren. It's meant to be an alarm, but to me it's a mocking reminder that I have nothing waiting for me at home.

I breathe hard, trying to steady myself. Trying to stop the overwhelming emptiness from taking over.

I close my eyes and picture hands on me instead. Rough or soft, it doesn't matter, as long as there's heat against my skin to make me feel like I belong somewhere, even if just for an hour.

I don't want to be caring. I just need a simple, mindless reminder that I exist.

That I have a shape.

That I can want, and be wanted, without attachment.

Without love.

Without pain.

I climb into my van and start the engine. Nineties rock pours from the speakers as I unlock my phone. Muscle memory has my thumb opening Tinder; my search set only to the surrounding towns at least thirty minutes away.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

Their faces blur. None of their smiles speak to me.

I stop on a half-naked woman reflected in a bathroom mirror, the caption; Down for fun, no strings. HMU.

That's all I want.

No mess. Just the weight of another body to fill the hole for tonight.

We match and I type out; you free now?

Within a minute I get my reply—Don't I get a, hi Gemma, you’re pretty, or similar generic small talk first?

A soft smile widens my lips at her response.

Me: You took the picture. You already know you’re pretty.

Her: Still, a little small talk would have been appreciated.

Me: You were desperate to respond.

Her: Was I?

Me: Might be a record.

Her: I’d tell you you’re lucky you’re hot, but you took the picture.

Me: So are you free?

Her: I can be for you.

Me: Do you have any boundaries?

Her: Don't spit on me. And protection is a must. HBU?

Me: I don't kiss on the lips.

Her: But you do elsewhere?

Me: I’ll make you come with my tongue as many times as you want, if that’s what you’re asking.

Her: How soon can you get here?

Me: What’s your address?

Her: I’ll meet you at the Fred Meyer in North Daintree. There's a bench at the entrance. There's cameras and always a security guy there. If I don’t get serial killer vibes, we can come back to mine.

Smart girl.

Me: I've got a bed in the back of my van if you can't wait that long.

Her: You know that's totally a serial killer thing to have?

Me: I suppose it is. But I don't mind leaving the doors open and giving the security guard a show.

Her: Looks like my Tuesday night just got interesting. Is there anything specific you'd like me to wear?

Me: You got any crop tops?

Her: It's November.

Me: I like stomachs.

Her: Can't say I've ever met a stomach guy before.

Me: I've never been one to follow the crowd.

Her: What if mine isn't flat?

Me: You're a woman. It's not meant to be.

Her: I might have just fallen in love.

Me: Don't ruin it.

Her: I was only joking FFS.

Me: Just get your ass in the car. I'm hungry.

Her: How long will you be?

Me: 45 minutes.

Her: Then you need to get your ass in your van.

Me: I'll be at Fred Meyer at 8:30.

I let my head fall against the seat back. A date is set. It makes my shoulders feel lighter, but it doesn't loosen the ache in my stomach.

I reach for the gear stick, and my phone buzzes, my mothers name glowing on the screen. She never calls out of the blue. I'll be seeing her for Thanksgiving next week so what could she possibly want?

My shoulders slouch again as I slide to answer and press the phone to my ear. Her voice spews out in rapid-fire Korean, so panicked I can't make sense of what she's saying

"Jintae." She repeats his name, over and over.

"He's dropped out."

"Disappeared."

"Run away."

"Won't answer his phone."

"Turned the tracking off."

Her voice keeps climbing.

I close my eyes and dig my nails into the lines on my forehead. My guts ache harder now, but in a completely different way.

Jintae is the golden one. The sure bet. The one who didn't fuck up like I did.

"I haven't seen him, Omma," I tell her in English. "Haven't heard from him either."

"We've called all his friends. His dorm mate told me he stopped going to classes a month ago."

"Fuck," I curse under my breath. The pressure clearly got to him, too. But he only made it six months into college, at least I made it three years into med school before switching gears. "I don't know anyone you don't."

"Your abeoji wants to call the police—"

"But you don't want the neighbors to see them at the house." I cut her off, and she huffs into the receiver, proving me right. "Have you driven around?"

"Your abeoji's been out for the past few hours… Wootek-ie, I don't know what to do."

And she thinks I do?

She's the parent.

She's the one who left him with no other option than to disappear off the face of the earth instead of facing her wrath. If I could have my time all over again I'd have fled too.

"I'm sure he's fine. Just give him a few days and I'm sure he'll come home."

"And what if he doesn't?"

"Then you'll have to call the police."

My mother wails on the other end of the phone and starts babbling in Korean again.

"Look, Omma, just try to breathe, okay? I'll… I'll make a few calls. See what I can do."

I end the call without waiting for a response. She'd stopped listening anyway. She was too worked up, too lost in her own fear. Though I can't say for certain if it's for my brother's wellbeing or stress over what the people of her gated neighborhood will say.

I stare out through the windshield at the graffitied roller. Things felt so light the day Eden and I painted it, now I'm looking at the back of a shop that's too big for me.

Reeze. Shawn. Eden. Now Jintae.

I've got nobody now but a stranger called Gemma waiting for me in a supermarket parking lot.

I don't know how loneliness can feel so heavy.

I suck in another long breath and let it billow all the way out until it starts to fog the glass.

I scroll through my contacts and hit Eden's name. He might have left me. The betrayal might still be burning in my veins. But he's family.

The line clicks after a few rings.

"Eden. Eden, are you there?" I don't bother with hello. I'm too tired.

I can hear him breathing, but the silence that follows is more suffocating than the one I left inside the shop.

"Eden!"

"I thought I told you not to contact me?"

I'm used to his tone.

I'm used to his temperament.

But I'm also used to him being there when I need him, and my wants are a lot bigger than his right now.

"Have you seen my brother?"