1. Derek

CHAPTER ONE

Derek

PRESENT DAY

" D erek!" Janie calls my name from the back. I look up from my client and glance over my shoulder at the small redhead. Janie Pierce is the co-owner of Hel's Ink, the shop where I work. She runs it with her husband, Fox, who's in front of me at his station, working on a first-timer who either has no pain tolerance or is trying to get attention. Though it's probably the latter.

"Yeah?" I call out while rinsing out my machine. She walks up to my station and flips her hair out of her face. "I'm calling in orders for lunch. What do you want?" She asks, while rapidly tapping away on her phone.

Peering down at her screen, I wrinkle my nose at the restaurant she's ordering from. "Ugh, don't worry about me. I ain't hungry."

Atlas snorts from his place on his table. "Since when?"

"You know I don't eat from that place," I mutter as I load my machine with ink. "Thank you for the offer, Janie, but I'm alright; I'll grab something later." Janie gives me a nod before walking to Atlas and smacking him upside the head.

"Mama J," he whines. "I'm sleep-deprived. Don't be so hateful!"

I shake my head at his antics. Atlas' wife, Ren, had their son, Howard, about two or three months ago. He had planned to be on parental leave, but our other co-worker, Ash, had to go to Alabama with his fiancée after her father passed away. This meant the rest of us have had to up our walk-in takes. Typically, I don't mind. I've been tattooing for almost twenty years, and walk-ins are my preferred clientele. I don't do repeats, ever. I don't mind the added work, but I do mind the longer hours.

I have a strict schedule, and I like to adhere to it. So, when there's a disruption to it, I tend to lose the little bit of pleasant demeanor I have. My time away from Hel's allows me to disconnect and distance myself from everyone. Recently, this excessive forced proximity with the group has caused them to get too chummy with me, and I don't do "chummy."

"Virginia," Atlas says as he hangs off his table. I ignore the nickname while continuing the line on my client. It's a fine-line tattoo of a bouquet of flowers. While far from my favorite type of tattoo to do, it's a quick in and out, and the woman seems so intimidated by me she isn't talking. Fine by me. I don't do chit-chat, either.

"VIR-GIN-IA!" Atlas' annoying voice gets louder, and I suck in a cleansing breath while wiping down the woman's arm.

"I am busy," I say in a slow, warning tone. "Whatever it is, do it yourself." After checking with the client and ensuring she likes her tattoo, I clean and bandage her up before sending her up front, where Janie will give her some ointment and check her out. I feel an odd sensation run over me, and I look over my shoulder to find fucking Atlas staring at me.

"If you don't stop," I warn while shoving my gloves into the wastebasket, "I'll be forced to kill you."

"Stevie needs you, though." He states, and I grumble as I walk down the hall to the piercing area. Stevie is our piercer, and she's one of the few people I mildly tolerate here, only because she leaves me alone most of the time.

"Stevie?" I call as I enter her domain. My eyes land on an empty chair near the jewelry case with a small, bright purple and pink cardigan over the back. I feel a sensation similar to heartburn set in; it's something I've grown accustomed to over the last few months. I fucking hate it. I don't get heartburn, but I've been popping antacids like candy lately.

"Derek?" Her soft Louisiana accent comes from one of the private piercing rooms. "Come here for a second, would ya?" I walk to the last room and see the girl bent over the table, looking at something on her tablet. Her bob haircut is freshly dyed green rather than her usual turquoise. She looks up at me from behind her glasses and smiles, causing her cheek piercings to move. "What flavor of cake do you like?"

I scrunch up my brows, confused by her question. "What?" I ask, looking around the empty room. "Atlas said you needed me?"

"I do. I'm putting in the information for the birthday cake I'm making you… Where are you going?" She calls to my retreating figure.

"I don't do birthdays!" I call over my shoulder while exiting the piercing area, but not before looking at the empty chair one more time.

Killing the ignition after pulling my SUV into my driveway, I stare out the windshield at my garage door. My brain betrays me as my thoughts drift back to the empty chair in Stevie's piercing area, and I rub my chest while getting out of my vehicle and heading inside my house. I need to find some antacids since I've apparently underestimated how many I would need and have gone through both my work and car stash.

I walk into my sparsely furnished rancher and lock the door behind me before turning on the light. Inhaling deeply, I relax as the clean smell fills me. I've updated my home with grey wood floors, neutral walls, and a farmhouse-style kitchen. When moving out here from Virginia nearly twenty years ago, the first thing I did was buy this house. It's completely paid for, immaculately clean, and up-to-date on renovations.

In the living area is nothing more than a flatscreen TV, coffee table, and futon. It's both a couch and my bed. Yeah, I know; I'm in my forties, single, and own a futon. It seems odd, but I see no reason to waste money on a mattress, bedroom furniture, or any furniture since it's just me here. My clothes are in the closet. It might be sparse, but I have everything I need.

Once I reach the kitchen, I grab a prepped meal and turn the oven to preheat. I'm not a fan of eating out. I was raised on home-cooked meals, and it's what I prefer. Plus, when I go out, I can't see what the person making my food is doing, and it makes me cringe.

With the oven preheating, I go into the laundry room, where my pajamas from last night lay in the washer. Stripping down completely, I throw my clothes in the washer before heading to the bathroom. I turn the shower on and stare at myself in the mirror, looking over my beard and brushing my hand over my short brown hair a few times. I can go another couple of days, and then I will trim my beard and cut my hair. I run a hand over my tattooed torso before wincing and stretching out my sore fingers. For the last few months, my hand and wrist have been killing me to the point I had to stop my physical contact workouts because the hand pain was affecting my job. Not that I would let anyone know. The last thing I need is to have Janie or anyone at the shop looking at me weird.

In the shower, I take the time to enjoy the heat of the water running over my body. This new high-pressure shower head is probably my greatest purchase. My old one broke last week, and somehow, Janie caught wind that I needed a new shower head and went out to get it for me. Typically, I would have said no, but Janie's a hard one to argue with, even for me. I'll die before admitting it to her, but it feels incredible on my tense neck.

After my shower, I wipe down the shower walls, dry off, and head to put on clean pajamas. The oven should be preheated by now, so I throw my towel in the washer and start it, pop the meal in the oven, walk to my couch, and sit down. I turn on the TV and settle on a documentary about the pharmaceutical industry. I've just started to relax when my phone dings.

"What fresh hell is this?" I grunt as it dings repeatedly. I purposely don't partake in social situations. That way, I won't have to deal with texts and conversations. Glaring at my illuminated phone screen, I grab the offending device and open the text alert. My frown deepens when I see it's a group text thread with my younger siblings.

Jackson: Alright, we all in here?

Jensen: Man, how do you not know how to send a text message?

Jackson: I know how to send a message, you dipshit.

Carter: I'm supposed to have my face buried in between Missy's thighs right now. What do y'all want?

Me: I'm three seconds from blocking the lot of ya.

Theo: HOLLYWOOOOOOOOOOOD

Carter: Our long-lost brother!!!

Jensen: The prodigal son has returned

Jackson: Will y'all shut the fuck up? This is serious.

Jackson: Pops is declining. We've tried all we can and now the doctors are saying we need to have round-the-clock care and to start preparing.

I feel a slight tick in my jaw as I continue typing.

Me: So prepare. Send me a bill.

Carter: Wow.

Theo: Typical Derek, cold and uncaring.

Me: There are four of y'all there. You're telling me you can't handle this shit?

Theo: I'm heading to Texas soon. I won't be here.

Me: So? There are three grown as fuck adults that are more than capable.

Jensen: D, it's Pops.

Me: Yeah. And he's a stubborn, sick old man. What do you want me to do? Leave my job to come home and sit by his bedside?

Jackson: No, but you need to be prepared. Mama is going to need us, and you will be coming home when she does.

Me: Or what?

Jackson: Fuck around and find out, old man.

I hit the ‘do not disturb' on the text thread before throwing my phone on the coffee table. Something charred hits my nose, and I remember what I was doing before my siblings tried to take me on a guilt trip.

"Son of a bitch!" I growl while running to the kitchen and ripping open the oven door, only to find my meal burned to a crisp. Pulling it out, I release a sigh of frustration before turning off the oven. Tomorrow is meal prep day, so I have no more premade meals and no groceries to make anything.

Resigned to the fact that I will have to leave my house because I'm not eating something brought to me in a stranger's car, I change back into my clothes, grab my keys and wallet, and head out. At least if I go to a burrito place or something, I can see them make the food.

It's way too fucking crowded in here, and I don't like that everyone seems to have forgotten about leaving personal space between each other in the line. I fidget nervously, cursing myself once again for leaving my phone on the coffee table, because now I can't even pretend to busy myself and not think of all the people in here breathing each other's expelled air. I'm so busy avoiding eye contact that I nearly fall over when someone trips and stumbles into my back.

"What the hell?" I growl, whirling around. "Ya know, had you not been trying to ride my ass—" My eyes meet familiar icy blue ones on a heart-shaped face framed with wild raven curls, and my voice catches in my throat.

"Derek! Hi!" She smiles at me almost nervously. "I am so sorry. That was completely my fault." She pulls her hands together to her chest as her brows furrow. I stare dumbly at her, feeling the heartburn resurface.

"H-Hey, Indy," I manage to choke out, feeling the usual overwhelmingly itchy feeling I get every time she's around me. It's fucking annoying that this tiny little thing can turn my ass into a fumbling idiot with just a smile. I steal a glance over at her. She looks breathtaking, as always. Her hair's down and unmanageable. It reminds me of a longer, black version of Janie's. She has a very petite build and is more than a foot shorter than my six-foot-four frame. She wears tight, ripped jeans, a bright red bracelet, and a Hel's Ink Shirt tied in the back, showing off a sliver of her stomach that draws me in more than it has any right to.

Stop staring, you fucking creep.

"How have you been?" She stares at me expectantly, and god, please let this heartburn be a heart attack so I don't have to do this. I can't handle small talk, and I can't handle any talk where Indy Johnson is involved. Taking a step forward in line, I inhale deeply before speaking.

"Busy." She nods and continues to fucking smile and even greets each person that passes her. What the fuck is she doing?

"Oh, I'll get that for you!" She beams up at the man, trying to leave the restaurant. She opens the door and waves. "Have a fantastic day!" She calls to the complete stranger before walking back next to me. I'm at a loss for words. She can't go around just talking to people she doesn't know like this. This is how people get abducted.

"Yeah, I hear things have been chaotic since Ash had to go to Alabama," she continues, prolonging the tortuous conversation.

"You'd know if you were there," I mutter, but her stiffening body tells me she heard. She raises a black brow and cocks her head to one side. And nope, I refuse to think about her curls cascading over her slim shoulders.

"I am there. Three days a week." Furrowing my brows, I turn to give her my full attention.

"I'm there six days a week, and I know you are not–"

"We aren't on the same schedule," she interrupts. "I work with Stevie on her double days. I show up when you guys are gone. That's where I'm heading now. Stevie's waiting for me in her car. I just wanted to grab dinner first."

Right, those fucking double shifts piss me off. Stevie will work 12-7 PM and then 9-2 AM on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I voted against it, but Stevie insisted. So, on those days, we have a security guard there during those shifts.

"You and Stevie shouldn't be there alone." Indy shrugs as we move forward again.

"We aren't. Brooks is there those days, occasionally Greyson, but either way, one of them is always there." Brooks owns Knuckles Security Company. It's a bodyguard service Janie found a little over a year ago when she decided we needed babysitters during our convention trips. "So, I hear your birthday's next week."

I snort, "Yeah, who told you that?"

"A birdie." She shrugs, and I roll my eyes.

"All those birdies need to find something else to chirp about." Someone bumps into Indy from behind, causing her to stumble again. This time, I reach out and grab her. Her hands land on my chest, and the energy that courses through our touch makes me want to pull her closer.

I straighten her up as fast as possible, removing our hands from each other before grumbling at how long this line is.

"Sorry," she whispers, and I see the pink stain bloom on her pale cheeks. "My balance hasn't been the greatest. I should really work on it." I know she means it to be a joke, but her words remind me of a conversation I had with Indy's brother, Ash, last year. Indy has Multiple Sclerosis, and even though I'm not supposed to know about it, Ash told me after Indy had a relapse in her MS and was having problems controlling her bladder and stumbling. She couldn't work during her recovery, and she'd been embarrassed about me seeing her that way, so we haven't really talked since then.

I thank god that I'm next so I can end this. Indy is nice enough, but I don't do chit chat, I don't do closeness, and I definitely don't do whatever the fuck this warm vanilla, floral scent is that's trying—and succeeding—to invade and take over all my senses.

"So," Indy clears her throat, "Are you having a birthday party?"

"No," I say firmly, not moving my eyes from the person making the burritos. Good, they change gloves between customers.

"Not even with just the gang at Hel's?"

"Nope," I grunt, watching her deflate slightly at my harsh tone.

"How old are you going to be?"

"Old enough." I snort, shaking my head. My eyes glance her way briefly before looking back at the expectant employee. It's finally my turn.

"Well, I think it's sad not to celebrate your birthday." She huffs, and I turn my attention toward her once more.

"What does it matter to you? You don't want to work around me anyway, so it's not like you'd know." I snap out, "Tell ya what, darlin', if it makes you feel better, sure, I'm having a grand party with balloons, cake, and a goddamn pin the tail on the donkey." Whipping back around, I turn my attention to the worker to order my food. Once I get down the line, I furrow my brow when I realize I didn't hear Indy order anything.

"You gotta tell them what you—" I notice Indy isn't by my side anymore; a man is standing next to me instead. I pay the cashier and grab my bag, looking around for her as I walk out. It's then I see Stevie's black Camry drive by with Indy in the passenger seat, her head in her hands.

Goddamn it. I rub my chest again as I walk toward my vehicle, tossing my bag in the seat rougher than needed. Why did she care about my birthday? Why did she get upset at my comment? Why in the fuck did I snap at her? Why do I care that she got upset? Why in the fuck did I even leave my fucking house? I swear on all that is holy; I will never again allow myself to run out of fucking food.