3. Marko

Chapter 3

Marko

“ T here you go. All done.”

The young lady peers at the top of her foot where I finished the colour on her rose. It’s quite pretty. Tattooing flowers is a favourite of mine.

“Super! Svi?a mi se! It’s gorgeous!”

I stiffen at her use of my first language.

“You speak Croatian?”

“Just a little. I dropped out of Croatian school.” She laughs, pure and carefree, while I smile to hide the uneasiness in my chest.

“That’s cool. Glad you like the rose.” I reach for the home care instructions and go over it with her. When I’m finished, she’s staring at me more intently than I’d like.

“You remind me of someone, but I can’t place it. Did you ever go to the Croatian school in Rosevale?”

“Nope.”

Who needs Croatian school when you live it every day with your baka teaching you to remember where you came from?

My client stands with a shrug and carefully slips on her flip-flops.

“I’m sure it will come to me. Have a great day!”

Normally I’d walk my client out, but my nausea rolls. What if it comes to her, and she figures it out? I don’t think this town will be as kind as they've been if they learn the truth about me and my family.

“Hey, you okay?” Curtis leans on the doorway at my station as I run a shaky hand down my face.

“Yeah…just…I’ll be okay.” The itch to run again covers my skin, and I stand, sending my stool flying. Curtis reaches a hand out and I shrug it away.

“Marko, what’s wrong?”

“Can you lock up? I just… I need to take a ride.”

Curtis studies me before nodding and stepping aside.

“Of course.”

Ignoring the deep crease of his brow, I brush past him, grabbing my leather jacket on the way.

“Hey, Marko?” I pause with my hand on the door. “Can you call me tonight? Let me know you’re okay?”

I nod once. I owe him that much.

“Yeah.”

And without another word, I exit the back door into the small space behind my tattoo shop. After unlocking the small shed there, I open the doors to find my pride and joy. My Ducati Panigale V4 .

“Hello, gorgeous. It’s been a while, but I need to drive fast and clear my head.”

After securing my helmet, I back the bike out of the shed and lock up behind me. Once on the street, I start the engine, roaring the bike to life. My adrenaline spikes as I race away from my fear, squealing rubber as I accelerate far too fast down Main Street. It takes all my patience to wait until I’m on the major highway to open her up—and fly. Every shift of the gears takes me farther away from the claw gripping my chest and my breathing steadies .

It’s only when I see the sign for the next town that I finally pull over. There’s a small hill advertising a scenic lookout, and that’s where I find myself, staring out over a river and watching the sun disappear as I curse my father.

Ivica Dasovich.

The thorn of the business world. The thief reported to the Ontario Securities Commission and me, the stupid son who believed his father would never steer him wrong.

Walking over to the picnic table, I remove my helmet and the all-too-familiar anger bubbles to the surface every time I think of him.

“ U pi?ku materinu !”

My curse echoes back to me, and I bury my hands in my hair.

He stole my childhood and tainted the memories of a father who I thought loved me more than life itself. With the help of my baka , I grew to understand I wasn’t responsible for his faults, only my own. But I’m tired of being alone because of them. I want to be proud of who I am and where I come from, but every time someone makes comments like my client did, my gut twists. I changed my last name to my mother’s to avoid the instant judgement that followed his name. When people tell me I look familiar or even mention anything about him, the urge to hide always bursts to the surface.

Always. I fucking hate it.

Pulling out my phone, I hit the button for my grandmother and wait as it rings.

“Jura, my boy, nice to hear from you.”

The happiness in her voice warms me, even if she still uses my first name. When I came to Canada, I used my middle name, Marko, instead. It was easier to blend in that way. Not to mention pronounce.

“ Bako . I’ve missed you.”

“Then come visit. I’ll make the apple strudel and we can watch football. Croatia looks good this year.”

Baka loves her football, and it makes me smile.

“They do. Hopefully, they don’t crumble when needed.” There’s a pause in our conversation as I work for the words. “ Bako , someone spoke Croatian in my shop. They said I looked familiar and I panicked. I don’t want this life taken too.” My free hand curls into a fist. “I hate him so much and I don’t want to keep running.”

“He may be my son, but I hate what he’s done to you.” Her voice softens. “I don’t know how to make it better, Jura.”

She’s been down this road with me a few times. Always listening when I have these episodes.

“I know. I just… maybe I should tattoo it on my forehead. Son of Ivica Dasovich and no, I didn’t know what he was doing.”

“ Dragi , you can’t lie.” She scolds me and loses some of the softness in her voice. “You knew, but you turned an eye because he was your father and believed he was a good man. We all did. But honesty is always best.”

That’s the part that I can never shake. If only I had said something earlier, maybe it would be different. If I had said no to him, maybe I wouldn’t be in this never-ending loop of guilt.

“I need to stop running and hiding. Maybe I should just accept that people will judge me because of him. We both made mistakes.”

“People will judge because of your tattoos anyway, so why not?”

She laughs a raspy laugh and the tightness in my chest eases.

“I love my tattoos. Leaving finance was the best thing for me. I get to do what I love now, and I love drawing people’s visions and having them come to life on their skin. It’s where I’m meant to be.”

“A silver lining then.”

“Yeah.”

A buzzer sounds in the background and my grandmother sighs.

“That’s my bread dough. We can talk again soon. Remember, you have more good than bad in you, Jura. You have more of your mother than anything, and no one was more angelic than her. Remember that.”

I swallow back the lump in my throat. Baka has a way of making me feel like there’s hope.

“Thanks, bako . I love you. I’ll call again soon.”

After the call ends, the silence of the lookout is profound.

My grandmother’s words linger, though.

Honesty is always best.

I know she’s right. Honesty is huge, but how do I tell people my father is the biggest financial criminal this county has seen in fifty years and that I let his crimes happen until I was brave enough to blow the whistle? That I negotiated a deal to avoid jail by turning over everything they needed to arrest and convict my father?

How do I just bring that up in a normal conversation?

I’m guilty by association. Which is true. I helped him steal money from innocent people, and ignorance is no excuse. He used my unwavering trust in him to defraud unsuspecting people. It’s always been my battle since then to take solace in knowing I did the right thing eventually. Even if I didn’t the first few times .

He was my father. It was so hard for me to accept that the same man who taught me how to ride a bike and read me bedtime stories could use me that way.

It still is.

It’s why I keep to myself as much as I do. People who I thought were my friends vanished. They didn’t want to be tied to me in case it jeopardized their careers. I had no criminal record, but I was required to leave the finance world. Which was the silver lining, as baka said. I never wanted to be there. Art held my heart, but back then, I’d do anything for my father’s approval.

But my baka is right. I need to remember I’m not him. I’ve let him steal my happiness for too long.

Running and hiding all the time is tiring. I need to take back control of my life.

It’s time to start fresh. That’s why I moved here after all. A new start.

Placing my helmet on and starting my bike, I head back towards home. The panic that sent me running has lifted and a new purpose has rooted.

There’s no better time to start new than now.

It's time for me to take back my life.

***

The guy with the peacock is across the street for coffee again .

I’ve moved on from being irritated that someone owns a peacock they take everywhere, to being amused that he appears to have coffee with it every day.

Colby told me about him at the business owner’s association meeting. Heath. A veritable Snow White with animals of all kinds, which is how my fascination with him shifted, to where I now want to say hello.

To take that first step towards my happiness, maybe. The fresh start I came here for. I can do this.

“If you’re not careful, I might think you have a thing for the guy.”

My hand lurches, sloshing coffee over the edge of my mug.

“Jesus, Curtis. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He joins me at the storefront window with his coffee and a knowing smile. A smile I absolutely don’t like.

“So, spill it. You watch for him every morning. It’s been weeks, Marko. When are you going to say hello?”

Turning to him, I give him my most intimidating glare.

“You’re an observant fucker.”

He laughs as we both watch as Heath pets the peacock and tosses the water cup. Fuck, he has the prettiest eyes. Long dark lashes I can see from across the street. Damn right I’ve been watching him.

There’s a thud to my shoulder and I glare at Curtis.

“May I remind you I sign your paycheck?”

“It’s direct deposit.” He snorts.

“Okay, I push the fucking button to pay you, then.”

“Marko, dude… the only thing you haven’t done is one of those dreamy lovesick sighs. Why don’t you just go out there and say hello? ”

I’ve been rolling around that exact question in my mind for the last few weeks. But it’s been years since I’ve considered asking anyone on a date. Years. I break out in a sweat thinking about it. But the fact is, I have been thinking about saying hello. I just needed to work myself up to it.

“I’m planning to introduce myself this afternoon at the community days thing. I only have one client this morning.”

Heath laughs and waves at someone on the street as he strolls away, the peacock trailing behind him, bopping his head and constantly watching for threats. Are guard peacocks a thing?

Curtis is right, though.

I’m only missing the dreamy sigh, because I’m definitely infatuated with the man.

“That’s a fabulous idea! Even if he says no, it’s a step in the right direction for you.”

“You think he’ll say no?”

“I mean, I don’t know if he dates men. So, it’s possible. But I know you’d have a friend at the very least. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like Heath.”

Thinking back to when I met Colby, he told me Heath was one of the sweetest guys he knows and that he loves that peacock. He’s single. That much I know, but Colby never gave me a clear sign if Heath dated men. That’s an important part I should have pressed for.

“Well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

If the nerves don’t get the best of me, that is.

Curtis has a sly grin when he tips his chin towards a gentleman coming towards the shop .

“That’s my client. We’ll likely be here for a while.” He slaps me on the shoulder before retreating to his station. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

“Okay…”

Curtis usually stays in the front when he’s waiting for a client, so this is interesting. Maybe I can tease him back about something, too.

The door opens and the man steps in. He’s tall, very fit, and seems much older than Curtis.

“Good morning. I’m here to see Curtis.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here. Can I get your name?”

He clears his throat. “William.”

With a nod, I poke my head into Curtis’s station to find him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“William is here.” I search the area, and he doesn’t seem to have anything set up for a tattoo. Not even a sketch pad. “Curtis, do I need to be concerned?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. Good luck today.”

The door chimes, and this time it’s my client. So I take Curtis’s word for it and get to work.

“Hey man, you must be Jackson. I’m Marko.”

He takes my hand in greeting, and I almost wince at the strength of his grip. The guy has a handshake that might break bones.

“Nice to meet you.”

After leading him to my chair, he removes a piece of folded paper from his jeans pocket and hands it to me.

“Do you think you can do something like this?”

Carefully unfolding the paper, I find an image of a steer with the word ‘ champion ’ and what I think is the logo for an event. It’s pretty straightforward, and I can probably just take this design and run it through my stencil machine to start his outline today.

“I can do this. Do you want to start today?”

“If you can do it today, I’d be thrilled.”

“You’re a rodeo guy?”

He grins again. “I’m a champion steer wrestler.”

Checking the time and confirming where he wants the tattoo, I hand him the questionnaire while I prepare the transfer.

“I can work on it until 1 P.M. If it’s not finished, you’ll need to come back. Would that be a problem?”

Jackson pulls out his phone and taps around. “I’m only free until Wednesday. Then I can’t be back for another three weeks. Would that work?”

“We’ll make it work.”

“Excellent!” He passes me his health history and after confirming a few things, I place the transfer to his inner left bicep.

“So…what’s it like to be in rodeo?”

Better to talk and pass the time than stare at the clock. And bonus, I’m learning about bull-riding.

If Heath works on a ranch, rodeo might be a thing he likes.

Once Jackson starts talking, it’s very clear he is a passionate cowboy.

And I’m all ears.