Sometimes a group would come in to get tattoos on a dare, after a night of partying hard. Occasionally we’d fit them in, if they’d sobered up enough, or the guys would stay late, to earn extra cash. If it was a bunch of girls, it could get interesting, especially if their only goal was to get these guys to put their hands on them. It was up to us at the front desk to make that determination.

But we hadn’t had any DBs in yet. “Not today.”

“Heard your tire was flat last night,” she said, eyeing a girl who’d just strolled through the door. She was a regular of Dex’s. He specialized in shaded art and was finishing up a huge piece on her leg. “How did you make it here today?”

“Nate drove me home last night,” I said.

“And then?” Emmy arched her eyebrow.

“And then he came inside and . . . God, Emmy . . . it was amazing.”

Emmy never pushed me for closed-door details, and I never offered, but she would get the gist of what I was saying from my tone alone. Just talking about it made my entire body heat up.

Before she could respond, another customer walked in and she alerted Cory of his appointment while I got my emotions in check. Then she eagerly turned back to me.

“And when I woke up this morning,” I said, grabbing for my coffee to take a needed sip. “He was gone. But my car was back in the driveway, sporting a brand-new tire.”

She squealed. “Nate?”

“Right,” I said, lowering my voice since Emmy’s high-pitched tone alerted Cory across the room at his station. “Bennett told me that he and Nate got it done early this morning, while I was still sleeping. Can you believe that shit?”

“Told you,” she said. “That boy is going down hook, line, and sinker.”

I just shook my head and turned away to pull up some files for the art festival.

I was pretty sure it was the other way around and I didn’t have any earthly clue what to do about it.

Chapter Thirty-one

Nate

Heading up my parents’ driveway for a family dinner, which unfortunately included all four of us, I heard my father’s booming voice. I froze near the azalea bushes, bile pungent in the back of my throat.

I had the urge to squat down and curl into a ball as small as humanly possible, like I did when I was a kid. But I forced my legs to continue into the garage, closer to the source of the sound. I was an adult and I needed to protect my mother.

As I neared the back door that led into the kitchen, I overheard more of their argument. The hair on my arms prickled despite the heat of the day.

“Your brother left me a threatening message, you bitch!” My father yelled. “What the hell did you say to him?”

My stomach tightened painfully. When I reached out to my mom’s family for support, I thought I had done the right thing. But now it sounded like my uncle had figured some things out on his own, and my dad’s reaction wasn’t good.

Dr. Drake warned me that this kind of thing might happen when I began standing up for myself and facing the problem head-on. That it most likely would upset the order of things in my dysfunctional family.

But he assured me that the fault did not lie with me, that I could only take ownership of myself. And I had believed him. Fuck.

“Wh . . . what did Jack s . . . say?” my mother asked, her voice high pitched and shaking.

“He told me that I’d been keeping you on a tight leash all of these years and that you haven’t been allowed to enjoy time with your own family,” he growled.

“I . . . I don’t know why he’d say something like that,” she said, in a whimper.

I pushed the screen door open and stepped inside.

My father stood over my mother as she cowered in a chair at the kitchen table. His large hands gripped her upper arms painfully. I could tell by how pinched my mother’s face was that he was hurting her.

“Get your fucking hands off of her!” my voice boomed.

My father’s back straightened.

“If you want to blame someone,” I bit out. “Blame me.”

He released my mother and rounded on me, eyes blazing. My mother uncurled in her seat, her hands clutching and rubbing at her upper arms.

“You?” He stepped toward me and I could feel my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in. But all I needed to do was look over his shoulder at how my mother was soothing her bruises to know which one I’d act upon. “You’re the one who’s been running your mouth?”

“Running my mouth?” I said, balling my fists. “No, just telling the truth. I’m not hiding this shit anymore.”

“Nobody needs to know our family business,” he hissed through his teeth.

“And what business is that, Dad? The business where you leave bruises on Mom because you’re angry over something she said or did?” I spat out. “Or the business where you’re gone all the time but Mom’s not allowed to work or do what she loves outside of this house?”

“Nate,” my mother said, struggling to rise from her chair. “That’s my—”

“Your mother’s a grown woman and makes her own choices,” he said, his face getting redder by the minute. “I think you’ve got some of your facts mixed up, Son.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t, Dad,” I said. “I’ve just been hoping she wakes up and discovers that you don’t hold all the cards. That she can make a life for herself outside of you. Have friends, do the things she used to love.”