Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (20 page)

The torrent of memories
and answers calms like a low tide, ever more quietly retreating. He slumps
forward, his soul suddenly exhausted. His head just hangs. A weight that he's
carried since birth flows from him in messy rivulets. Tinney supports his
weight easily, willingly, just lets him feel without the fear of image. And at length,
the sniffs slow as well.
 

Seth swipes his face
against his opposite shoulder, and then follows up with the back of his hand
across his eyes. He looks up at Tinney, looking all the world like his
adolescent self, and his dad in his prime.

Tinney says, “It never
gets easier. But you'll be a bigger man for this.” His eyes are wet.

“Your dad would be proud
of you.”

Chapter 29.
Midtown. New York City. November 27
^th
 

Seth holds the umbrella
steady above Emma and himself until they are beneath the green metal awning.
The rain sounds angry as it pounds against the metal. Seth lowers the umbrella,
shakes it, and pauses, staring out at the city beneath the deluge. The winter
thus far has been like this, constantly walking the line between cold enough to
snow and warm enough for frigid rain. He can see his breath. It rained the day
of Caleb's funeral. And the day of his dad's funeral. Fine; it's fitting
enough.

“Seth,” Emma says,
gently squeezing his arm. Her nose is pink and her blue eyes are so big.

He breaks the eye
contact, and collapses the umbrella. He knows she doesn't need to ask to know
all the things that weigh on him. He knows she won't ask. He puts an arm around
her shoulders, comfort for them both, and ushers her into the tattoo shop.

A cowbell knocks against
the door as it moves, and they are greeted by the smell of green soap and
sterility. The lobby is a welcoming affair full of leather couches and tables
scattered with portfolio and ink magazines. Some low and dirty stoner rock drifts
from hidden speakers. A young girl, probably not much older than Emma, comes to
life from behind a glass counter as though someone kicked her in the ass. Her
dark hair is streaked with blue, and she has a full sleeve. Seth understands in
the time it takes to approach the counter why Caleb liked this place.

The girl stutters, her
darkly lined eyes doing their damnedest not to crawl over the total package
that is Seth Morgan dressed down. Before she can manage to speak, he smiles and
her mouth snaps shut. A blush fires in her cheeks, and Emma shifts impatiently
beside Seth. He says,

“I have an appointment.”

He called several days
ago, spoke personally to the artist who did Caleb's work. Not surprisingly, he
was able to organize a private, after-hours appointment—no cameras, no other
customers, just cash exchanged for a special job.
 

The girl says, “Of
course! Follow me, Mr. Morgan.”

She leads them deeper
into the shop, and Emma rolls her eyes at the girl's back. Seth lets a smirk
tug at one corner of his lips. Will she ever not be jealous of the attention he
gets from women? Or perhaps it's because she wasn't the one getting the
attention? It's so hard to tell these days.
 

The studio is open,
stainless, well-lit. And the artist, Fitz, is waiting. He's a thin whip of a
man, early thirties, full sleeves and a cobra on his throat. He has dark hair
and bright hazel eyes that crinkle when he smiles at them. His eyes linger on
Emma, and Seth spits a curse at karma as she almost preens under the attention.
They all shake hangs through a round of introductions.

“Yeah, man, I'm real
glad you called me for this piece,” says Fitz. “It was a bummer hearing about
all that. Caleb was a cool dude.”

Seth nods his agreement.
“It took me a few days to figure out where he got his work done. I was . . .
gone on business for a while.”

Emma comes to life
beside him, her eyes curious as she nudges his side, and says, “How did you
figure that out?”

Seth smirks, but he
doesn't make eye contact when he says, “Rama.”

He hears her quiet
intake of breath, and she settles back into silence. Fitz watches long enough
to see her cheeks color, then he looks back to Seth. His eyes are smiling
again. He says,

“Yeah, I remember when
Caleb got that first tat, on his chest. He wasn't close to old enough, but
goddamn did he have a lot of cash.”

Seth laughs. He
remembers when his father found out Caleb had gotten the family's mark. He was
furious, but Seth always believed he was also proud that his eldest son was so
dedicated. Now Seth wonders at the pain it caused, knowing Caleb wasn't even
his son. Bribing the artist was so Caleb.
 

Seth says, “That is the
same piece I want done on me. Except there's something that wasn't in his that
I want in mine.”

“Right on,” Fitz says.
“What is it?”

“A crown,” Seth says,
softly.

Emma fidgets against his
side. He hasn't told her about that detail. He doesn't look at her though,
doesn't acknowledge her surprise and unease.
 

“No problem, boss. And
for the lady?”

Emma holds out the
inside of her wrist. “The snake, with a gun hanging from its tail. A

Glock.” Seth shifts and
she slides a quick glance at him. His face is a blank mask and she reaches out,
squeezes his hand once before refocusing on the tattoo artist.

Fitz cups the back of
her hand in his, and runs a thumb across the skin of her wrist. She manages not
to shudder at the whispering contact. He levels his hazel gaze on her, and
says, “Is this your first tattoo?”

She nods, not shying
away from his intent curiosity. His smile is easy, sexy with his stubble. He
says, “That's a pretty sensitive spot. Are you sure you can handle it?”

She lifts her chin, all
haughty indignation, and says, “I've been shot. I think I'll be fine.” Seth's
head whips around to her, his expression a hard warning. But Fitz just lifts
his eyebrows and laughs with a shrug. “Yes ma'am,” he drawls, and motions them
over to his drawing table.

He makes meaningless
small talk with them as he sketches out their stencils, mostly with Emma. Seth
watches the drawings come to life, ignoring the light banter. She's used this
technique to get to him before, in Cuba and here, but just now she seems to
actually enjoy the distraction. She's nervous. Seth can see it and so can Fitz,
who puts a needle to bodies daily. The artist has a soothing bedside manner,
despite his hard exterior, and again Seth understands why Caleb liked him.
 

Emma giggles, and Seth
realizes he has lost their conversation for his own thoughts. It's a good thing
the drawing doesn't take long. He is beginning to think Emma likes the older
man's attention a little too much.

Emma is first under the
needle. Seth watches intently from his chair as she offers her pale, smooth
wrist to the artist who did Caleb's first tattoo—soft virgin skin. This will be
her second significant scar, proof that there's no returning to the protected
world of her childhood.

It's poetic that this
one will be dedicated to Caleb, her other brother.
 

Fitz is gentle with her,
but his flirty demeanor disappears. He is all concentration and steady hands as
he lines her stencil up with the natural curves of her arm.

Wide blue eyes find his,
and he sees the nerves jangling there, wild and as unsteady as her knee bobbing
slightly. He shifts and gives her a small smile. It’s all he can offer, but
it’s enough. She lets out a breath and the uncertainty seems to flow out of her
as she settles deeper into the chair.
 

The tattoo machine
buzzes to life, and Fitz gives her a quick searching stare. She ignores him,
staring into the space above Fitz’s head. The first bite of the needles makes
her jump and Fitz pauses.
 

“I’m fine,” she says,
and there is a hint of authority in her voice that stalls any questions from
the artist. She gives him a quick smile and he refocuses on the tattoo. She
doesn’t move again, her eyes focused on nothing as he outlines the snake.
 

She’s always known this
life. Even when the family protected her, when she was sheltered and hidden,
she’s known the truth of what they are. Criminals. Dangerous. Untouchable. She
has never wanted anything but to be a Morgan, a princess in their deadly
empire. The quiet counter to her volatile cousins. The needle stings her arm, a
black ink chain that ties her to the only life she’s known.
 

Caleb would be proud of
her. Even when he protected her, even when he arranged his men around her, he
was teaching her. How to rule. How to live. How to survive their world with
honor. The value of family. The needle bites down and she lets out her breath,
so slow.
 

It feels right. It
hurts, but it should. It should never be easy. If there is anything Caleb
taught her, it’s that. She can feel Seth watching her, and the concern, warm as
the sun on their beach, but she can’t handle that, not right now.
 
This isn’t about him. It’s about Caleb. About
how, even now, he is teaching her. He would laugh at her jealousy, her
infatuation.
 

But he would be happy,
she thinks, that she has found Rama.
  

The machine quiets, and
she blinks, coming slowly out of her thoughts as Fitz wipes away the excess
ink. The snake is familiar and so foreign against her own skin. A staple in her
life, something she has seen on every person who has ever served the
family.
 

Even her father wore
their mark. But she never expected to. She has never
been
expected to.
 

Emma sits staring at her
new ink as Fitz cleans his station and prepares for his next job. Seth is a
stoic mask of himself, patiently waiting for his turn under the gun. He doesn't
have much to say, and his silence doesn't seem to bother Fitz, who moves like
art in motion through the break-down and set-up he has done a thousand times.
Seth lets his vision blur on the myriad of images in Fitz's own tats. His
memory sneaks back to the picture of Caleb and Rama handwrestling, to the
flower Seth never saw in person. He blinks once, twice, and rips his mind back
to the present. This is a celebration of Caleb, not that familiar mourning. He
is so tired of mourning.

Fitz is just about ready
for him so he stands and peels his gray t-shirt over his head. He moves a
little slower than he might have before taking a second bullet to his left
shoulder, but he has at least regained nearly his full range of movement. His
jeans are low-slung, but the other mark he bears is hidden. He notices sidelong
that Emma's gaze has shifted to him. Of course it would, but he ignores her.
“Damn, dude, that's a righteous scar,” Fitz says with wide eyes. Righteous?
That's one way to put it.
 

“Yeah,” Seth says with a
wan smile. “Put the stencil right under it, right where Caleb's was.”
Symbolically, over his heart. And the crown right under the bullet scar—both of
them a testament to what he has suffered to take his place.
 

Again, Fitz falls to
concentration, and he fits the stencil onto Seth's pectoral muscle. This is
Seth's first tattoo as well, but the artist doesn't seem worried that he can
handle it.

At last, when Seth is
lying back and Fitz is leaning above him with the machine poised above his
skin, he lets his eyes close. The machine kicks to life, a disconcerting buzz
that feels exactly like Seth's internal struggle.
Here's to you, Caleb
.
 

The needles touch down
and start to move, like bee stings that won't go away. The pain is negligible.
But the meaning behind it is massive. He focuses on keeping his breath slow and
steady, and he listens to the machine change pitch while it's traveling along
its guide.
 

When Caleb took the
family's mark, Seth had been derisive, a right haughty prick about it. They
were royals, he had said. They were above it. Long before Caleb had any proof
that he
wasn't
above it, he never believed
he was. Yet he had given every goddamned thing he had to this family, and they
took it. All of it. No amount of physical pain could ever stack up to that one
gross truth.

Truth—it has driven him
through this tragedy, like a drug he can't get enough of. Just when he thinks
he understands the situation, there's always one more damn truth that changes
everything. And there's one glaring him in the face, crouched on his chest and
staring down with contempt. He failed. He failed his father and his brother. He
failed Emma. He couldn't save his dad from a chestful of bullets. He couldn't
save Caleb from the hatred. He didn't save Emma from dying by her uncle's hand.
Another syndicate's royalty had to. The needles dig in again.

Never again. He won't
ever think he's above it. What was it Havana said?
People won't follow a cold king
. He's lost enough. He knows what
true loyalty is, and he knows that his uncle's bloodthirsty tactics almost
decimated their family from within. In their underworld, they can't afford to
have a shaky foundation, not with all the pressure from the outside. They have
to be strong in the faces of their enemies.
 

When his dad was around,
they were strong, because everything Gabriel Morgan did was to strengthen that
foundation: love, friendship, alliances based on the code. They were real at
some point. There was a time when siblings would never kill each other, and
mothers wouldn't order hits on their daughters. Even Remi Oliver saw it at
Caleb's funeral. Seth has stopped believing that Remi meant that, but just now,
he thinks maybe he really did. So far, the truce between them has held, and
Seth is the only one who can put it all back together.