Gus (20 page)

When we get home I call Franco. He answers on the second ring. "Cuntcake?" He sounds worried. And questioning. He knows what today is.

"Namaste, dipshidiot. Hey, I need a favor."

"Anything." He's already agreed. That's the great thing about true friends, they're there whenever and wherever you need them.

"I need to get in to see your brother today. Can you make that happen?"

"You want a tat?" He sounds surprised. He's covered in them from the waist up, while my body is a blank canvas. I always thought it would stay that way, but after this morning I know that's not possible.

"Yup."

"You going big? I'll need to let Julian know what kind of time he's looking at. He doesn't usually work Saturdays."

"Small. Two words," I answer. That's all he needs to know.

"I'm on it. Let me give him a call. I'll hit you up in a few minutes, man." He's so excited he hangs up without saying good-bye.

My cell rings less than five minutes later. We skip the usual derogatory name calling and get straight to business. "Well?"

"Pick you up in fifteen minutes. Julian will meet us at the shop."

"Sweet. I'll be waiting."

I head outside for a cigarette before Franco gets here. He won't let me smoke in his truck so I need to get this out of the way. His grin is joy, and excitement, and curiosity, and maybe even a little pride thrown in, when he pulls up to the house. He claps me on the shoulder when I climb in the cab. "I can't believe it. The candyass caves. Thought needles scared the shit out of you?"

I swallow and my stomach roils. I fucking hate needles. "Don't remind me." And then I catch an earful of what's playing on his stereo. "Now shut up so I can listen. This the new album?"

He turns it up. "Yeah. Sunset Sons is the shit, huh?"

"Fucking killer, dude. They can do no wrong." We continue listening while we drive. His brother's tattoo parlor is about twenty minutes away—just long enough to dwell on the situation and work my stomach into knots.

When we pull up to the storefront, my anxiety kicks into high gear. I'm light-headed when we step inside Julian's shop, but I swallow down the raging nausea, determined to make this happen.

Julian, a cool dude and mega-talented artist, greets us. He reaches out a hand to me, and when I take it, he pulls me in and pats me on the back twice for a bro hug. "How's it going, Gus? Long time no see." He's relaxed and in good spirits.

I'm not. I nod. "Good to see you, dude. Listen, I don't mean to be a dick, but can we just get on with this before I revisit breakfast and deposit it all over the floor?"

He and Franco both laugh as he takes a seat and grabs a pencil and paper. "What's it gonna be, big man?" Julian's always called me that. He's a good eight inches shorter than I am. And he's a skinny little fucker. Basically, he's just a smaller version of Franco and a little more baby faced, which makes him appear younger, even though he's the older brother by a couple of years.
 

Pointing to the inside of my right forearm, I describe the vision I have.

I catch Franco's smile out of the corner of my eye before he punches me in the arm. "I knew it."

I continue. "I want to keep it simple, but kinda badass, you know? And just black, no color."

Julian nods. He's already drawing.

As I watch the letters come to life, I smile. He gets it. It's flowing script, but it's masculine and bold. "That's it, dude. That's it."

Franco's on my ass as I follow Julian to his room and I want to turn around and tell him to heel or punch him in the throat. He's doing it on purpose; I know he is. He's trying to push my buttons because he knows I'm nervous. Strike that. I'm fucking scared shitless.

My eyes pinch closed as Julian cleans and preps my forearm, only opening them after he's applied the stencil drawing. He asks me to take a look and give him the go-ahead before he makes it permanent.

It does look badass, but I only nod. If I open my mouth I'll heave.

When his gun buzzes to life, I close my eyes again.

"Want me to hold your hand?" Franco asks, his voice high-pitched and ridiculous.

"Fuck off, dude. I know you've always wanted a piece of this, but I'm off-limits at the moment."

He laughs and claps his hands in amusement. That's one of my favorite things about Franco, his sense of humor. He always knows when to use it. And it's always spot on. It's always just what I need.

Surprisingly, the tattooing feels more like an irritation than actual physical pain. If I can keep my brain shifted away from the fact that a needle is jabbing and piercing my skin in rapid succession, it's almost bearable.
Almost
.

"You doing okay?" Julian asks. "You need a break? We're about halfway there."

Keeping my eyes closed, I shake my head. "Just keep going. Stopping makes it worse."

"Well, this is something I never thought I'd see." It's a new voice that's joined our little soiree.
 

"What the fuck? I thought this was invite only." I challenge from behind closed lids.

Jamie answers, "Franco texted us. We had to come see this with our own eyes to believe it."

When I peek one eye open Jamie and Robbie are both standing in the doorway leaning their heads in since there's not room for another body in this cramped space. "Believe, motherfucker," I mutter.

I'm trying to focus on breathing steadily, but my need for a cigarette is nagging me to the point that it's a distraction I can't ignore. I need that calm. My body needs that calm. My mind needs that calm. That and the fact that the repetitive needle jabbing is no longer irritation and has transformed into pain now. "I need a fucking cigarette," I say, my voice strained. I'm not getting up out of this chair until we're done, but verbally acknowledging the craving seems to quiet it. Makes it bearable.
 

Julian laughs. "You're doing great, big man. Only a couple more minutes, then I'll go outside and have one with you."

"Deal," I say through gritted teeth.

When the hum of the gun quiets, I know he's done. I open my eyes and my throat seizes when I see her words on my arm.
 

Her words.
 

Do epic.
 

Damn, I loved that girl and everything she stood for.

"That's pretty damn epic, asswipe." It's Franco. And it's sincere.

They're all leaned in to take a closer look.
 

My skin is angry, raised, and red, but the tattoo is eight inches by two inches of beauty. "You're a goddamn Picasso, Julian. Thanks."
 

Julian grins. He and Franco have the same huge grin. He looks proud of himself. "Glad you like it, big man."

When I stand up, Jamie claims my vacated spot. "I'm next. Same tattoo." He looks resolved. He has a few tattoos on his back, but his arms are bare.

"Me too." Franco and Robbie chime in together.

I scan the small crowd, my confidants. "Really?"

They're all nodding. Solemnly. Our band. A band of brothers.

Jamie speaks up. "Remember, it was on Kate's list. Do epic. She was talking to Rook. We should all get it. And what better day than her birthday?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "You remembered today was her birthday?"

He nods. "Of course." Jamie is the most innocent of all of us. He's just ... good. Of course he remembered.

They're all nodding again. They all remembered. I look at Julian. "You have plans? Can you make this happen? I'll pay for all of them. Double, since it's your day off."

"Let's go have a cigarette and then we'll do this."

Julian makes it happen. We all walk out with matching tattoos. Though Franco's is smaller, on his wrist where his sleeve ends, because blank real estate was in short supply.

Outside on the sidewalk, I stop in my tracks. The sun is setting. It's like fire in the sky.
 

Bright.
 

Brilliant.
 

Orange.

The four guys stand with me in awed silence. They know how much Bright Side loved to watch the sunset.
 

My smile grows as the sun makes its final descent and plunges us into darkness. Bright Side was
definitely
in charge tonight.

"That's my girl."

Tuesday, October 31

(Scout)

Audrey and I are in her car, driving home from her office. She's been quiet the past few days. I'm not one to pry, but it's unlike her. There's a sadness in her eyes that's undeniable.

I don't like being around sadness, because it brings up all the feelings inside me that I try to push down. I'm great at suppressing emotion. I can force bad feelings down into my shoes and walk all over them until they're dust under my feet. It's the good feelings that seem elusive sometimes. I live in a world of middle ground. Stoic and unfeeling most of the time. It's easier that way.

When we get home from work, Gustov is waiting outside for Audrey. He's smoking, but as soon as she gets out of the car he stubs out his cigarette and pulls her into a hug. They don't say anything. They just hold on tight. That hug is pure comfort. It's love. I've never seen a parent and child with the kind of relationship they have. There's a level of mutual respect and admiration, loyalty and love that was uncomfortable to be around at first. It seemed contrived. Parents and their children don't have deeply rooted friendship. But these two do. The way they get each other, support each other, is beautiful. The closest relationships I have are with Aunt Jane and Paxton. I know Jane loves me in her own way and I love her, but it's not like this. And Paxton? We love each other like siblings, but a seventeen-year-old boy shouldn't be expected to carry me emotionally. I'd never begin to burden him with that. So, I go it alone most of the time.

Walking inside, I leave Audrey and Gustov alone to talk.
 

When I get to my room, I feel trapped. Like I'm lost. And every emotion I've been stomping on the past nine months starts rising. And rising. Until I'm crying and I have no idea why. I don't want to cry. And suddenly, Michael's face flashes in my mind. I don't want Michael to have this hold on me. I just want to be over him. But I can't. I gave him everything I was. Everything I am now is
less
than what it was before. There's a void. I'm incomplete. My mind is running a million miles a minute and my anxiety is skyrocketing. Maybe a shower will help calm me down. I always shower in the morning after my run, but I feel like I need to soak in misery for a while. I let the hot water pound against my skin. I picture it battering out the bad. Battering out the loss. Battering out the resentfulness and the bitterness. I stand there for a long time and I cry. I haven't cried in months. Being with Michael the other day brought back to the surface all of the ugliness. And all of the love. Damn Michael. I loved him and love was important back then. To me at least. In the beginning, sex was more than just an act. It was a commitment. It was a declaration of that love. But then the act turned into pure, unadulterated need and self-loathing. I used to tell myself I wasn't the bad guy. But now, reality's slipping in and I'm beginning to hate myself. To regret things I've done. The lines of sex and love and right and wrong have been blurred. I hate it.

"Shut the hell up." That was me talking to me. Out loud. I need to get out of this shower and get back to life.

After throwing on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, I decide the best thing I can do to keep busy is to go make dinner so that Audrey doesn't have to.
 

When I get to the kitchen, Audrey and Gustov aren't there, which is strange because it's Tuesday and Audrey always makes veggie tacos on Tuesday. Gustov usually helps her if he's home. He's almost always home, unless he's surfing. He spends more and more time out in the water. Which is good. He looks better. He's lost weight and gained muscle. He's got some color. He looks like life is slowly being breathed back into him. I think being on the road kills him. He's a different person at home. I can see that difference now.
 

I hear the TV playing in the living room. Children's voices. Laughter—innocent and pure. Laughter so transparent that the happiness housed inside is undeniable. When I enter the room, Audrey and Gustov are sitting on the sofa. Gustov is stretched out along the length of the chaise on one end. His arms are bent at the elbows and his hands are resting behind his head. He looks peaceful and happy. I've never seen that look on him. He's smiling slightly, looking content. Audrey is sitting on the other end of the sofa. Her legs are pulled up under her to one side. She's still wearing her work clothes, which is unusual; she usually changes as soon as she gets home. She's smiling, too. The same contented smile that Gustov is wearing. It amazes me how much they look alike: same blond hair, same kind eyes, same tall, almost intimidating stature that somehow doesn't scare you because while confident, they're some of the warmest people I've ever met.

They don't know I'm in the room with them. The sound of a little girl's voice pulls my eyes to the TV screen. She's tiny with a head full of messy golden waves that fall down the center of her back. She's giggling like she doesn't know what sadness is. "Get him, Gracie!" she yells.

A boy, much bigger than the girl, runs into the scene. His light blond hair is long and pulled back in a ponytail and his skin is tanned from the sun. He's wearing a pair of swim trunks and holding three water balloons in his hands. He's running after the little girl. She's screaming and the sound is pure joy. She's trying to get away from him when he yells, "You can run, but you can't hide, Bright Side. Besides, Gracie's on my team." He looks off-screen. "Aren't you, Gracie?"

A voice comes from someone off-camera. Her answer giggles its way out. "I'm on Kate's team." And with that, a little girl walks on screen and pelts him right in the chest with a water balloon.

He looks stunned, but his answer is shocked laughter. "Gracie, I thought I was your favorite? What was that about?"

A sharp hoot of laughter comes from what I assume is the camera person, because it's louder than the others. "Way to go, Gracie! Get him!"