Razor's Edge (Afflictions)

RAZOR’S EDGE

Racquel Reck

Copyright © 2014 Racquel Reck

All rights reserved. This is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art by Amanda Simpson at Pixel Mischief.

Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Publishing.

Formatting done by Racquel Reck

Please note before reading.

The content in these pages is strictly fiction. While the characters take on real life problems, these are fictional characters. Their actions between these pages is meant for your enjoyment only. This contains mature subject matter and is not to be read by anyone under the age of eighteen.

       
 
Dedicated

               
To Tralynn

             
 
 
Prologue

Shay

"Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?"

My heart is racing. Holding the phone to my ear, my chest tightens. Palms sweaty and hands shaky, I try to get a handle on my anxiety. I shouldn’t be doing this. He’ll kill me if he finds out.  

I swallow the thick knot in my throat.
Can’t do this
. I have to for Ben. 

"Hello. Is anyone there?"

My gut rolls. "Yes. I’m here." My voice is small, barely a whisper, and laced with nerves. Walking around my spacious loft apartment isn’t helping. 

"What is your emergency, ma’am?"

"I’d like to...to make an..."
Come on, Shay, just spit it out, like you always do.
Now it’s different.  

"If this isn’t a life-threatening emergency, you need to hang up and call your local police station."

Yeah, that’s probably who I should have called first. "I have information on a drug deal that is about to go down."
There
. I said it. 

"Then you want to talk to TCR. Telephone Crime Reporting. I can connect your call. Hold please." 

There’s a click… ringing follows. Sweat beads down my forehead and face, making a trail into my cleavage. My white tank top clings to my body in an icky, damp mess.
It’s hot in here.
I turn up the dial on my fan. Not helping. I move toward one of my floor-to-ceiling windows and crack it. Nothing. Not even a warm May breeze.

The only light that isn’t out on our street is illuminating three men, two in hoodies. It’s way too hot outside to be wearing that crap. The third man is in jeans and a black T-shirt. He looks up at me.

Despite the scorching heat, my body goes cold.

Gary.

Now that the evil son-of-a-bitch is outside, I quickly consider hanging up the phone. 

"TCR. What’s your crime?"

"Um..."I watch Gary hand something to a tall man in a black hoodie.
Heroin.
I’m guessing. It’s his drug of choice—both to use and sell. 

"Mommy." Ben tugs my shirt. "Had a nightmare." 

He’s in nothing but his Pull-Ups, and his curly dark hair is caked in sweat.
Maybe I need to open two windows.

Carefully, I bend down and pick him up. Balancing him on my hip, with the phone in my other hand, I turn toward another window and crack it open.

My eyes dart around the street.

Gary’s gone.

I have a bullet train going through my chest; each clack of the track is a hard pound against my sternum.
I’m doing this for Ben
. There will be no peace in this house until that man is gone. 

"Hello?"

"Um, yes. Sorry. Hang on a sec. My son's awake." I put the cell phone down on the table and walk across the space of my loft to his toddler bed in the corner. I don’t have time for this, but I can’t let Ben hear what I have to say. That would put him in danger. "What was your nightmare about?"

"Daddy. He was being mean."

"It’s okay, Ben.” Everything in me tightens up, and tears behind my lids threaten to fall. “I promise Daddy won’t be doing anything like that again."
I shouldn’t be telling him this.
But what I’m about to do will make sure he never has to witness the beatings again. 

I lay him down gently on the bed and cover him with a sheet. "Mommy’s going to take care of it. And hey, you need to get some rest. You have a big day tomorrow, birthday boy. Three years. That’s something special." 

His bright blue eyes sparkle as he smiles wide. I kiss his black, curly head and he snuggles down under the sheet, so precious and innocent. Hopefully Gary and I haven’t messed him up too badly. It’s my fault for staying.

I’m ending that tonight.
 

I hurry back to the phone. "Are you still there?"

"Yes," the woman says.

My eyes zero in on the only room we have in our loft.

After locking the door behind me, I get the shower going to drown out my words if Gary comes home. "I want to leave an anonymous tip. There’s a drug deal going down tomorrow night at Paloozie’s. Gary Wiseler is going to meet Rictor Larkson at eleven to pick up a hundred grams of heroin." 

I can’t believe I just did that.
 

The door to our loft slams.

"Shay!"

"Shit! He’s here. I
gotta go."

"But I need–" I end the call. 

The door knob to the bathroom rattles, followed by a loud bang. "Shay, open this door!"

My chest flutters. My blood freezes. I swallow hard. He’s angry. I have no idea why. He doesn’t know what I did. Quickly, I strip off my shirt. "Hang on! I was just about to–" 

The door flies off its hinges and crashes against the toilet. 

Ben screams.

Gary’s blue eyes are like ice. His nostrils saw in and out with his breath. Taught muscles bunch under his shirt. He’s ready to spring. 

I promised Ben this wouldn’t happen again.
Bracing myself against the wall, I look around Gary to see if there is any possible way to escape. There’s not. "W-what–" 

The back of his hand cracks against my jaw. I land on the cool blue tiles of our bathroom floor as the taste of iron erupts in my mouth. 

"You fucking slut!" He fists my hair in his hands. Sharp tingles rip through my scalp, and I swear he’s going to rip every follicle off my head. "You’ve been fucking around with Sammy. Haven’t you?"

"N-no."

My head slams into the tile, and pain explodes across my forehead.

"Don’t lie to me." He lets go of my hair with a shove.

Ben’s screaming. I have to get to him. I try to stand, but I’m knocked back down by his boot. It digs into my back and crushes my chest to the floor. Tears, mixed with blood, cloud my vision of the pipe attached to our sink. A sob rips out of my throat as the cries from my little boy tear through my soul. 

He’s a witness.

He shouldn’t be watching this.

I promised.

He must be terrified.

Strength comes from somewhere deep inside me. I brace my hands on the floor and push with everything I have. 

His boot lets up.

For a moment, I have the chance to move. Scrambling to my feet, I grab a hold of the sink. Crimson coats the porcelain. My fingers’ grip slips. My legs give in to the pull of gravity, and I slide along the bloodied tile.

"You fucked him, didn’t you? Didn’t you, you whore!"

Air rushes out of me. A kick to the chest constricts the deep breath I’m trying to take. I can’t breathe. All I hear are my little boy’s screams as punch after punch and kick after kick land on me in rapid succession. Gary’s slanderous words are repeated over and over, but I can’t string them together for meaning. 

"Gary!" 

It’s Bebe.

Why is everything going black?
Help Ben!
Why won’t my words come out?

"What the hell are you doing, man?" 

And Q
. God, please let them help me.

And then, everything stops. Ben’s cries are no longer there. Gary’s shouts have gone silent. The pain has vanished. 

It’s dark. 

Am I dead?

I can’t leave Ben. Gary can’t have him. I fight through the thick ink. I will never let him do this to me or my son
ever
again.

“No. You won’t.” The darkness turns into light gray and standing in the middle of a vast space of fog is a man. He’s smoking a cigarette. He butts it and sparks up another one. “Or death will take you.”

             
                
One

 
            
 
Five years later…

Shay

Digging needles into someone’s skin is an art form.
The hum from the machine is soothing. A calm comes over me. My creativity is flowing, and the feeling can’t be matched by anything else. The plump flesh of Marla’s side is my canvas. The needles glide with the imagination I’m setting free. I lean in to wipe the blood so I can get a better visual on the tattoo I’m inking: a skull with butterflies coming out of the eye sockets is trailing up her side, the name "Big T" written across the teeth. If I had to count the number of times someone wanted the relationship kiss of doom, I’d be really fucking tired of counting.  

"Are you almost done?" Marla has that deep, gravelly voice of a smoker. Her pudgy face glances over her shoulder at me. “Gary never took this long."  

Gary
. They always want Gary. My chest constricts, knowing when he gets out most of my customers will want to go back to him. He was always way better at this than I am. 

"Yeah, almost done with the outline." I wipe some of the blood away so I can see what I’m doing, ignoring her comment about my piece-of-shit baby daddy. The outline is perfect. I spray some antibacterial cleaning solution on it to cool it down, then wipe and apply the ointment and dressing.  

"When’s he getting out?" She slides off the chair and pulls up her jeans. "Doesn’t he have a parole date? I want him to finish the color." 

Of course.
I try to suppress an eye roll. It doesn’t happen. Damn him for his remarkable talent, and for being the perfect combination of charisma and eye candy. If only his clients knew just how much of an ass he really is. "Yes, but they’ve turned him down before. It wouldn’t shock me if he does the whole ten." 

She takes a deep breath and reaches for her backpack. "You’ll have to do." She pulls out her cash and hands me three fifty for the three hours I spent inking her side. If she wasn't about to pay me, I'd make some smart-ass remark and tell her to go find someone else to finish the work. Running clients out of my business won’t help me save up for a shop in a better neighborhood. I bite my tongue. "Thanks, Marla."   

"You tell Gary we’ll get that snitch good. You hear?" Her brown eyes glare at me. She closes her fist and punches her other hand. "You let him know the River Rats got his back."  

Marla must be missing a couple of lights. Big T would break some skulls if he knew she was broadcasting his business like that. Good thing I don’t have to worry about that biker gang coming after me. Sometimes it pays to be an abusive prick’s girlfriend. "Come back in two weeks and we’ll set you up with some color."  

She nods, shrugs into her leather jacket, and takes her receipt, along with the care instructions for her tat. As she reaches the door, she collides with Bebe.                           

"Sorry, Marla."
Bebe scoots past her, clutching folders in her arms, and smiles.  

A cold blast of a wintery breeze enters the shop. That’s nothing compared to the icy look in Marla’s eyes. “Watch it, princess. Groupie whores get burned when they fuck with biker bitches.”

Bebe’s eyes are wide and she sucks in air through her teeth.

I grip the counter at my station. My heart flies in my chest.
I really don’t want to call the cops.
Having a biker gang come knocking isn’t the type of trouble I’m looking for.

Marla watches her for a minute, then smiles. “You’re lucky you’re Gary’s sister.” She exits the shop, slamming the door and making the bell ding-a-ling throughout my spacious shop.

Relief rushes through me so fast that I’m dizzy. I take a deep breath and head over to the front counter in the center of my shop.

Bebe
lets out a long, slow audible breath and stares at Marla getting into her beat up jeep. "Damn, what crawled—?" 

"Forget Marla.” That’s all I want to do. I need her money, and her gang is loyal to Gary. Nixing her as a client isn’t an option. “Did you pick up the new logo from Dennis?" 

Bebe snaps out of her Marla stupor and bounces up to the counter. The eyebrow ring makes the smile in her blue eyes somehow brighter than her blonde and fuchsia hair. She pulls a folder out of the stack of papers she’s carrying.

"He said he didn’t want to mess with your design too much." She hands it over to me and sheds her purple pea coat then sets it on the counter. "He thinks the logo is a perfect fit for the name."  

I open the file. Inside is my design. Only the name isn’t on the razor itself, it’s on the blood underneath.
Razor’s Edge
. 

"Are you sure you want to change the name?" She cocks a hip against the counter and bites the end of her pen. "Gary’s going to be so pissed that you’re revamping his business." 

"My business. Remember? He signed it over to me when—" 

"Gary loves
Everlast." She rolls her eyes.  

I arch my brow at her. She knows just what he put me and Ben through. In all fairness, she
is
his sister. And in this instance, the old cliché “blood is thicker than water” applies. Of course she’d stick up for him.  

"Okay, so he’s a fucking cocksucker for doing that to you and little man. But he’s going to get out eventually and want his business back." She shuffles through some papers and drops an envelope in front of me, one with a Maxie Penitentiary address on it.  

I pick it up, walk over to our shredder, and fire it up. 

Bebe
narrows her brows. "Don’t you think you should read it before you shred it?"  

I shrug. "I already know what it says."  

Like I really want to read it. It’s all about me. No mention of our eight year old, Ben. How can I be a good mother if I listen to the garbage his father spews? "He does this every time he gets locked up, Bebe. Every letter states how much he misses and loves me. Then, within two weeks of him being out, he’s on to the next skank. And where am I? Alone, all over again. I won’t be that stupid. I’m not falling for love letters this time." 

I shake my head and let the letter zip through the machine. 

Bebe sighs and comes over to give me a hug. "He’s an ass. What can I say? Sometimes I wish I weren’t related to him." She lets go and plops down in her office chair. "But then I wouldn’t have this fabulous job and get to meet all the hot young studs coming in for their tatts. I mean, really? What better entertainment is there than watching a man cry over a scratch on his arm? Or a big, beefy guy holding in the pain? Not to mention the women that come in here. Now that’s a whole different world of amusement." 

The laugh comes out before I have a chance to hold it in. There are a lot of those. Usually crying or trying to act tough, but either way, she has a point. It’s funny to watch.

After gathering up the folder of different-sized decals, I head through a curtain of beads into my back office—the storage room, with a small desk and filing cabinet of pictures from the days when Gary taught me the fine art of tattooing.  

Checking the time, I put the decals away.
Where the hell is Tryst?
He was supposed to be back a half an hour ago with my BMT on Italian herb-and-cheese bread.

The bell rings. 

"I got it," Bebe calls from the front.  

If it’s a walk-in, she’ll need more tracing paper.
I grab some and head to the front. Tryst is taking off his black parka and hanging it on the rack beside the front door. He turns to face me with subs in hand. My stomach rumbles.
Finally. 

"Damn, Tryst. How long does it take to pick up lunch?" I set the papers down on the counter, and
Bebe scoops them up to put them away.

Tryst crosses the room, his long legs eating up the black and white tile of my shop. "Sorry. A hockey team came in right before me, and they had a lot of complicated orders. Bright side, your sub’s probably correct." He flops it down in front of me as we both take our seats. "The girl at the counter was passing out these." He hands me a flyer. 

It’s an advertisement for some band I’ve never heard of before. They’re playing at Harper’s tonight.
Stones of Rage?
"Sounds like they need to be a bit more creative. Like they swiped the names of two great bands and smashed them together."  

Bebe’s
laugh comes from the back. “But they’re really good.”

I ignore her and take a bite of my sub. The mayo and mustard drip down onto my new white tank top. Shit. I just bought this shirt. "You did ask them to put the mayo and mustard on first before the meat, right?" 

Tryst shakes his head, then takes a bite of his sub. "The girl behind..." he mumbles around the food in his mouth then swallows. "The girl was the only one there and she looked frustrated." 

"You mean she looked hot and your little thingy between your legs did all the thinking,"
Bebe says as she bounces up behind Tryst and grabs a chip from his bag then grins at him as she pops it into her mouth.

“It's not little. Want me to prove it?" Tryst’s hands go to his belt buckle, he stops, and his eyes go wide. "Oh, that's right, I'm not into dick-hopping skanks." He winks at
Bebe.

She’s glaring at him.

Tryst smirks, picks up his sub, and takes a slow bite. "What's the matter, Bebe? You hungry? Denis didn’t feed you enough?"   

She gives him a crooked smile. "If someone would have told me you were going, I would have placed my order." She looks at me. 

Throwing my hand up, I back up a pace. They’re not putting me in the middle this time. "You were out running errands all morning. I thought you would’ve picked something up." 

Bebe
glances down at the flyer. She tilts her head, and in three seconds flat her eyes go wide. "Stones of Rage? Oh yeah." She snaps her fingers. "I forgot. Adam said they were opening for his band tonight. I got an invite. Wanna go?" 

Teenaged memories slam into my head—her always dragging me to the Loft. Hanging out with local bands while they rehearsed. It was wicked awesome back then. We could come with one band and hop from room to room listening to them all play. Free alcohol and pot—what rebellious teen wouldn’t love a set up like that? Thing is, I grew out of it.
Bebe evolved with it. 

"Maybe next time." I finish my six-inch then toss the wrapper in the garbage can.  

"Come on, Shay. You never come out. And you deserve some stress-free fun before Gary’s parole hearing." Bebe pouts her lips like that’s supposed to make me change my mind. 

My stress level this past week has been enough to give a healthy person an aneurysm. All the nights I lay awake in my bed—wondering if Gary will be granted parole and storm back into my life only to leave me again, whether by prison, some hot young twat, or a drug overdose—has my heart twisted in knots. He can’t be set free, free to wreak havoc in my life, leaving behind nothing but a disaster zone of empty promises and broken hearts. 

Not just one now.
I have Ben to worry about too. His heart. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t protect it? 

"I can’t find a babysitter on short notice." And cue my constant cop out. I’d enjoy a night to myself, but Ben needs me here. He’s already had one parent abandon him. I’ll be damned if I will, too.  

Bebe rolls her eyes. "Call Sasha. She’s been complaining about how she needs to come up with money for her trip to Cancun. She’s been taking on all kinds of side jobs to save up a little extra spending cash." 

"I can’t afford to pay a babysitter and still have enough cash to go out." I head over to my workstation and start cleaning up for my next appointment. I detach everything and throw the needles away, then take the tubes off my gun and throw them in the sterilizer. Wiping down the seat for my next appointment, I try to tune out Tryst and
Bebe’s whispering in the background. Talk all they want, I’m not giving in and going out.  

I glance down at my appointment folder.
Dicky. A sign? I think not. A lot of musicians like tattoos, and this is Motown. I laugh. Besides, Dicky’s a white wannabe rapper. Not one hardcore, heavy-metal bone in his body. I pull out the picture for his back piece. A cemetery with the names and dates of all his dead friends. Yeah, he’s gangsta. A member of the Gangsta Disciples. Bikers and Gang bangers. Perfect clientele. I need a shop in a new neighborhood.  

"Doing
Dicky’s coloring today, or are you still outlining?"  

I jump. "Jesus Christ, Tryst." I playfully slap him with the picture.  

"Sorry." He rubs his shaved head, and his deep chocolate eyes rise to mine. "If ya want, I can pay for the babysitter. I do owe you for the German eagle you did between my blades."  

"Thanks for the offer, but family gets free
tatts from me and—" 

"You deserve some kind of compensation."   

What is it with my friends and their undying need to get me out? "If you feel that bad about not paying for the tatt, how about floating me on our poker nights for a couple of weeks, and we’ll call it even." Reaching into the bottom drawer I pull out a fresh, unopened bag of needles.