Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(42)

Levi gave us our first full-time jobs out of high school. He’s done well at it too. Not rolling in dough by any means, but he stays busy. Like a lot of people, the storms gave him more work than he knew what to do with.

Shrugging, I take a sip of coffee. “I got a few pieces in some coastal furniture shops in the tri-county area. Maybe about ten grand saved up, but that’s still nowhere near enough for all the overhead I’d need to start a real business.”

“I’d give ya the money if I had it,” he says, and I know he’s being entirely sincere. He’s always been there for us since our dad died. When our mom was strung out or missing, when the fridge was empty, when our homework was due. “Everything I’ve got is tied up in the business. I love having the work, but it’s expensive to keep up with demand.”

“It’s no sweat. I can’t take your money, anyway. You’ve done more than enough for Evan and me.” I’ve never in my life asked for a handout, and I’m not about to start now. I make fine money working for Levi. If I keep at it and save up, I’ll make my own way. Eventually.

“What about a bank loan?” he suggests.

I’ve always resisted the idea. Not the least of which because I dealt with the banks after our dad’s death—and every one of them are filled with nothing but bloodsucking suits who would sooner grind us into food pellets than help us succeed.

“I don’t know,” I finally answer. “I don’t like the idea of going into more debt. Or having to leverage the house.” I know I sound like a whiny bitch. At some point, I’m gonna have to make up my mind. Either get serious about getting my business off the ground or stop moaning about it.

“Well, that’s true. It costs money to make money. But give it some thought. If this is really something you want to build a business out of, I can help. Co-sign the loan for you.”

It’s a generous offer, and one I don’t take lightly. Even if I’m not thrilled about the idea now, I’m not about to throw his graciousness in his face, so I nod slowly. “Thanks, Levi. I’ll think about it.”

Levi doesn’t stay more than a few minutes. After we finish our coffee, he’s off to meet with a client about another job, and I’m back to measuring a plank of cedar. My head’s not in it, though. It’s never a good idea to operate power tools when your concentration is shot, so I call it quits and leave my workshop. Whatever. Evan can eat his dinner off the floor tonight like his precious girlfriend Daisy.

Speaking of Daisy, she’s nipping at my heels when I stride back in the house. For the next ten minutes, we practice her sit-stays, but my head’s not feeling that either.

Goodbye, Cooper.

I feel … heavy. Like I’m being dragged under the surface by a hundred-pound steel anchor wrapped around my neck. It’s not a foreign feeling for me. My whole life, I’ve felt weighed down. By my parents’ debts, my brother’s bullshit, that sense I get sometimes that I’m trapped in my own head.

“Sorry, girl, I gotta get out of here,” I tell the dog, reaching down to scratch beneath her silky ear. “I’ll be back in a minute. Promise.”

That’s a lie. It’ll take more than a minute to do what I’m itching to do. Daisy’ll be fine, though. Evan will shower her with love and attention when he gets home. Same way Mackenzie did every time she is the dog. I wonder if she’ll come back to visit Daisy sometimes.

Doubt it. She’s probably already forgotten about the both of us.

Gotta admit, I didn’t expect her to be so cold. I guess in the end she is just like all the other Garnet clones. Cold-blooded to the core.

Honestly, it serves me right. I went into this with bad intentions, treated her as a means for revenge against Kincaid.

Karma’s a bitch.

I forcibly shove her out of my mind. Ten minutes later, I’m parking my truck near the boardwalk. The tattoo parlor is empty when I enter, save for a frazzled-looking Wyatt sitting at the counter with a sketchpad in front of him.

“Yo,” he greets me, his expression brightening.

“Yo. Got time for a walk-in?”

Wyatt’s been tattooing me since I was a sixteen-year-old punk requesting a tombstone on my left biceps. ’Course, he was only a year older at the time, with a tattoo gun he picked up from the pawnshop, so my first ink wasn’t exactly a masterpiece. If I have kids, first thing I’m telling them is to never let their dumbass teenage friends poke needles into their flesh. Fortunately, it turned out all right in the end. Wyatt honed his craft and now co-runs this joint with another artist, and my shitty tombstone was skillfully camouflaged within a full sleeve featuring a watery graveyard among the crashing waves of Avalon Bay.

“Depends,” Wyatt says. “What’s the piece?”

“Simple, small. I want an anchor.” I rub my fingertips over the back of my neck. “Right here.”

“What kind of anchor? Stockless? Admiralty?”

I’m not a boat guy, so I roll my eyes. “How the fuck do I know? A fisherman anchor—you know the one I mean.”

He snickers. “Admiralty, then. Come to the back. It’ll take less than an hour.”

In no time at all, I’m straddling a chair while Wyatt preps his workstation. That’s how it works in the Bay. If you’re good to your friends, they’re good to you. Wyatt probably won’t even charge me for this new ink, no matter how much I insist. Instead, he’ll show up at my place in a few months or a year from now asking for some random favor, and I’ll happily oblige.