Sweet Rome (Sweet Home, #1.5)(90)
So here I was, pounding down the highway back to Tuscaloosa, reeling from my mother’s lack of comeuppance and dreading the Tide’s training for the BCS Championship that started tomorrow and the fact that I’d have to face all my teammates.
After an hour, I pulled into a familiar parking lot, and Luke was already waiting just inside the main door—inked from his completely shaven head to his toes.
Standing as I entered his shop, he shook my hand, stating, “Rome, I’m so sorry, man… I saw it on the news. I don’t know what the hell to say.”
Slapping him on the back and swallowing hard, I replied, “I know, man. Thanks.”
I pointed at the black-padded table, all set up, and asked, “We good to go?”
Gesturing to the chair with one hand and giving me a thumbs-up with the other, Luke busied himself preparing the gun and ink as I peeled my shirt over my head and sat down, my jaw clenching.
Sitting down beside me, Luke asked, “So what are we going for?”
“Angel wings, white ones, big enough to cover most of my chest and torso.”
Luke paused, then nodded sympathetically and went to begin marking them on my skin, when I stopped his hand, gripping his wrist, looking him dead in the eye. “You make this the best f*ckin’ work you’ve ever done. My previous ink is nothing compared to this. Any work you’ve ever done is nothing compared to this, you get me?”
“I get you. I promise, Rome, they’ll be just right.”
Sensing his sincerity, I freed his hand and an hour later, the outline was drawn.
“Go ahead, man, check it out.”
When I stood before the mirror, I couldn’t speak. The wings were just right, the perfect tribute to our child—two large wings starting on my chest and each tip ending low on my abs. Giving Luke an approving nod, I sat back on the chair, the buzzing of the gun blaring in the silent room.
“It’ll take about eight hours all in all. We’ll do half today, then finish up tomorrow if you’d like,” Luke said, hovering the gun just above my stomach, waiting for my answer.
“No,” I said harshly. “We start and finish today.”
Luke frowned. “Hell, man, that’s too much. Your body could go into shock. We’re gonna be covering some damn painful areas.”
“I don’t give a f*ck. We do this today,” I growled, my voice coming out too strong. Luke was a friend and didn’t deserve my shitty attitude, but I needed this, needed to get it done.
“Bullet, man, the pain—”
“Is what I want! Now are you going to do it or do I need to find someone else who will? I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money to get this done as soon as possible, but believe me, that can change.”
Sighing, Luke answered, “Have it your way, man. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Let me know if you want to stop at any point.”
“I won’t.”
The minute the gun touched my skin, I closed my eyes. The pain would be worth it. Molly endured so much f*cking pain; it was only right I did too, and our angel… our angel deserved this. Deserved to be remembered.
“Rome, man! Have you blacked out on me or what?”
Snapping back to reality, I flinched at the tightness of my raw torso and, looking to Luke, asked, “What?”
“We’re done. You okay?”
Rubbing a hand down my face, I said, “Yeah, f*ck, I zoned out.”
“I know! You want to have a look before I cover it?”
Taking a deep breath, I nodded and, slowly getting off the table, walked to the floor-length mirror, my legs weak as hell from all my body had been put through.
This time, when I saw my new ink, there were no sharp inhales of breath, no painful regurgitated memories or tears. The wings commemorating our lost angel were meant to be on my chest; our child was meant to be remembered. I’d gone through the pain; I’d begun atoning for my failing as a daddy.
“They good, man?” Luke asked from behind me.
Turning and shaking his hand, I replied, “They’re f*cking perfect… just… beyond.”
*
Later that night, I stood at the doorway of the place I never wanted to see again in my life. Too many memories—old and new—assaulted me as I opened the front door, and the first thing I noticed was how bare and cold the place felt without the usual antiques and artwork proudly and ostentatiously on display.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. My daddy’s lawyer was at the entrance to the office, gesturing for me to step inside.
When I walked into the study, my father sat behind his desk, unkempt and looking older than his years. He looked up when I entered and let out a small, bitter laugh—even hitting rock bottom didn’t change the bastard.
“Let you out on bail, then?” I drawled, taking a seat.
Shrugging, he answered, “Paid for it with the last of the Prince Oil share of the money, but don’t worry, son, I’ll be going to prison soon enough… and all because you were too f*cking stubborn to do what you were told.”
Leaning forward, I hissed, “You deserve to fester in a cold cell. You killed my baby, you sadistic f*ck. You’re lucky I don’t kill your evil ass. You laundered the money. It’s all on you!”
“Wow, Romeo, I can just feel the father-son love,” he answered dryly. I almost had to sit on my hands to stop from knocking the bastard out. I wasn’t going to hit him though. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of his conviction.