That black hole in my chest expands the tiniest bit. It’s resided there since Connor fell to the mat, lying there so fucking still with a thin line of blood trickling from his nose, and has grown and stretched its tentacles like a virus with each passing day, month, year. At some point, I expect that void of emptiness to consume me.
Part of me is looking forward to that day.
Turning, I slowly head toward the front walk and steps. A breeze ruffles my shirt, cooling my slightly heated skin. Mid-September in Chicago, it’s still warm enough outside where we don’t need jackets. Give it a few more weeks, though, and that’s going to change fast. Better enjoy it now.
As soon as I climb the steps to the postage-stamp-size porch, the door swings open. Simon, my youngest brother, fills the doorway. And I do mean,fills. Just twenty-two years-old, he’s almost as big as Jude and me. At six-feet-four and two-hundred-and-forty-eight pounds, I still stand taller than him by three inches and outweigh him by about twenty pounds. But my little brother is big. And with the same dark blond hair as Jude, and our mom’s blue eyes, he can come across as intimidating. The truth is he’s the kindest and most sensitive of us all. He was seven when our dad died, and we’ve all been protective of him since. Not saying Simon can’t hold his own. He has a slow-burn temper, but piss him off, and he’ll demonstrate he knows how to use those huge fists for more than drawing. Yeah, Simon’s a damn good artist getting his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Studio at SAIC, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. I couldn’t be prouder of him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says, frowning. “Who are you? I mean, you look familiar, but we don’t really allow strangers to roll up into our house.”
I snort. “Very funny.”
“No seriously.” He palms either side of the doorway. “Do we know you? You kind of remind me of a guy I know. Big motherfucker—”
“Language,” a voice calls from inside the house. I smirk as Simon grimaces. If our mother had a dollar for every time she warned us about our mouths, she could own a small country.
“A big mofo,” Simon amended with a grin. “Owns a tattoo shop, used to kick a— uh, tail for a living.” He squints, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Unlike Jude and me, he can’t grow a beard for shit. Isn’t stopping him from trying, though. “Yeah, you could pass for him. I mean, you’re a little butt-uglier, but still…”
Sighing, I step forward and slam a palm into his shoulder.
“Ouch, dammit,” he growls, ignoring Mom’s second cursing alert and rubbing the offended spot as I move by him. “You do realize your abnormally large hands—signs of an equally abnormally small brain, by the way—are dangerous to us regular folk?” Grumbling what sounds suspiciously to me like “freakish asshole,” he shuts the front door with an exaggerated scowl.
“I take it this is your way of saying you’ve missed me?” I ask, arching an eyebrow, pausing in the foyer because, if I’m honest, I’m not eager to walk down the hallway that leads to the living room, dining room, and kitchen. To where Mom is cooking. And Eden is no doubt right beside her.
“No,” Simon drawls. “That would be my way of saying where the”—he drops his volume several decibels—“fuck you been?”
“Busy.” I shrug. The last couple of weeks have seen an increase in walk-ins, and I’ve had several sessions scheduled for big pieces. Not to mention the BFC 56 event, hosted by Bellum Fighter Championship, was held in Chicago last week. Several fighters came in the shop for new tattoos. That had been bittersweet. I’d been happy to see them and hang out. But the jagged, raw part of me that refuses to heal throbbed at the reminder that they were still doing what I’d walked away from. “I was going to call you tomorrow anyway. I have a client who wants an original piece. Kyro Men fromStar Wars. Or something like that.”
Sometimes Simon draws up art for me when I have certain requests. I’m good, really good, but him? He’s fucking brilliant.
“That’s Kylo Ren, you ignorant peon.” Simon snickers, his eyes gleaming in what I recognize as excitement. Well, that and his rubbing his palms together like a Scooby-Doo villain. “Hell, yeah. I’m down. When do you need it?”
“Wednesday. He’s coming in Thursday to approve it. I’ll give you forty percent of the fee, as usual.” That might seem high, but any tattoo artist knows the art itself is as important as inking it. And Simon should be paid for his work.
“Cool,” he agrees. “I’ll bring it by since I want some more ink.” He grinned. “I’m thinking maybe I could get that hot-as-hell Heaven to do it.”
I roll my eyes. Another thing Simon has in common with Jude and me. Won’t keep his dick in his pants.
“You okay?” He frowns, losing all traces of humor. “You look like shit.”
Another sleepless night. What else is new? Walking my apartment, fucking, drawing, or sitting up watching oldMurder, She Wrotereruns are all better than the nightmares. Any day. In the last two years, Jessica Fletcher, a.k.a. J.B. Fletcher, has become my girl.
I shrug in reply to Simon’s question, and his frown deepens.
“Are you two coming in, or do you plan on standing there gossiping like teen girls all night?” Eden, arms crossed and hip cocked, smiles at us from the living room entrance. Well, she does at Simon. Me, she skates over, that smile faltering just the smallest bit when our eyes briefly meet.
It’s a repeat of the last week. The past few days, she’s been her usual open, affectionate self. But there’s been a strain between us. One that didn’t exist before she walked out of my tattoo room after I tasted her body for the first time.
No, that’s not true. There was that night months ago in the shop after closing. There’d been a strain then, too. Then, I thought it’d been one of those periods when memories of Connor drew her into a funk. So, against my better judgement, I’d risked it and touched her. And for a moment, desire had darkened her gaze. For an instant, a fierce, almost excruciating joy had pierced my chest, but then the inescapable truth had slammed into me. She was grieving for her husband—my brother. That arousal that shined in her eyes hadn’t been for me. It’d been for a ghost.
I could’ve touched her, kissed her. Maybe she would’ve let me fuck her against that desk. But the regret that surely would’ve crowded into her eyes afterward would’ve ripped me apart. So I ignored it. Walked away. And I’d been right. Because everything had returned to status quo fairly quickly. Meaning me craving her, and her treating me like her brother-in-law, the eunuch.
But a week ago, in my chair…
Yeah, I fucked up and let the beast slip the chain.
Days later, and I’m still gripping that chain so tight, my palms are torn up to hell. How could I have touched her? My dead brother’s wife. There’s no other woman on this planet more off-limits than her. This insane, selfish need for her was manageable before.
Before she placed that delicate hand on my thigh, only inches from my cock.
