Page 114 of Devilish Ink

I prayed an old rattling engine would come sputtering down the street. I told myself that’s all I needed. A little time with a wrench. A smear or two of grease across the brow. The sweet purr of a healthy, thriving motor.

Then I’d come back to the desk and find a solution for how I was going to pay for the ever-increasing cost of having a child, let alone raising one. But as it stood now, papers shuffling, heart fluttering, there was no solution. I mean, at the end of the day, it really was pretty fucking simple: if you don’t have the money, you don’t have the money.

But it was my problem to fix. The only problem with my problem was I didn’t know how. How to fix it. How to give Ry the life she deserved. How to give hereverything.

My phone rang and Ry’s name flashed up on screen. I let itring twice more to give myself time to clear my voice, rid it of the strain of stress and the brittleness of panic.

I forced a smile.

“Hey, baby,” I said as I answered.

Ry’s sigh told me everything.

“Same thing?” I asked as my stomach dropped.

“It’s such bullshite,” she said.

I covered my bills with an order for spare parts just so I wouldn’t have to look at them while I was talking to her.

She was angry, but not as angry as the first few times this had happened. She was wearing down, too, like brake pads slammed on a few too many times.

Ry continued, “It’s hopeless. This is like, what, the three hundredth tattoo shop I’ve talked to?”

I repressed the urge to correct her estimation of Dublin tattoo parlours. It didn’t matter how many parlours there were, only that itfeltlike three hundred to her.

“They look at my belly like it’s a grenade,” she said, her voice filled with bitterness.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Yet another thing I couldn’t fucking fix.

Ry had been trying to rent a chair at one of the other tattoo parlours for weeks now. No one saw her art, her talent. They just saw baby, baby, bun in the oven. It was apparently not worth it to let her work for a few months. Even though those few months would make all the difference to us.

“Ry, honey, you don’t have to work,” I said as softly as possible. “I can support us.”

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t the truth. I’d do anything tomakeit the truth. My heart sank when I heard sniffling on the line.

“Ry,” I whispered.

“It’s just the stupid pregnancy hormones,” Ry snapped before I heard a fresh wave of tears.

I let her cry for a moment. It’s what she’d told me she needed when she was like this: not comfort, not kind words, not even assurances that everything would be alright. She just needed me to be there. Hear her. Know that things were hard and not leave.

Finally Ry drew in a stuttering breath and said sadly, “It’s just that—you know this is hard for me. For so long I’ve been completely independent. And I saw that as my safety, my weapon even, me not needing anyone. And now… I’m helpless, Liam. I feel so helpless and, and…”

Ry sniffled and let out several deep breaths as she fought back more tears.

Fuck. I should be withher.

Instead I was in this dirty fucking garage when there weren’t even any customers.

What use was I? I couldn’t give Ry what she wanted, a chair in a tattoo parlour, work to ease her mind, art to soothe her soul. I could barely keep up with our bills now that we were down to my single income.

I wanted to punch something. To kick the shite out of something.

“Ry,” I said gently, wrapping all my frustration up and swallowing it like a bitter pill. I would never—could never—let Ryleigh see me like this. “You’re not helpless. In just a few months, our sweet little girl is going to look up into your eyes for the first time and she won’t see helpless. She’ll see strength. Power. Goodness. Love. Security. Protection. Utter devotion.”

Ry sniffled and I smiled knowing that she’d heard me. That I’d given her at least a tiny bit of peace.

Gravel crunched of someone pulling into the driveway. I glanced through the office blinds to see a sleek black Mercedes rolling to the driveway. The door opened and a man got out.

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