Page 30 of Sugar and Skulls

A challenge begins to brew between cousins.

One wants to shelter me. The other wanting to blow my house down.

Dan pushes me towards the shop, guiding me inside with a firm hand between my shoulder blades. Once inside the tension breaks.

“What the fuck was that?”

Continuing to walk towards the back, flipping lights on as I go, I answer in as steady a voice as I can muster, “What was what?”

“Don’t. Just don’t. You…” he points at me before turning a finger on himself, “and me, we are one hundred percent honest from here on out. No more secrets, no more bullshit. It’s my job to keep you safe and I can’t do that if you keep things from me.”

I pull a tray out of the cabinet, setting it carefully on the counter. I know Big Dan worries about me but if these damn men think they can suddenly start calling the shots in my life they have another thing coming. I’ve been on my own since I was ten. Sucking in a calming breath I face him.

“Someone has already beat you to that job. Dirk was just kindly telling me how he is my new babysitter.” I fold my arms across my chest, resting my butt against the counter.

“What?” Dan, stares at me confused.

The ding of the door announces the man himself. His head swivels from Dan, to me, back to Dan.

“What?” daddy dearest, asks.

“Oh, I was just telling Big Dan here how you have already hired a babysitter, so he’s off the hook.”

My dad shrugs his shoulders, not denying it. Rolling my eyes, I turn back to my task. “Well, I don’t need a fucking babysitter. I don’t need a dad either, so…” I bite the inside of my cheek, choking back any emotion.

No one says anything to that. When I hear the squeak of leather as someone slides onto the chair behind me I glance over my shoulder. Oh, hell no. “No, no way.” I shake my head and start clearing my tray.

Big Dan’s hands clasp around mine, he tugs, spinning me to face him. “We don’t discriminate at this shop. He’s a paying client and you,” a meaty finger digs into my chest, “wanted to work here. Welcome aboard.” He shoves a file folder in my hand before walking away. “Oh, by the way, I drew that up for him after he was paroled.” He opens the front door and I flip him off behind his back. “I love you too,” he says as the door closes leaving me and my dad alone.

Smacking the file against my palm I turn my attention to my dad. “Sure, let’s do this. You trust me, yeah?”

“You could tattoo a giant dick on me, and I would proudly show the world.” He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over to Dan’s empty chair.

“One giant dick it is,” I ignore him while I go back to work organizing the supplies I’ll need. I casually flip the folder open with one hand. Slowly I let my gaze roam from my tray over to the open folder. It’s my name and birthdate, the script flaring with Dan’s amazing artistry. This isn’t fair. How am I supposed to do this?

My hands shake as I lift the stencil out of the folder. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m nervous or angry, probably a combination of the two. “Where do you want it?”

“Right here.” Shifting to see where here is I catch him pointing at the bare spot over his chest. “Saved that spot for the girl who stole my heart,” he says, cautiously raising his eyes to meet mine.

Setting the stencil down on the tray, I push the cart over to my chair, blinking back tears. Since Dirk saved me from Rick I’ve dreamt of the day my dad would come for me. Why now? Dan said something about parole. Has my dad been in prison my entire life? And, if so…what did he do to get there?

As I’m placing the stencil I feel him tense, restraining himself from pulling me into a hug. My eyes flit up to his briefly. A million words hang in the air between us. So much he wants to tell me, so much I want to tell him. I’ve wanted to belong to someone, to anyone for so long. Since Grandpa and Grandma died my heart has longed for a family. Even if it was one person. One parent.

Blinking back more tears. I point to the mirror so that he can check the placement. He stares at his reflection bringing his hand up to rub under my name. Regret and remorse stare back at him.

“Is it good? I can move it, it’s not a problem,” I tell him with an unfazed drawl, leaning back and stretching.

“No, it’s good. It’s perfect.” He quickly sits back down in front of me. As I’m slipping my gloves on I let my eyes roam over the rest of his ink. He has an impressive amount of it. Some pure shit, other pieces beautifully done. I notice a slew of dates etched from his ribs running down, disappearing under his jeans. The contrast in ink indicate the dates were all done at different times.

The man is probably mid to late forties. He definitely lifts weights, a sign of prison life, being locked up with nothing else to do. His hair the same blue-black color as mine except peppered with silver streaks. Seeing myself in another person is weird as fuck. Aunt Renee doesn’t look anything like me, neither did Grandpa or Grandma.

“Ready?” I ask, smacking my gum annoyingly.

He nods not taking his eyes off the ceiling. Something about the look on his face makes me feel bad for him. No. Fuck that. I don’t feel sorry for anyone. Not even my fucking self. Even if he regrets getting himself locked up and not being there for me that is not my problem. He made the bad decision. Him.

“I’m sorry,” he says so quietly I almost don’t hear it over the buzz of my gun.

And, there it is.

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