Page 17 of Three Little Words

Chapter Six

Bryn

Quiet days like this were the best.

It wasn’t often that I got to sleep in and be lazy. I usually opened the shop, but today, I’d let myself have a day off that wasn’t Sunday.

I hadn’t done that in years.

I’d cooked myself a good breakfast—biscuits with sausage gravy—and a good pot of coffee.

And now I was sitting in the living room, the back door open to let some fresh air in, drawing.

It was almost meditative. My mind was clear from everything except for the piece I was working on. My art supplies were laid out neatly—a few different pencils, some erasers, my inking pens and a gorgeous set of Copic markers.

The tiger lilies on my paper were starting to come together beautifully, shaded in carefully-blended pink and orange.

This was what I loved most.

I loved owning my own shop. I loved tattooing. But I loved drawing more than the rest of it. If I could have only done this, I would have jumped at the chance.

But there were bills to pay, and sitting in my living room drawing wouldn’t cut it.

I sighed, capping one marker and reaching for the blender. Soon, this piece could get matted and framed, hung up as an idea for people who weren’t sure about what to get. I smiled as I ran the blender over the color I’d just laid down, the inks running together seamlessly.

And then I heard the one sound that could break my calm.

The distant roar of a motorcycle engine.

I closed my eyes tight and took a deep breath.

It came closer, rumbling to a stop in front of my apartment.

Would it be Bryan? Or one of his so-called “brothers,” coming to tell me he’d done something stupid and gotten himself killed?

The front door opened.

He came inside, sporting a ridiculous-looking beard and sunglasses. He shrugged his leather jacket off as the door slammed shut and tossed it on my armchair, instead of hanging it up.

King’s Devils MC.

I hated that stupid patch.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked.

“Hi, Bryan.” My voice was cold.

It was always cold when I talked to him now.

He smiled at me, leaning on the back of my armchair. He stank. He was probably still drunk, probably hadn’t showered in a day or so.

This man was nothing like my little brother.

“What’s for breakfast, huh? You cook something?”

“I had breakfast four hours ago. It’s time for lunch.”

“Oh. Bitchin’. What’s for lunch?”

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