Page 7 of Truth

I nodded. I never tried to pretend with him. What was the point anyway? He’d probe and probe until he wore me down.

“Same dream?”

“Yeah. Same dream. Different faces.”

“Come on, sis.”

Shadow and I followed him to the kitchen, where he was already sketching in his notebook. Therapy never worked for him, but sketching did. What started as random doodles had turned into masterpieces. His talent made him money—serious money.

I sat as he moved about the kitchen, already making chamomile and lavender tea, a natural sedative. It was better than the antidepressants I once took. Those only made me numb… too numb.

“Off until when?” he asked.

“Who knows.”

My shoulder was tight. Physical therapy had helped, but because Chief King wanted to be a bitch, I hadn’t been fully cleared. My bruises, the ones on my legs were fading, but I’d been hurt worse before. Trust me. From a broken wrist to asprained ankle, the scars and the broken bones would heal. The ones that didn’t were the scars that took up space in my head.

“You won’t take anything for the pain, huh?”

“Nope.”

Pain reminded me I was alive. That was good and another reason why I was angry with myself. Chelly couldn’t feel shit. She never would.

Germaine shook his head. “Let me get you this tea then.”

Shadow curled up in my lap, purring as I stroked his head. He always knew when I needed comfort. Hell, sometimes it felt like Chelly’s spirit lived in him. His jet-black hair and large, round, golden eyes would see me, and my heart would skip a beat. He was a stray I found when I first moved to Rockside. I fed him half of a tuna fish sandwich after my landlord tossed me the keys and told me a refrigerator would be delivered the next day. He waited with me; he always did.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“Any plans today?” he asked. He took a seat to finish up his latest sketch. He was too damn good just to be a tattoo artist. I refused to bring it up now but it was my dream for him to attend art school.

As of late, though, all he wanted to do was tattoos and did for the locals and bikers at his tattoo shop—Inkz. I wasn’t sure what his deal was with the Saint Riderz, but he was infatuated with them. To me, they were a gang of jerks in vests who treated women like fucking feeders solely at their disposal to screw. I’d see them around town and run the other way.

“Nothing concrete.”

Pottery was my escape. I ran into a room after I ditched therapy, and there they were. A sea of eyes greeted me as I stood there with bucked eyes. The teacher, Mrs. Hannigan, waved me over. She invited me to stay for the pottery class. Black people I knew didn’t do pottery, but when I learned it was free, I stayed.

Once I made my first piece, spinning clay on the wheel, I felt a calmness I’d never felt before. Some days, I’d spend hours at the wheel when she let me come in after hours. Other days, I couldn’t bring myself to even show up. I felt guilty I found some enjoyment in life when Chelly felt nothing at all. Over the years, I invested in myself when I continued using pottery as my outlet. I even sold a few pieces but mostly donated what I made anonymously to burn victims at treatment facilities or hospitals.

“Nothing concrete is good news.”

“Since when?” I scoffed.

I knew he thought I was a bit on the lame side, but at least I didn’t run behind grown men who hooted and rode on bikes like savages.

“Not like that. Look.” He took me by both hands. “I need your help.”

I lifted a brow, wondering what that meant. I couldn’t draw shit. Clay was my thing.

“Help with what?”

“Fucking Zara has COVID, and Joreen’s being... Joreen. I need someone at the shop.”

I sighed with closed eyes. I thought they broke up, but clearly, they hadn’t. Like Chelly, he felt love was in the cards for him, although he was beyond friendly to the point Joreen had full blown out brawls with women who even looked his way. I wanted no parts of that shit. Still, he knew I’d do it. I always did.

“Fine, but you owe me.”

Germaine grinned. “Deal. Just... be nice. Jo might come through. You know how that is.”

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