Page 1 of Derek
Derek
PROLOGUE
Rage can be a funny thing. It’s funny in the sense that when someone is experiencing rage—and I mean true rage—outsiders assume the person can just turn it off. That’s not the case. Rage isn’t the same as anger; it’s the ultimate manifestation of anger; it’s the violent phase, the moment in which all the anger you’ve been trying like hell to keep buried finally pools together and explodes. And that’s when you find yourself in what is my current state: white-hot rage consuming every part of my being as I continue my brutal–and I do mean brutal–assault. I can feel bones breaking under my fists and blood splattering over my face as I deliver blow after blow, all while knowing it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
I’ve been betrayed at the deepest of levels. And when that happens, there is only one solution.
“DEREK!” I hear her scream my name. I like my name, and I especially loved hearing my name fall out of her peachy little mouth…until now. Now, there isn’t a sound I hate more in this world than her screaming my name; like she has some fucking claim on it. “Please!” She sobs and I hear the gravel kick up under her boots. The same boots I bought her this past Christmas. “You’re gonna kill him!” And? That’s the fucking point. I ignore her nonsense and continue to hit the fucker again and again.
“D!” The loud, rough voice pulls me out of my haze as I feel three sets of arms grabbing me. Of course, she would call my younger brothers. Jackson grips me tightly, screaming something I don’t hear. He slaps me across the face. “Look at me, fucker!” His blue eyes burn into me, and I blink a couple of times as everything suddenly comes into focus. I look from Jackson to the sobbing blonde behind him, Justine, my wife, and then to the motionless body on the ground. Beau, my best friend since birth, my ride-or-die, and the one I just walked in on fucking my wife while she wore those boots.
“I think you killed him.” Jensen, my youngest brother, says while Carter pokes the motionless body with his foot. Why are those two here? Jensen is fifteen, and Carter just turned eighteen. If Mama finds out they were in the middle of this…
“If he ain’t dead,” Jackson flicks his lit cigarette into the gravel. “He’s gonna wish he was.”
“I want you gone, ya hear me!” Justine roars, shoving me in the chest. “How could you do that? To your best friend! You’re a monster, Derek Rowe!”
My laugh is cold and emotionless. “I’m a monster?” I spit out while staring down into her angry eyes. “You’re telling me you are ready for a baby, and then I come home after a double shift to find my best friend fucking you on our table! But I am the monster?”
“You don’t understand!” She screams out. “This is the most emotion you’ve ever shown towards our relationship unless we were alone! Beau treats me like I matter!”
“You’re right,” I sneer. “Because I haven’t treated you like a goddamn princess since we were sixteen!”
“Not unless we were alone! In public, you won’t even hold my hand!” I shake my head at her excuses while running my hands through my hair. Beau manages to get himself seated, and Justine kneels beside him, her hands on his face. I should feel heartbreak, right? But I don’t; instead, the urge to beat Beau’s ass again is overwhelming, as is the desire to run.
Without even a moment’s hesitation, I take my wedding band off and throw it on the ground next to them. “I spent our entire marriage busting my ass to make sure you didn’t have to raise a fucking finger.” I huff out a breath before taking a final glance at my bloodied ex-best friend. “Have fun funding that lifestyle, Beau. I’m leaving this fucking hellhole and never coming back.” I spit out as I turn and walk with my brothers towards their truck, never looking back.
Four years of marriage. Over twenty years of friendship. And I lost it all in five minutes. And on my birthday, no less.
This will be the last time I ever open myself up to anyone, ever again. No one will be able to cause me this kind of pain ever again.
Chapter1
Derek
“Derek!” Janie calls my name from the back, causing me to look up from my client and glance over my shoulder toward the small redhead. Janie Pierce is the co-owner of the shop I work at, Hel’s Ink. She runs it with her husband, Fox, who is currently in front of me at his station, working on a first-timer who either has no pain tolerance or is trying to get attention. My vote is for the latter.
“Yeah?” I call out as I rinse out my machine. She walks up to my station and flips her hair out of her face. “I’m calling in orders for lunch. What do you want?” She asks, while rapidly tapping away on her phone.
I peer at her screen and wrinkle my nose at the restaurant she’s ordering from. “Ugh, don’t worry about me. I ain’t hungry.” Atlas, the shop’s clown, snorts from his place on his table.
“Since when?”
“You know I don’t eat from that place,” I mutter as I load my machine with ink. “Thank you for the offer Janie, but I’m alright, I’ll grab something later.” Janie gives me a nod before walking to Atlas and smacking him upside the head.
“Mama J,” he whines. “I’m sleep deprived. Don’t be so hateful!”
I shake my head at his antics. Atlas and his wife, Ren, had their son, Howard, about two or three months ago. He had planned to be off, but our other co-worker, Ash, had an issue. His fiance’s father passed away, and they had to go to Alabama for the funeral. This has meant the rest of us have had to up our walk-in takes. Typically, I don’t mind. I’ve been tattooing for almost twenty years, and walk-ins are my preferred clientele since I don’t do repeats, ever. I am a ‘one and done’ type in every sense of the word. So no, I don’t mind the added work. I do, however, mind the longer hours.
I have a strict schedule, and I like to adhere to it. And when there is a disruption in said strict schedule, I tend to lose what little bit of pleasant demeanor I have. My hours away allow me time to disconnect and distance myself from everyone. Recently, this extra-long forced proximity with the group is causing them to get too chummy with me. And I don’t do “chummy.”
“Virginia,” Atlas says as he hangs off his table. I ignore the nickname and continue my line on my client. It’s a fine-line tattoo of a bouquet of flowers. While far from my favorite type of tattoo to do, it’s a quick in and out, and the woman seems so intimidated by me she isn’t talking. Again, something I prefer as I don’t do ‘chit chat.’
“VIR-GIN-IA!” Atlas’ annoying voice calls louder, and I suck in a cleansing breath as I wipe down her arm.
“I am busy,” I say in a warning tone. “Whatever it is, do it yourself.” I ensure that the client likes her tattoo before cleaning and bandaging it while running over the aftercare instructions and sending her up front, where Janie will give her care instructions, some ointment, and check her out. I feel an odd sensation run over me, and I glance over to see Atlas staring at me.
“If you don’t stop,” I warn while shoving my gloves into the wastebasket. “I will be forced to kill you.”
