Page 7 of Beautiful Lies
“His piece of shit stepdad put his mom in the hospital.”
“Fuck.”
“She won’t leave him. She’s too scared of being on her own,” Killian said.
It was easy to judge someone from the outside looking in, and a lot of people thought it was easy to just up and leave. Why stay with an abusive partner? Why not report an abusive parent? But it wasn’t always that simple. “And Nico feels it’s his duty to protect her,” I guessed.
“Yeah.” We worked in silence for a while, mopping the mats with disinfectant.
“Heard you got a new tattoo,” Killian said.
“Yeah. Eden stopped by to offer moral support.”
At the mention of her name, his lips curved into a smile that came more easily now than it used to.
“Jared’s looking to sell his shop,” I said, introducing my reason for stopping by. “He’s giving me first dibs.”
“You ready for that?” I heard the doubt in his voice that told me he didn’t think I was.
“It’s time I take some responsibility.”
“Running your own business is a full-time job. You can’t take off whenever you want. You can’t just turn up, do the tattooing, and leave when your shift ends. It’s a hell of a lot of—”
“I know that,” I said through gritted teeth. I took deep breaths through my nose, trying to calm myself.I am peaceful. I am strong. My past does not define me. “How about a little support? Like, ‘hey Connor, good job. You’re a kickass tattoo artist. I believe in you.’”
He clenched his jaw, and we completed the chore in stony silence. Maybe Killian was full of surprises when it came to Eden, but with me, the struggle was real. I had nobody to blame but myself. In the past, he’d given me more chances to make things right than I’d ever deserved. But now that I was doing all the right things, it was too little, too late.
In a parting shot as we left the gym, he said, “If you’re serious about this, you should talk to Zeke.”
“What a great fucking idea. I’ll ask my ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend for help.”
“Do you know how to put together a business plan? Because I sure as hell didn’t.”
“I’ll figure it out.” I straddled my Harley and his hand gripped my bicep to stop me from putting on my helmet and leaving.
“I want to believe in you,” he said.
He released my arm, and I stared down the street at the warehouses that lined the block, their corrugated metal doors shut for the night. A tricked-out black Caddy cruised past, rap music blasting from the open windows, the sound fading into the night air as it turned down the next block. “But you can’t do it.”
Killian rubbed his jaw and squinted into the distance. “I’m trying. That’s the best I can give you right now.” He turned on his heel and strode away, beeping the locks of his SUV.
That’s the best I can give you right now.
At this point, I’d need to perform three miracles and get canonized for sainthood before he put his faith in me.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I slid it out, checking the screen. Tate. “How did today go?” he asked, skipping the greeting. I checked over my shoulder. Killian was already pulling away from the curb, burning rubber to get home to Eden.
I gave Tate a recap of my day without bullshitting him. He was like my priest and I was the sinner sitting in the confessional box. Tate was a good sponsor, and he’d talked me down from the ledge more than once over the past year. When shit got too much to handle, I called him instead of trying to score.
He listened, without interrupting, and when I finished, I waited for his words of wisdom or encouragement or whatever was on today’s menu. Chicken soup for the soul, and all that shit.
“Sounds like you made a lot of progress,” he said.
“Which part of what I told you was progress?” I asked, rubbing my hand over my chest. The tattoo was starting to itch like hell, and I could still feel the ridges of the scars under my fingertips, but you couldn’t see them anymore. Progress.
“Have you tried to score today?”
“No.”
