Page 59 of Dark Ink

“Seems Stewart here was right about something after all,” Nick said, gaze darting between the two of us siblings, “you do love him.”

I could imagine Stewart on his knees. Snot and blood streaming from his busted nose. Hands clasped at his chest like he was kneeling before a priest instead of a madman as he said those very words, “She loves me.” I was sure that mental image hurt worse than anything Nick could have done to me with his bat.

Nick added more, “That you would never abandon him.”

“She would never abandon me,” I heard Stewart sob as he crawled backwards, shielding his face as the bat rose over Nick’s head, water droplets from his wet hood springing loose like spittle from a mad pit bull.

My stomach clenched painfully.

“That you would do anything for him,” Nick said, eyes gleaming as he studied me, trembling there a few feet away from him like a deer too stupid to run at the first sign of danger.

Something flinched inside of me when I heard this. It was a thought I wanted to push away, to hide from. I saw Stewart once more. I heard those same words in my head repeated. This time there was something more than fear. More than faith in a loved one. There was entitlement. Smugness. A circus performer sure that his lion would jump through any hoop, ringed with fire or not. I didn’t want to see my brother that way. The way Rian saw him, as using me, manipulating me, controlling me.

It was a relief when Nick spoke again. A relief when he said with a twisted smile and flashing eyes, “Is he right, too, when he says that you’re quite the artist, pet?”

It was a relief because it was a chance to go back to the easier image: my brother as someone I loved, who loved me, and who I failed. Let down. Disappointed. It was a relief because Nick was offering me a chance to fix the easier of the two problems: Stewart’s debt to him versus Stewart’s hold on me. It was a relief because working with my hands was easy.

Struggling with heart was not.

“Yes,” I said, sagging with relief. “Yes, I am.”

Nick smiled.

Rian

I suppose that’s what friends are for. For dragging you out when you want to stay in and sulk. For shoving a bottle of beer into your hand when you want to reach for something stronger. For shouting in your ear over the pounding music when your thoughts are almost too loud to handle.

For pulling you back from the edge when the edge feels so fucking good.

The Jar was packed that night. Though wasn’t it always. Band stickers smacked all over the windows and doors, the heavy beads of condensation on the glass, the general smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. All that was left to alert you to its presence was a sign outside. It was one of those places that you knew if you knew. And if you didn’t, well, that was rather a shame, now wasn’t it?

Normally I loved the place. Plenty of people to watch. Plenty of smoky corners to get lost in. Plenty of good drink and good friends. But that night I was a reluctant participant to say the least. As Noah and Aubrey moved expertly behind the crowded bar, I caught glimpses of myself in the long back mirror, the liquor bottles lining in front of it like stalagmites. And me, the lurking creature. The dark thing. The bat.

I certainly didn’t appear as something used to the light. My skin was paler than usual making the tattoos down my forearms seem even darker. A hollowness to my eyes. Even I couldn’t seem to maintain my gaze. I’d tried to catch sight of myself but my shifty eyes were hard to catch. I looked like I was on something, fingers twitchy on the sticky edge of the bar top, lips dry as I licked them too often. I was unsettled. Uncomfortable.

Conor pretended not to notice this as he sat on one side of me, elbows propped on the bar as he watched Rachel and Aurnia dancing. It was Mason’s turn, apparently, to be Bad Cop.

“You haven’t touched your beer,” Mason shouted in my ear.

I leaned the bottle back, noticed the brown liquid shift up the long, narrow neck.

“Do you want me to drink my beer?” I asked, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.

Mason narrowed his eyes. Considered. Looked to Conor for help. Conor ducked his head. He’d be no help. Before Mason could decide on an answer, I tipped the bottle back and drained it in one go. I put it back down too roughly and it toppled over, rolled, and shattered where it fell behind the bar.

“What would you like for me to drink next?” I asked Mason, fingers carded in front of me.

I was being an asshole. I was in no mood to be out. I’d gone along because my friends made the fair point that I’d been rather distant. Or more distant than usual. And because I still had a vague sense of self-preservation. Still had a sliver of hope that I wouldn’t go careening over the edge. Still thought I’d try to try, at least for a little while longer.

But the music was too loud. The beer too weak. And Mason was too in love with Rachel to be of any help. I needed misery, not happiness. But speak of the devil and the devil shall appear, right?

“Did you know about this?” I asked Mason angrily, eyes darting between him and the man making his way from the door.

Mason turned in confusion. Confusion I didn’t quite believe. Or was too unwillingly to believe.

“Know about what?” he asked.

“Did you tell him I’d be here?” I heard the paranoia in my voice, the flitting with craziness; I didn’t care. “Did you bring me here because of him?”

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