The trip to Boston is long. Thank goodness Kenneth lent me his truck, because I hate driving in the snow, and his big vehicle seems safer. Yes, I know I live in Maine and we’ve got tons of it. Still not a fan. Plus, I’m a nervous wreck. The article in my purse seems to weigh a ton. The paper itself weighs nothing, but the content is heavy. I started this story without his permission. I didn’t tell him that I was going to do it, but Alex was a participant too, and his story is just as important.
Besides that, I’ve found something that might put a target on my back. Not that that was anything new to me. So many things were happening around their unit around the same time, and the focus was lost. It was my job to find it. But what I found was way more than I anticipated, and now I don’t know what to do with the information.
My publisher is set to release the story tomorrow morning, and I have the draft copy. I want Stephan to see it first. He might never forgive me for it, but that’s okay. As long as he forgives himself.
I drive to his house first. Kayla gave me the address and packed me a huge lunch to go. She’s adorable, and I’m very grateful for her, but I couldn’t eat a bite—too nervous to swallow anything but coffee.
As I pull into his driveway, I whistle. His house is not just a house, it’s a damn Victorian masterpiece. Huge. And I mean huge. I’m pretty sure even Freya’s whole PTSD center is smaller. Bushes covered in snow, line the path all the way to his door. Massive evergreens frame his property. And the building itself is gorgeous. Made of red brick with a huge double door, it reminds me of a castle from the fairytales. A beast’s castle. Despite his house being absolutely breathtaking, it doesn’t give me homey vibes. Quite the opposite—it puts me in a foul mood. Once the beauty settles in, the grim starts creeping in.
I park and get out of the car. Looking around, I notice that there are tracks from only one car, most likely his Rover. I walk to the door and ring the bell. I ring it a few times, but no one comes to open it, nor do I hear any sign of life. I knock with the same result.
I didn’t want to call, giving him a heads up and a chance to escape, so that is out of the question.
All right then, Kayla gave me the parlor address too, so I go back to the car and take off.
It’s five p.m., so it should be open. Kayla mentioned that they work different hours than other businesses.
I find his parlor on one of the busiest streets in the city. My friends and I used to go here when I was in college in Boston: the street is alive during the day and at night, with tons of bars and tourist traps.
His parlor takes up half of the first floor of a huge building—color me impressed, but that’s a lot of success for a tattoo place. A pang of pride sparkles in my chest for what he’s accomplished as a businessman.
FRAGILE LIVES. The black, neon letters with a red shadow greet me as I open the door. How very fitting.
“Hey, how can I help you?” A young woman, covered in tats and piercings, greets me from the receptionist table.
I walk straight to her. “Hi. I’m here to see Archie.”
Her face falls. “Sorry, but he doesn’t take clients.”
“I’m not a client. I’m a friend, I guess.”
Her brow raises. “His ‘friends’ usually come later at night.”
Is she being a judgmental bitch? Well, yes, she is. My eyes narrow at her. What sort of friends is she talking about?
She must have seen it written all over my face, because she smirks and gives me a sinful smile.
“So yeah, wait your turn, ‘friend.’”
I’m a levelheaded person with a lot of patience, I repeat the mantra, but right now, I want to smack her head into that table she’s tapping her long-ass nails on. But my mother raised me better than that, so I say as politely as I can, “Would you mind telling him that Leila is here?”
“Listen—” she starts, but a big bald guy with trunks instead of arms saunters over.
“Leila?” His voice is full of wonder.
“Yes, that’s me. I’m here to see Archie.”
“Thank fuck,” he sighs and touches my shoulder to direct me to follow him.
“Hank! She can’t go there,” the receptionist raises her voice.
Hank turns to her. “Sasha, you’ve been here for two months, and I’m positive today is your last day.” Then he lightly pushes me forward. “Let’s go. She’s been driving me bananas.”
“I can see why.” Then I remember his words. “How do you know me?”
He gives me a funny look. “I might have heard your name being mentioned a few times.”
I quirk a brow questioningly, but he just laughs it off. We walk through a corridor with a few doors on each side. The buzzing of tattoo guns accompanies soft music and quiet laughs coming from the rooms. The atmosphere is relaxing, something that I didn’t expect from a place like this. Well, to be fair, I’ve never been in a place like this. I got my ears pierced in my pediatrician’s office when I was fourteen, and that’s about the extent of my adventures.
“There.” He points to the door on the left. “Good luck, honey.” And he disappears.
I take a deep breath and go to open the door when a soft, sexy chuckle comes from the other side. I freeze. Maybe it’s from one of the other rooms, so I turn the knob and push the door open.
Stephan’s sitting in a leather chair, his feet propped up on the mahogany table in front of him. A bottle of alcohol in his hand. He takes a sip right as I show up. His eyes turn wide, and he spits the liquid out.
Beside him, with her butt on the same table by his feet, is one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen. Her legs are crossed, and the huge slit in her red, leather skirt reveals a little too much of her sexy stockings she’s wearing. Her white, tight shirt is missing a few buttons, and I can clearly see her red corset underneath it. Her hair falls on her back in soft, blonde waves with colorful stripes here and there. It reminds me of Kayla and her constantly changing strands of hair that match her mood. This lady’s mood is pretty good though. At least, it was. Until Stephan sprayed her with alcohol.
She jumps on the floor and starts yelling, “Are you out of your mind?”
“Leila?” Stephan stands too and blinks a few times, watching me and completely ignoring the gorgeous woman in front of him, who whips her whole body around, her eyes wide.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking guilty as he puts the bottle on the table and takes a step to the side, away from it and the woman.
I glance between them both before I pull the gazette from my purse. Then I slowly walk to the table and carefully place it on top.
“I thought you should read it first. It releases tomorrow.” Then I glance between them again and murmur. “Sorry for intruding; I didn’t know you had company.”
Her eyes are round, and she keeps blinking, her jaw hanging open slightly. She doesn’t make a sound. I feel uncomfortable and betrayed, which is illogical since we never even put any labels on our time together. And I totally understand—logically—that he can do anything and anyone he wants, but I haven’t. I guess I was hoping he would do the same. Naive of me, I see that now.
“It’s—” he says, but I turn to walk away. I’ve done what I wanted, and I hope he will have some peace.
I raise a hand in the air, hating to be in the situation I promised myself I’d never be in.
“It’s okay.” I point at the paper on his table. “Please, read it.”
And I walk away, leaving the gorgeous woman in the same pose, her eyes darting between the two of us. He’s frozen in his spot, looking even guiltier than when I first saw them there.
I walk past the receptionist, who shoots me a disgusted look, and out to my car.
And this is where I let the first tears slip through.
