Penelope Douglas - Until You

“Only so much I can do with the money right now,” I answered, grunting as the needle sliced through my skin over a rib. “My mother put most of it in a college fund. I can have it when I graduate. But I was able to get some of it now. I’m thinking of buying a new car and giving the GT to Jax.”

My maternal grandfather had passed away last year, leaving me some land and a cabin near Lake Geneva in Wisconsin. The cabin was falling apart, and it didn’t have any real sentimental value to the family, so my mother agreed to let some interested developers buy it. She put most of the money into the bank under lock and key.

I actually felt proud of her for insisting. It wasn’t normal for her to make such responsible, adult decisions.

But I wasn’t at all interested in going to college, either.

I didn’t want to think about how things were going to change when I finished high school.

My phone rang, and I silenced it.

I closed my eyes, while Crossfade’s Cold played in the background, and reveled in the sting of the needle carving into me. I hadn’t tensed up at all, and I hadn’t thought about much of anything since walking into the shop. My arms and legs felt weightless, and the ton of shit on my shoulders had faded away.

I could get addicted to this.

I smiled, picturing myself ten years from now covered in tattoos, simply because I liked the pain.

“You wanna take a look?” Aura, my tattoo artist adorned in dreadlocks, asked when she’d finished.

I stood up and walked to the wall mirror, eyeing the words on the side of my torso.

Yesterday Lasts Forever. Tomorrow Comes Never.

The words came out of nowhere in my head, but they felt right. The script was just illegible enough not to be easily read, and that’s what I wanted.

The tattoo was for me and no one else.

I squinted at the little droplets of blood spilling off the end of “Never”.

“I didn’t ask you for that,” I pointed out, scowling at Aura through the mirror.

She slipped on some sunglasses and stuck an unlit cigarette in her mouth. “I don’t explain my art, kid.” And she headed out the backdoor. To smoke, I would assume.

And for the first time in weeks, I laughed.

Gotta love a woman that can hand you your own ass.

We paid and picked up some food, taking it back to my house. My mother had texted and said she was going out with friends after work, so I knew I’d have the place to myself for a while. When she drank, she didn’t come home until she was numb.

And then—to dampen my mood further—there was a care package from France inside my front door.

It was addressed to Tate’s dad and must’ve been sent here accidentally. My mom had unknowingly opened it, thinking it was ours, when she was home for lunch. She left it for me with a note to take it next door when I got home.

But not before my fucking curiosity got the better of me.

After Madoc had gone into the garage, so we could eat while we worked, I peeled back the flaps to the cardboard box and immediately slammed them shut again. A fat, raging fire burned in my blood, and I was hungrier than I’d been in weeks. I didn’t know what was in that box, but Tate’s smell was all over it, and it was leveling me.

My brief high from the tattoo slowly seeped out and was instantly replaced with piss and vinegar.

I dumped it on her father’s front door step before charging back over into my garage to drown myself in car work.

“Hold up the flashlight,” I ordered Madoc.

He leaned further under the hood as I tried to unfasten the spark plugs from my car. “Stop struggling with it,” he complained. “Those things can snap easily if you’re not careful.”

I stopped and tightened my grip on the wrench, narrowing my eyes at him. “You don’t think I know that?”

He cleared his throat and looked away, and I could feel the judgment all over him.

Why was I barking at him?

Looking down, I shook my head and forced down more pressure on the plug. My hand immediately gave way, and my body lurched forward when I heard the snap.

“Shit,” I grunted and threw the wrench under the hood where it disappeared somewhere in the mess.

Motherfucker.

I gripped the edge of the car. “Get the extractor.”

Madoc leaned back to the tool bench behind him. “No ‘please’ with that request?” He echoed my own words as he grabbed the attachment so I could pry the spark plug out.

It was a bitch to deal with, and he was probably patting himself on the back that he’d called it.

“You know…” he started, letting out a sigh. “I’ve kept my mouth shut, but—”

“Then keep it shut.”

Madoc swung the flashlight out from under the hood, and I jerked backwards, out of the way, as he flung it across the room where it shattered against a wall.

Jesus Christ!

His usual relaxed demeanor was replaced with rage. His eyes were sharp, and his breaths were fast.

Madoc was mad, and I knew I’d gone too far.

Clenching my teeth, I leaned back down, my hands on the car, and braced myself for his meltdown. They came rarely, which gave them more impact.

“You’re sinking, man!” he shouted. “You don’t go to class, you’re pissing off everyone, we’re constantly in fights with random shitheads, and I’ve got the cuts and bruises to prove it. What the fuck?” Every word crowded the room. There was meaning and truth to everything he was saying, but I didn’t want to face it.

Everything felt wrong.

I was hungry, just not for food. I wanted to laugh, but nothing was funny. All of my regular thrills didn’t get my heart racing anymore. Even my own neighborhood, which usually brought me comfort with its familiarity and clean cut lawns, felt barren and void of life.

I was crammed in a fucking jar, suffocating with everything I wanted but nothing that gave me air.

“She’ll be back in eight months.” Madoc’s quiet voice crawled into my thoughts, and I blinked, taking a moment to realize he was talking about Tate.

I shook my head.

No.

Why would he say that?

This wasn’t about her. I. Did. Not. Need. Her.

I tightened my fist around the wrench and straightened my back, wanting to stuff his own words back down his throat.

His gaze dropped to my right hand that held the tool and then back up to my face. “What?” he challenged. “What do you think you’re going to do?”

I wanted to hit something. Anything. Even my best friend.

My ringer broke the stalemate as it vibrated in my pocket. I dug out my cell, keeping my eyes on my friend.

“What?” I snapped into the phone.

“Hey man, I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” my brother, Jax, said, a little muffled.

My breathing wasn’t slowing down, and my brother didn’t need me like this. “I can’t talk right now.”

“Fine,” he barked. “Screw you then.” And he hung up.

Goddamn, son of a mother fucking bitch.

I squeezed the phone, wanting it to break.

My eyes snapped up to Madoc who shook his head, threw the shop cloth onto the work bench, and walked out of the garage.

“Shit,” I hissed, dialing Jax’s number.

If I needed to be level for anyone, it was my brother. He needed me. After I’d gotten away from my father two summers ago, I’d reported the abuse. My brother’s, not mine. He was taken out of that house and put into foster care, since his mother couldn’t be found.

I was all he had.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out, not even waiting for him to say ‘hello’ when he picked up. “I’m here. What’s wrong?”

“Pick me up, will you?”

Yeah, not with the spark plugs yanked out of my car. But Madoc was still here with his car, probably. “Where are you?” I asked.

“The hospital.”

“Excuse me, can I help you?” a nurse called behind me as I barged through the double swinging doors. I was sure I was supposed to check in with her, but she could shove her clipboard up her ass. I needed to find my brother.

My palms were sweaty, and I had no idea what had happened. He’d hung up after telling me where to find him.

I’d left him alone—and hurt—once before. Never again.

“Slow down, man,” Madoc chimed in behind me. “This will go a lot faster if we just ask someone where he is.” I hadn’t even noticed that he’d followed me in.

My shoes squeaked on the linoleum as I jetted down the corridors, flinging back curtain after curtain until I finally found my brother.

He sat on a bed, long legs dangling off the side and his hand on his forehead. I reached for his ponytail and yanked his head back to look at his face.

“Ow, shit!” he grunted.

I could’ve been gentler, I guess.

He squinted up at the fluorescent lighting as I took in the stitches on his eyebrow.

“Mr. Trent!” a woman’s voice barked behind me, but I wasn’t sure if it was to me or Jax since we both shared our father’s name.

“What the hell happened to him?” I wasn’t asking Jax. Others were to blame.

My brother was just a kid, and while he was only a little over a year younger than me, he was still younger.

And he’d had a life of shit.

His mother was Native American and barely legal when she’d gotten pregnant with him. While he sported our father’s azure blue eyes, the rest of his looks came from her.

His hair was probably black, but it looked a shade lighter and fell halfway down his back. Certain pieces were braided and then everything was brought back to a ponytail mid-skull. His skin was a couple of shades darker than mine, and everything was overshadowed by his bright smile.