REX (Finding Love) Read online

  Rex

  Copyright @ 2014 by Beth Michele

  Cover Design by Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative

  Editing by Lea Burn

  Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by Beth Michele. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved.

  PROLOGUE—SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD

  CHAPTER ONE—LOVE SUCKS

  CHAPTER TWO—THE BITCH GENE

  CHAPTER THREE—MR. CURIOSITY

  CHAPTER FOUR—GOTTA HAVE FRIENDS

  CHAPTER FIVE—WHAT’S YOUR STORY?

  CHAPTER SIX—ANXIOUS MUCH

  CHAPTER SEVEN—POLAR OPPOSITES

  CHAPTER EIGHT—ISN’T IT IRONIC?

  CHAPTER NINE—I KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE

  CHAPTER TEN—HOT AND SERIOUSLY TWISTED

  CHAPTER ELEVEN—THE SWEETEST THING

  CHAPTER TWELVE—DEATH AND DESTRUCTION

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN—THE TIN MAN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN—UNRAVELING

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN—WHAT LIES BENEATH

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN—ART ART ART

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—FORCED SENTIMENT

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—A BRIGHT IDEA

  CHAPTER NINETEEN—ASSHOLE OF THE YEAR

  CHAPTER TWENTY—BROKEN PROMISES

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE—WHAT A DAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO—A DISTANT MEMORY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—TONGUE-TIED

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR—THE FAN CLUB

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—CRAZY TALK

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—COMPLETELY INCORRIGIBLE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN—A CRIPPLING FEAR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT—ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE—I’M LATE, I’M LATE

  CHAPTER THIRTY—ADRENALINE RUSH

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE—SOMEONE ELSE’S LIFE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO—WHO KNEW?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE—STEPPING INTO A DREAM

  EPILOGUE—VANESSA

  EPILOGUE—REX

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To Rex, for demanding that your story be told. I hope I did it justice.

  “Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination, full of hope.”

  —Maya Angelou

  Hunter dragged me through the dark wooden doors—doors no seventeen-year-old should ever have to walk through—seeing things a seventeen-year-old should never have to see.

  Yet there we were.

  And it was all my fault.

  Actually, I take that back. The woman that sat there, with the perfect hair, black pants and black jacket, as fake tears fell from her eyes? The one who didn’t deserve to be called Mother?

  Yeah, it was her fucking fault, too.

  The smell of something awful distracted me. I never realized death had a smell. But it did, and I’d never forget it as long as I lived. I wasn’t even sure how to explain it. Thick, stale air mixed with nothingness? That didn’t begin to describe the scent that filled my lungs, constricting my airways and making me want to hold my breath and vomit at the same time. My knees were like lead, yet still I felt like I might collapse. Hunter grabbed onto my elbow tighter as we entered together.

  “I don’t fucking want to be here.”

  He peered down at me with a scowl and in a hushed whisper, said, “Watch your mouth, Rex.”

  His lips looked weird, like two straight lines. His eyes were glossy and sad, and even though anger burned a hole through my outsides, my insides felt the same.

  We traipsed by rows of people, and I watched them, pity falling from their eyes onto our faces, but that was the last thing I deserved. No. I deserved to take the poison that would lead to a slow death. Because that’s what it would be like from there on out. Living with it—the guilt that would tear apart my insides, shredding me until there was nothing left.

  And still, that wouldn’t be enough.

  We walked by her, that woman who called herself my mother, and she reached out for me. A seething hatred that had been building for quite some time nearly exploded. But it wasn’t the time or the place. As I felt her vile hand on my arm, I yanked out of her grasp, holding myself back from spitting on her, because that wouldn’t be appropriate.

  Thankfully, Hunter pulled me toward the front of the room, but I froze when I saw the small casket. I couldn’t do it.

  “Don’t make me go up there, Hunter. Fuck. I can’t.”

  When my feet came to a halt, Hunter turned and crouched down on the rug in front of me like I was a small child, looking up into my eyes. “He’d want to know you’re here, want to see you one last time.”

  I nodded because that was all I had left, the tough kid I knew myself to be was crumbling. So I let Hunter go first, and my hands began to shake when I heard his quiet sobs as he softly spoke to Tyler. I wanted to tell him it was too late. But I didn’t want to spoil his moment.

  He stepped to the side, and I inhaled a deep breath before I took the three paces up to Tyler. In that moment, I was very thankful the casket was closed. I couldn’t have looked at someone who no longer resembled my brother.

  I placed my trembling palm flat on the shiny wood, closing my eyes and dragging in a deep breath. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to Tyler. “I’ll never forgive myself. You know how special you were to me.” A tear dripped from my eye. “I love you, buddy. I hope wherever you’re going they have lots of that mint chocolate chip ice cream that you like, and baseball games so you can show them how you play a mean first base. I know there will be lots of music so you’ll be able to play your guitar.” My voice cracked. “I’ll look for you when I chase the moon.”

  There was nothing more to say. I couldn’t form any more words anyway. Hands were wrapping around my throat and the sensation of being choked forced me to let out a pained howl. It wasn’t pretty. It was repulsive and loud, attracting glances from everyone in the room.

  I turned around and bolted for the door. Hunter followed, catching up to me and clutching my wrist, making me stumble back.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, that wrinkle he always got when he was confused came out on his forehead.

  “I want to go chase the moon,” I said, huffing out heavy breaths.

  “It’s daytime, Rex.”

  I shrugged. It didn’t matter. I’d never catch it anyway.

  The door to the shop jingles as I’m cleaning up my station in the back, organizing the inks and disposing of needles. I’m getting ready to get the hell out of here. I’ve been here since the crack of dawn, and I’m bone tired.

  Zeek pok
es his head in, nodding toward the door. “It looks like we’ve got a walk-in and I’ve gotta zip. Going to see my babe.”

  “Come the fuck on, Zeek.” I grit my teeth, exhaustion bringing out the monster in me. “I’m fucking tired.”

  “Listen,” he grins, “you’ve seen Tabitha’s wrath. You’re more than welcome to bear the brunt when I tell her you forced me to stay,” he eyes the front desk area, “and tattoo some ridiculously hot chick with a great rack.”

  My ears, among other things, perk up at his words. He knows my resistance is next to nothing when it comes to women. Plus, tits are my weakness. “All right. Get out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Zack Reeker, better known as Zeek, manages this shop. He’s the one who hired me six months ago when I moved from Boston back to New York City, in desperate need of a gig. I’d been staying with my brother, Hunter, at first. That lasted all of about a month. While he wasn’t pushing me out, we were starting to grate on each others’ nerves. The irony is that I actually moved back to the city to be closer to him. He’s pretty much all I have. My father died of a heart attack when I was twelve and my mother is still alive. But as far as I’m concerned, she’s dead to me.

  For at least a month, I pounded the pavement, portfolio in hand, showing examples of my work to anyone who was willing. I was like a fucking puppy dog with my tail wagging, waiting for someone to throw me a bone, give me a chance. Zeek took an instant liking to my work, and I took an instant liking to him. He doesn’t mess around. He’s honest, no-nonsense, and talented as hell.

  “Thanks, man. Enjoy.” He winks, his cackling an echo in my ears as he heads out.

  “I’ll be right with you,” I yell, and huff out a breath, the only thought on my brain is collapsing onto my bed and zoning for a good eight hours.

  I scrape a hand through my hair, bypassing a couple of stations before making it to the front. The first thing I see is a curtain of blonde streaks hanging down over her face as she checks out one of the tattoo books.

  “Hey. What can I do for you?”

  Her head lifts slowly, hair falling away to reveal a face comprised of porcelain skin, sharp cheekbones, and eyes framed by thick, lush lashes. I’m trying to catch wind of the color from here—pale blue, maybe grey.

  “Hi.” She stands up, her lips pencil straight like she’s nervous or scared, maybe even uptight. That’s when I get a good look at the rest of her. My eyes roam lower from the full, round tits amplified by her tank top, to her skirt, baring legs that seem to go on for miles.

  What I could do with those legs.

  “I want to get a tattoo.” Her voice is bland, shoulders completely rigid.

  “Okay. Do you already have something in mind?” I turn my head, nodding in the direction of my station. “I can bring you back and you can look through some of my designs, get some ideas.”

  “I already know what I want,” she retorts, and there’s a sudden chill in the air. I can’t say that tattooing her is going to be all that much fun. She seems like a fucking iceberg, and I’m internally cursing Zeek for handing this one off.

  “Sure. Let’s sit down, you can fill me in and then I can sketch it out for you.”

  I take a seat next to her and lean back in the chair, angling my body in her direction. She turns to me, and that’s when I get a good look at her eyes. They’re a blue-gray, really pretty. But they’re cold and sad. For a second, I wonder what that’s about.

  “I’m looking for something simple.” She points her index finger to her upper arm. “I just want it to say, love sucks.”

  I repeat it as if I didn’t hear her correctly. “You want it to say, ‘love sucks’?”

  “Yeah.”

  As a tattoo artist, it’s not my job to argue what art someone wants on their body, but for some reason this doesn’t sit right with me. “You do realize this is permanent, right?”

  She cocks her head, narrowing her eyes at me. “Yes, of course. I’m well-versed in what a tattoo is, thank you.”

  And Jesus, she’s feisty.

  “Okay, but….” I shake my head from side to side. “What happens when love doesn’t suck anymore? What happens when it’s pretty fucking amazing?” Where that came from, I don’t have a fucking clue. That’s one four letter word I know nothing about. “I mean, if you were seventy, sure, but you’re young, gorgeous….”

  Her lips twitch at the corners, but fall flat again. “Listen, are you going to do the tattoo for me or not?” she hisses. This one’s got a serious bite on her. Somebody fucked her up bad.

  “Well—”

  “You know what?” She jumps up, heading for the door. “Just forget it. I’ll find someone who’ll do it without interrogating me.” She storms out the door as quickly as she blew in, kicking up a trail of dust in her wake.

  What the fuck was that?

  All I wanted was a tattoo—two simple words—yet he refused to do it for me. Isn’t that against the law of tattooing or something? That they can question you? They’re getting paid to do whatever you want. Now I have to find another shop, but it’s late and I’m tired.

  I lift a finger to wipe away the wetness on my cheek. I hate to admit it, but his words got to me. What if someday love doesn’t suck for me like it sucks for my divorced parents?

  I watched them day after day, week after week, year after year, keeping up a facade. Never once did I see the soft brush of a cheek, that simple touch of the lips that says so much more than words. There was no hand holding, nor were there stolen kisses and glances when they thought no one was watching. Tender hugs were nonexistent. Instead, my ears rang from the relentless arguing, doors slamming when they thought I was asleep. The flannel blanket and pillow that were often on the sofa when I came downstairs for breakfast, followed by lame excuses of not being able to sleep. Even then I knew better.

  I duck under a store awning, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to force back things I don’t want to remember. But they come anyway.

  I got under my blue sheets and pulled the blankets over my head… again. The brown eyes of my teddy bear stared back at me. Even he knew what was happening. And while I was probably too old to hug a stuffed animal, he was all I ever had, so I pulled him close and scrunched my face up tight when I heard the first noise that hurt my ears.

  “You’re a fucking asshole,” Mom shouted, and I wanted to laugh at the fact that I was always told in school never to say those words, yet somehow it was okay for them. I didn’t understand why they were always saying such mean things to one another.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be an asshole if you weren’t such a bitch.”

  I kept shaking my head, talking to my teddy bear under my breath, but more bad words came.

  “I saw the way you were fucking staring at those men tonight,” Dad said. “I think you forget that you’re my wife and that we’re married. You’re supposed to love me.”

  “Oh, is that what this is?” Mom laughed, but she didn’t sound happy at all, and her voice got even louder. “Because that is absurd. This, as fucked up as it is, is a partnership of sorts. You and I both know that. It serves a purpose, plain and simple. Just like Vanessa did, didn’t she, Alex?” she snarled, and I pushed off the blanket and sat up straighter in my bed when she said my name, wondering what that meant, listening for anything else that would give me a clue. But the only thing I heard was more cursing from my father before doors slammed and hinges rattled, sending me the same message over and over.

  Love was cruel and I didn’t ever want any part of it.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes and a cane apologizes after she bumps into me, jarring me from a place I didn’t want to be anyway, reminding me where I am. Reminding me who I am. Am I a seventy-year-old woman? No, far from it. I’m only twenty-seven. But do I have hope for love? No. I do, however, have hope for sex. Because that’s what feels good.

  Sometimes in the heat of the moment, I close my eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like if I love
d that person, and they loved me. Maybe my heart would beat a little faster or a flutter would make my stomach tingle. But I’ll never know—because I’m empty. I don’t have love to give. I don’t even think I know what the word means.

  I walk up a few blocks, spotting a bar on the corner. It just happens to be the one my friend, Ryder Callahan, owns. Being in the event planning business gives me an opportunity to meet a lot of great people. Ryder is one of them. He and I met at an event I organized about six years ago. We got to know each other and even dated on and off, but then he moved to Colorado for three years and we parted as friends. I’m glad he came back, though. Aside from my best friend Olivia Redmond, he’s the only other person I feel close to.

  The bar is packed when I walk in, but Ryder waves me over the moment he sees me. “Hey, Vanessa, what’s up, darlin’? Hey, Jim.” He waves his hand in a sideways motion. “Move over so my friend here can sit down.”

  Jim’s bald head does a quick shake before he takes his beer and slides over, his eyes going back to a baseball game on the television overhead.

  Ryder pushes the peanuts at me, then leans his elbows on the counter of the bar. “So, what brings you in so late tonight?”

  “It’s a long story,” I reply, popping some nuts in my mouth.

  “I’m listening. After you finish chewing. I really don’t feel like seeing your food.” He chuckles and I flick his arm.

  “Well, I decided I wanted to get a tattoo, and I went down to Intricate Ink to—”

  He cuts me off. “Yeah, I know those guys. They’re cool and they do great work.”

  “Well, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” I smile, “I wanted to get a tattoo but the asshole in there wouldn’t do it. He was questioning me like what I wanted was stupid.”

  “The asshole didn’t say it was stupid,” a voice calls out from behind me, and I whip my head around. “He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t regret it.”