On Solid Ground Read online

  Not appreciating her “barely able to breathe” laughter at my expense, I stalk back to my station, wounded ego trailing behind me with his tail between his legs. As I finish cleaning up the rest of my station, my mind drifts to Dax. When we first met a few days ago, I can honestly admit I was instantly attracted to him. But there was something different about him today that made me want to get to know him more. A silent sadness begging to be lightened, a broken soul secretly looking to be repaired, the shadow of man who obviously used to be so much more alive.

  All those parts of myself that I usually keep hidden—he wears those parts on the outside.

  I’m not any kind of mind reader or anything like that and I’m not pretending to know who he actually is. But when you come across someone who so openly wears their pain on their sleeve, it’s impossible not to catch a glimpse of it.

  A light tapping on the doorframe breaks my thoughts. “Hey, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to make fun of you,” Lexie apologizes as she steps into the room.

  “No worries. We’re good.” Turning away from her, I dig my keys and sketchbook out of the drawer. “Ready to lock up?”

  She nods and we walk in silence up to the front door. Once we’re outside, the cool evening air surrounds us, reminding me of yet another reason why I love this place. “Night,” I say quietly before turning away from her.

  Her small hand grips at my bicep, pulling me back to her. “Look, I saw you give him your number, right?”

  “How did you?”

  “Read it over your shoulder,” she deadpans before continuing, “All I’m saying is it’s in his court now. He’ll call you or he won’t, but that’s up to him.”

  Without another word, she walks away leaving me and my confused brain no choice but to do the same.

  By the time I open my door and flop back on my couch, I realize it’s still pretty early. Well, early if you’re a tattoo artist and your friends don’t usually head out until around eleven o’clock anyway. Most normal people are in bed by now, but my life has pretty much been the exact opposite of normal for as long as I can remember. No need to start being different now.

  After chucking my sketchbook down on the coffee table, I pull out my cellphone. No missed calls. No texts.

  Awesome.

  Puffing out a breath of sarcasm, I walk over to the fridge and pop open a beer. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the light blinking on the phone. Voicemail.

  My stupid gut churns a little bit thinking it might be Dax, but then I remember that I gave him my cell.

  Ass. I laugh at myself.

  After dialing into my voicemail, I tip back the beer, reveling in the cold brew. The digitized voice greets me, letting me know I have one new message.

  “Hey, Becks. It’s me. I’m out of detox today so I was allowed to make a call. Was hoping to catch you, but maybe some other time,” Nikki’s sad and nearly empty voice flows though the line, sending chills of regret up my spine.

  I missed her fucking call.

  My hand dives into my hair after slamming the phone down on the kitchen table. After taking a few huge gulps of my beer, I calm myself enough to lessen the stab of disappointment I feel. The tattoo on my arm calls out to me, begging to be touched. It belongs to her after all. The advice I offered Dax earlier echoes in my own head.

  But no matter how many times I try and tell myself that it’s not my fault my sister is in rehab—again—that it’s not my fault her life is in shambles—still—I continue to feel responsible. Looking down at the half-beautiful, half-hideous portrait of a woman on my upper arm, I’m instantly at war with the memories of how she came to be the sister I know today, instead of the sister she should have been.

  Maybe it’s some kind of superhuman power I’ve only just acquired, but I’m able to keep those memories at bay tonight. Like a cut on the inside of your mouth—the one you can’t help but poke at with your tongue no matter how much pain you know it will cause, I listen to her voicemail once more. It’s more out of needing to assure myself that she’s really okay. In the background, I hear other people talking, a loudspeaker beeping, and if I listen really closely, I hear the shuffling of feet. Satisfied she’s still in the rehab center and not escaped somehow, I’m able to fully come down from my panic.

  With thoughts of both Nikki and Dax running through my head, sleep does not come easily. Pencil in hand, I sketch until my eyes feel heavy. When I wake up there are a few random pages stuck to my face and my pencil is still lightly gripped in my hand. Stumbling out of bed, I make my way back into the kitchen. The phone is sitting on the table, taunting me to make the call already.

  When I call the rehab center, they let me know Nikki is out of detox, but she can’t have phone privileges just yet. This of course makes me wonder if she had permission to call me in the first place. Not wanting to rat her out or get her in trouble, I don’t bother mentioning that she called me last night. I’ll get to talk to her soon enough. I hope, at least.

  The loud rumble from my stomach rivals that of an actual jungle animal. Standing before the open fridge, I laugh at my less-than-stellar food shopping skills. All that stares back at me are three beers, individually wrapped American cheese slices, a jar of pickles—well, a jar with one pickle, anyway—and one container of leftover Chinese takeout.

  Scratching my head, I can’t remember the last time I had Chinese, but I hazard a sniff anyways. “Whoa!” The container falls from my hand. “That’s ripe,” I laugh at myself as I toss the container in the trash.

  Okay, I guess food shopping of some kind is on my agenda today. That’s how normal people spend their day off though, right? Not wanting to pick at the scab that has me using the word normal twice in less than twelve hours, I opt for a quick shower so I can just get the fuck on with my day.

  Pathetically, it doesn’t take me more than an hour to grab everything I need and to lug it all back into my apartment. It’s just me here, after all. And I work most of the time—mainly just not to be alone.

  After unpacking everything—which neatly fit into three grocery bags—I pop two breakfast burritos in the microwave.

  Seriously, twenty eight years old and I’m eating microwaved burritos like some broke-ass college student. The fact that I’m eating breakfast at one in the afternoon is also pretty pathetic as well.

  My cell skitters across the table at the same time the microwave beeps, letting me know my gourmet meal is finished.

  I look down at the number on the screen and it’s not one I recognize, though it could be a different office number from the rehab office—maybe one they haven’t called me from before. Excitement challenges the growl of my empty stomach. Grabbing my phone with one hand, I answer the call at the same time I press the button to open the microwave door with the other.

  “Hello?”

  A low, unsure male voice greets me, “Hey, it’s Dax.”

  At the mention of his name, my fingers touch the scalding temperature of the plate. Cursing a loud “Fuck!” the plate drops to the floor. Yelling into the line again, I suck my burnt finger into my mouth, “Fuck!” Cold, I need cold. Walking quickly over to the sink, I curse again as my foot lands on a shard of broken plate. “You motherfucker!”

  As I fall into a chair, it screeches against the tile floor. The piercing noise combined with the pain I feel in both my hand and foot is enough for me to drop the phone to the floor.

  What a fucking shit-show!

  Scooping up the phone, I’m careful to avoid any more mishaps. No need to get my finger sliced off in the process of taking a phone call.

  “You still there?” I ask after propping the phone in between my ear and shoulder.

  “Uh, yeah,” he laughs. “Is now not a good time? I can call back later when you’re done breaking shit.”

  Shaking my head, I laugh with him, but hold the phone steady. “So what’s up?” I bite back the excitement I feel that he called me already. Maybe Lexie was on to something with that whole fifteen-year-old girl shi
t she was talking about yesterday. Better tone it down and focus on the reason he knows me in the first place. “Everything okay with the tattoo?”

  “You know that A&D is diaper rash cream, right?” His words are weighed down by his skepticism. “Wasn’t sure if it was some kind of joke or something. Me being new to this whole tattoo thing and all.”

  Annoyed by the throbbing in my finger and foot, my tone comes out more clipped than I intend. “Nope. No joke playing. Diaper cream—that shit works wonders. Don’t forget to wash off the first layer before you put another one on later.” Wrapping a towel around my finger makes it difficult to hold the phone, and I still need to tend to my cut foot. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Uh, no. That’s all. Thanks.”

  He cuts the call before I can explain what’s going on. Always screwing shit up—that’s standard for me. This takes the cake though. A burnt hand, sliced foot, and short temper all mixed together for one epically bad phone call. Not like I’m a master of relationships or anything like that, but wow, that’s got to be a record for me.

  After bandaging my cuts, I finally have the chance to eat my breakfast, which is sprawled out on my kitchen floor. God knows the last time I’ve mopped. Do I even own a mop?

  So much for that. I clean up the rest of the mess, tossing my would-be breakfast in the trash before settling on something else. Since the microwave and I aren’t getting along all that well, I settle on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As the seal on the jelly jar pops, the sweet scent filters up to my nose, immediately taking me back to a much simpler time.

  “Becks,” Nikki whined. “Hurry up! I’m hungry!” Her words bounced off the walls of our tiny kitchen and she jumped up and down next to me.

  Pressing my finger to my lips, I shot her a serious look. “Shh,” I whispered with as much emphasis as I could. “You’re going to wake her up,” I warned, tipping my chin to the small washroom that doubled as our mom’s bedroom.

  Poor would be grossly understating our situation, but at ten and six years old, it was all we ever knew. Some days, I held on to the hope that it wouldn’t be all we’d ever know, that eventually things would get better. But, when a man I’d never seen before slinked out of Mom’s room as my butter knife was suspended above the slice of white bread, I knew not to hold my breath.

  It’s not like I knew exactly what went on in that room, but I had a decent idea. I’d seen the bruises, heard the crying and yelling, saw the money crumpled in a pile on the nightstand when I’d sneak in there to check on Mom in the early morning hours. Those visions were the ones that made me vow to keep as much as I could from Nikki. Maybe it was that I was born with some kind of protective instinct. Maybe it was that Mom couldn’t do it for us and I knew I had to rise to the challenge. Whatever it was, it made me slide in front of her tiny body as the mystery man stumbled out of the kitchen.

  “Oh,” he spoke as his eyes fell on us. “Uh, hi,” he stuttered as he pulled his reeking of cigarettes leather jacket off the chair. “There’s money,” he explained as he turned away from us and walked out of the house.

  “Money?” Nikki jumped with excitement. “That means we can get more bread, right?”

  Nodding, I pretended to agree with her. It was impossible to squash her simple dreams. “Hey, why don’t you go turn on the television and I’ll bring your sandwich in.”

  She smiled and skipped away from me. With her out of the kitchen, I could cut the green pieces off the bread and finish making her sandwich without her knowing. It also meant I could sneak into Mom’s room and swipe a few dollars off the dresser. It would be stupid to take all of it—that would only lead to Mom questioning the guy, maybe earning a few bruises in the process. Recently, I’d figured out if I only took a few bills, she wouldn’t even notice it.

  Hell, maybe she did, because she never questioned where the food came from, or how Nikki and I had a new pair of sneakers when the old ones had grown too tight. Those discoveries would mean that she was present in our lives, that she wasn’t drugged up or drunk more than half the time.

  That would mean that I could be a regular ten year old.

  Since that wasn’t going to happen, I tried my best to let Nikki live in her little bubble of a six year old world for as long as possible.

  Tucking the money into my pocket, I grabbed the sandwich and brought it into the living room. “Not working?” My pointless question was directed to the turned off television.

  Nikki shrugged. “Guess it’s too early,” her simple dismissal made me feel guilty for ever coming up with that excuse in the first place. It was all I could come up with the first time the cable was turned off. Now, it seemed like any time we were up, it was still just too early.

  “Oh, well,” I deflected. “How about after you finish, we’ll walk down to the park, spend the afternoon there. Maybe even get some ice cream.”

  “That would be awesome,” Nikki yelled out before quieting herself. “Can we bring one home for Mommy?”

  I knew she wouldn’t be here when we got home, but I agreed anyway. No sense in dashing her hopes, in making her aware of how pointless it was to care about people who didn’t care about you.

  Around a bite of peanut butter and jelly, Nikki grumbled, “Hey, where’s your sandwich?”

  Swatting away her concerns with my hand, I explained that I ate mine in the kitchen. Satisfied with that answer, she devoured the rest of her sandwich and changed to go play at the park.

  Ice cream would have to do for today.

  Shaking away those memories, I think about how sad it is that I still can’t eat ice cream without sadness filling my gut. Unable to let go of the what ifs, I can’t help but think that maybe if I had done a better job of protecting Nikki when we were younger, maybe things wouldn’t be the way they are today.

  No sense dwelling on what can’t be changed, I coach myself out of my self-pity induced haze. Nothing soothes me more than drawing when I get like this. Quickly, I bandage my foot, realizing it’s not nearly as bad as I thought. With my sketchpad tucked under my arm, I jog down the stairs of my apartment building and walk down to the beach. You seriously can’t beat the California sun. That shit never goes away.

  Claiming my spot on the beach, I kick off my Chucks and bury my toes in the sand. I used to worry that my tattoo-covered chest would offend families sitting nearby, but then I realized that was their problem and not mine. Besides, my rolled-up shirt doubles as an excellent make-shift pillow. Tuning out the world around me, I focus in on the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. Sounding something like the smoothest pull of sandpaper against the grain of wood, it’s calming and serene. It’s only when I focus on the sound of the foamy water that I can find my solace. And my creativity for that matter.

  Rolling over onto my stomach, I lay my pad out in front of me and put the pencil to the paper. Calling on my memory from earlier in the morning, I draw a picture of a young boy pushing a swing into the air. The distorted and fucked-up side of my brain takes over when, instead of drawing the sweet and innocent Nikki who should be in that swing, I pencil in an image of the Grim Reaper.

  Flipping over the page, I try to come up with something a bit more peaceful and less screwed up. When nothing comes to me, I look through the rest of my drawings to see if there’s anything all that inspiring waiting to be finished.

  And I got nothing.

  On the last page, I see a half-finished sketch of what ended up being Dax’s tattoo. With a few quick strokes on the page, the outline of his body is completed. Long legs flow to the bottom of the sheet and his arms stretch out to the sides. His image mirrors the iconic Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Completing the rough outline of his tattoo, there’s no mistaking this drawing for anyone other than Dax.

  Part of me feels a little ashamed for wanting to draw his package, but a much larger part of me doesn’t have an issue with it at all. Chuckling to myself, I figure no one else is going to see this anyway. Besides, it’s not like it
’d be my first nude drawing. I wonder if those are the ones Dax saw when he told me my artwork was good.

  That thought has me stopping in my tracks. And there she is again. That damn fifteen-year-old girl trying to figure out what it all means. That bitch needs to go away. Maybe some drinks later on will help keep her at bay.

  After I finish my drawing, I rest my head against my shirt. The warmth of the sun seeps into and relaxes my muscles. With everything going on with Nikki in the last month, with having to wait on my damn lawyer to pull through, I haven’t had much of a chance to breathe, let alone really unwind. Work has been the only thing keeping me going, but now that she’s settled in rehab, and seems to be doing well—and by well, I mean that she’s not climbing the walls to try and escape like she did at the last place—I can actually feel some of the weight leaving my shoulders.

  My eyes feel heavy, and before I can even talk myself into getting up and napping on my couch, I pass out. The only thing that wakes me up some time later is a spray of sand flying up into my face. Catching the glimpse of some asshole as he runs past me, I can easily figure out where the sand came from.

  “What the?” Rubbing my hand over my face, I get most of the sand out of my eyes. My beard is covered in it though. As I sit up, my shoulders ache for an entirely different reason other than being weighed down by guilt. “Mother fucking sun burn. I hate this shit,” I groan to no one but myself.

  On weak legs, I stand and try to stretch the stiffness out of my crab-colored shoulders. Wincing in pain, I feel like an ass. When I twist my back from side to side, I see the runner who so graciously woke me up as he makes a second pass of the beach. With his aviator sunglasses on and a pair of black, mesh work out shorts slung low on his hips, he looks every bit the asshole. The chiseled abs and deep cut V on his hips make up for it, though. The shirt tucked into the waistband of his shorts, dangling from the side only earns him another derisive sneer. Not willing to bite back my bitterness, I tell him as much as he jogs past me.