“Exactly. Anyway, long story short, my dad’s in jail.”
I suck in a breath, wincing. “Oh, Dax, I’m sorry.”
A smilelingers from his quiet laughter. “Don’t be. He put himself there. Or, actually, my mom put him there.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told you my mom found a way out,” Dax replies. “She was an informant with the sheriff’s department. She knew when everything was going down and planned to leave town that day. I was the only one she told about it.”
“Whoa. That’s a tough position to be in.”
Dax shakes his head. “Not really. I wanted out too.”
My heart breaks. “Dang. And you’re still in.”
Dax slumps against his bent elbows, gazing up at the starry sky.
“When did you get the scorpion tattoo?” I ask. “Did you have to get it to be officially in the club?”
Dax pushes up the sleeve of his jacket and smirks at the tattoo on his forearm. “Do you see how crappy this thing looks? I didn’t choose to get this.”
“What do you mean?”
He sits up to show off the tattoo better. “I got held down and forced to get it. Not only was it a bad job back then, but I was ten, so it’s stretched.”
The air is whacked out of my lungs. I tap my chest and cough hard. “They forced it on you at ten-years-old?”
His brow crooks as he nods at me.
“That’s horrible.” I’m breathless. “I can’t believe they’d do that to a child. What did your parents say?”
“My dad made my mom shut up, and he told the guys to hold me down.”
I swallow hard, feeling violently ill.
He caresses my cheek and whispers, “Sorry to turn you green.”
I blow out a shaky breath. “I’m just sorry for you.”
He shrugs, smiling. “I chose to get the other tattoos.”
I take his hand from my cheek. “The rose for your mom. What do the other tattoos mean?”
He laughs, looking away. “They’re so dumb.”
I bite into my lip, smiling. “Tell me.”
He draws a finger over the right-hand side of his chest. “I was feeling really down one day, like I’d never get it together, and always be under someone’s thumb. I just had this sinking feeling like I’d never be free. But then something made me feel lighter. I thought, maybe, when I’m eighty I’d be free. So I walked into the tattoo parlor and got Roman numerals of the year when I’ll turn eighty-years-old.”
The randomness of the tattoo makes me giggle. “And the thought of being eighty makes you feel happy?”
He rubs the side of his head and laughs. “I guess so.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be free long before you’re eighty.”
“It’s a backup plan at least,” he jokes.
“What about the eagle tattoo?” I ask. “I saw it at the hospital.”
