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Why would any of them work, when they've got me?
“I need to step out for a moment.” Standing abruptly, I make a move toward the door. At the very least, I need air.
Outside, the city hums with life. I lean against the cool, glass facade of the building. My childhood seems like a lifetime ago but the truth is, no matter how much I separate myself, they drag me back in. My guilt clings to me. Like a shadow I can’t shake off.
Which is one of the reasons why this project means everything to me. Being selected is my chance to solidify my place in the world. Far, far away from the constraints of my family’s expectations to clean up their messes.
The phone buzzes in my hand. This time, I pick up. “Mom? What’s going on?”
“It’s Lance.” Her voice is weary. Defeated. “I don’t think he’s going to come back from this one. Your father and I have no idea what to do.”
Through tears, my mother launches into a story so fucked up, so convoluted, I can’t even begin to process what I’m hearing. In the background, my dad punctuates some of the more salacious details with strings of curse words. He’s drunk, I can tell from the sound of his voice. When she finishes her tale ten minutes later, my mind is mush.
“What do you want me to do?” I pinch my eyebrows.
Mom screeches into the phone, “Save him. You must know a good lawyer.”
“You’re asking me to pay for a high-powered defense lawyer even though he already admitted everything?” I kick the sidewalk angrily. “What about accountability?”
“Don’t be like that, Peter. I want my son home. You have the money. He’s your brother.” She says this matter-of-factly, which I'm used to. After all, in her mind I'm paying off a debt so it’s my obligation to help.
I make a decision. “No.”
“No?” She’s thoroughly baffled by my refusal.
“You heard me. He’ll get a public defender. The chips will fall where they fall.” I glance at my phone to check the time. “Look. I’m wrapping up a meeting and then I have an appointment I can’t miss. I’m sorry, but I’m done. If you and Dad need anything let me know, but I won’t be touching this with a ten-foot pole.”
“Pete—” is the last thing I hear before I click off the phone.
It’s been nearly thirty minutes but everyone’s still focused on the proposal. We finalize the last details and I task Rose with incorporating our collective feedback and circulating it to us tomorrow. Everyone dissipates, leaving me staring out the window at the Space Needle.
I know it’s time to cut ties with my family. No, long past time.
Currently, though, I have somewhere to be. A long-standing appointment I’m sure as hell not going to miss.
My family will be there tomorrow.
But I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.
Chapter two
Jordan
Later That Day
The hum of tattoo machines is always music to my ears. It’s the sweet, sweet sound of success.
Something I don't take for granted. Hard work and fortitude is in my blood.
I’ve managed to turn my art degree into a gold mine. I graduated from Cornish College of the Arts many years ago, but it took a while for me to find my way. Did the starving artist thing—tried to sell my paintings while paying the bills as a server and barista. Then came a corporate stint in commercial design, which I absolutely hated. Leaving me with freelancing—a nightmare through and through.
A career in the arts seemed out of reach. Well, maybe for me. I was going nowhere.
On a whim, I sold my belongings and fled to Europe for a year-long backpacking excursion.
Within the first couple of weeks, I met a group of tattoo artists at a collective in Amsterdam. Immersing myself in their world, I changed my plan. Rather than aimlessly traveling, I apprenticed and soaked up the culture.
By the time I returned home to Seattle, I’d developed my own style and had a small following. A few months later, I won a contest in Las Vegas and haven’t looked back since.
