My stories run together: Christmases good and bad; the happy days when my dad took us to the beach and played with us in the waves; and the few times Mom smiled. I tell him about the thrill of sneaking away into the night and the years of hardship that followed until Steve came into our lives. I tell him how Mom was so focused on supporting us financially that she forgot all the little things that hold a family together. I tell him how I tried to hold our family together with humor and how Susie drifted away. I tell him how I always longed for a big family full of warmth and laughter. Sort of like Redemption.

Finally, I tell him I remember what happened the day we ran away. I tell him I didn’t give up. I am a fighter, just like him.

“I love you,” I whisper into the stillness.

The monitor beeps and the green numbers rise slowly, indicating an increase in heart rate.

I giggle. “I knew you were there.”

I pretend he is really listening. I sing him a few songs. I tell a few jokes. I share my brief and few sexual experiences. I ask him to tell me his secret.

Who is Max Huntington?

I trace my finger over the tattoos on his shoulders, and then slide the sheet away to follow the lines and swirls over his chest and down his abdomen. Failures to him. Beauty to me. His heart rate rises again; the machine beeps a faster rhythm.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I murmur.

My fingers run over his tattoos again and again. The longer I stare, the more I see. Here and there, little embellishments have been added to the lines. I lean forward and trail my fingers across the tattoo running over his shoulder. Are these feet? And a tail? I tilt my head and look into the face of a dragon, hiding in a wavy sea.

I know this dragon. The last time we met, he was green and hanging in Max’s office.

Hands shaking, I tug up the sheet. Only then do I notice the skin on the unmarked side of his body is red and inflamed—a small square just over his heart. I walk to the other side of the bed for a better look. He has a fresh tattoo—a new failure. Two stylized lines forming the rough shape of a heart, and inside is written “Makayla.”

Chapter 27

Shhh. It’s me

Utterly drained after spending twenty-four hours straight sitting by Max’s bed, I take Amanda’s advice and go home to eat, shower, and change, confident that the nursing staff will heed both my instructions and my threats and call me immediately when he wakes. By the time I’m finished, it is dark and I decide to splurge on a cab. The driver’s arms are covered in tribal tattoos, very similar to the tattoos on Max’s body…and the paintings in his office.

On a whim, I redirect him to Redemption for a quick look at the paintings before I go to the hospital. We make good time through the city, but when we arrive, the parking lot is empty and yellow police tape crisscrosses the front door.

“You sure you want me to let you off here?” the taxi driver asks. “Looks like it’s closed.”

I open my mouth to tell him to drive away when Rampage and Blade Saw walk across the parking lot.

“Could you wait just a minute?” I slide out of the taxi and race toward them.

“Hold up. What’s going on?”

They look up and their grim faces tell me everything I need to know. “Permanently shut down?”

Rampage nods. “Ambulance crew and hospital reported the use of an illegal weapon and an unsanctioned fight. The police arrested the Pulverizer before he got on the plane. CSAC shut us down last night.”

“So what are you doing here?”

Rampage grins. “Sneaking in.”

“Can I sneak in too? There’s something I wanted to see in Torment’s office.”

“Good thing you’re here,” Rampage says, nodding. “After I’m done with Blade Saw, he might be in need of medical attention.”

I pay the taxi driver, and we wait until he has disappeared before we head around the building to one of the back doors. Rampage pops a key out of a compartment in the door frame, and we hurry inside. When I reach to close the door, Blade Saw grabs my hand.

“Leave it open. Obsidian, Hammer Fist, Homicide, and Jake are joining us. Jackhammer is bringing a keg. We’re gonna toast Torment, get pissed, and beat the shit out of each other.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Rampage raises an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to join us. Torment’s girl should know how to fight.”

I give him a half smile. “Maybe later. I have stuff to do first.”

I walk through the silent warehouse to Max’s office. The door is unlocked, and I flip on the light switch. Empty. A week ago Max sat in that chair. He told me he trusted me, and I let him down. My chin quivers and I close my eyes, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne and the fainter scent of him. I miss him so much. I never knew hearts could really hurt.

But I have investigating to do. I walk behind the desk and lift one of the paintings from the wall. Now that I’ve had time to study Max’s tattoos, the similarities are remarkable. The same swirls, curlicues, and patterns from his tattoos appear in the painting, even the dragon’s face. I flip it over. A small printed card on the back identifies the artist as Suzanne Morgan Huntington. His mom. He inked her into his skin as the biggest failure of his life. My poor Max.

I replace the painting and take down the other one. The designs on this one match the tattoos on Max’s back. When I flip it over, I find the same card, but this one has the word “Dallas” penciled in beside the name. My Max is a Southern boy after all.