Blakely
“I’m not your secret. I don’t deserve to be a secret. Either you choose me or I willingly walk out that door and never return.”
With my black Converse crossing the room back and forth, my body restlessly paces the polished marble tiles of Aiden’s apartment.
“Why after all this time, do I need to pretend I don’t belong to you? Why can’t I hold your hand in public?” I add in anger and my nerves spiking up.
“Blakely, you’re exaggerating.” He always has the same goddamn answers. He never takes responsibility for his fuck-ups and I NEED to accept it. Be his dirty little secret while I make a huge deal out of nothing.
Guess what? It’s not nothing. I deserve someone who will choose me. And show me off to the world.
The lack of interest in his studying gaze turns lackluster, “This is simply business. You knew that from the start.” He states without batting an eyelash.
I most certainly did not. He had just started his career, and then, one bright day he said it’d be better if we kept it to ourselves. Stating he didn’t want people involved in our relationship which I wasfine with. Something didn’t add up when rumors surfaced about him dating his co-star actress. He immediately confessed it was a publicity stunt to raise their series rating and she had a secret relationship of her own.
I may have been naïve at the beginning but now, I want something real—someone who will take me outdoors hand in hand, or maybe I want to be alone.
I muster my steel expression, “I deserve better.” The words taste like venom on my tongue because I already know he’ll try to divert this conversation like the talented actor he is.
He stops me with his body, resting his palms on my hips, “You’re cute like this.” He nuzzles my hair, “Feisty and sexy.”
Clicking my tongue, “No,” I shove him away from me, “I won’t let you manipulate me into staying.”
In a skip of a heartbeat, his features turn cold, the cheekiness he adopted a second ago, gone. “Blakely, I’m not having this conversation again. It’s good for my career at the moment and I’m not going to apologize for it. End of discussion.” His voice is full of crass, connecting with the apathy he exudes.
I take my keys from the kitchen counter and spew, “End of relationship.”
He chuckles menacingly. “The other day, the guy who said you’re too impulsive was right. We’re better off that way. Good luck finding someone better who tolerates your bullshit.” He says right as I storm out and slam the door behind me.
I organize my drifting thoughts as I clean all our tattoo equipment at Dad’s shop.
“Earth to Blakely.” Dad’s low voice snaps me out of theimages of my breakup with Aiden six months ago. That could’ve been handled triple times better and ended with the same result.
After three years, I expected more of a fight—none was given.
With a quick wipe, a layer of grime is off the window as I gaze through it and watch the bustling street for a moment before I clean dust motes that stick in the corners. “Sorry Dad, I’m just tired. I need a break from this place.” My hand automatically wipes another trail of dust off the shelves.
He gets quiet for a minute before he takes a long breath and sighs. “There’s a meet-up in two months, you know, where I tattoo bikers at their hangout site.” The seat creaks under the shift of his weight.
The side of his mouth twitches and I know this part of his chronic condition is taking its toll on him, taking away his love of tattooing people and granting them a piece of art and a piece of himself. It’s breaking my heart to see him like this. The light in his brown eyes dims as the days tick away and I wish there were some miracle to rewind them backward. But there isn’t.
Fibromyalgia is a silent condition, no one can see it, but the person who has it can feel the pain in their bones. Dad feels it every day. He suffers quietly, although, some days he is on edge.
There’s no cure either, only different treatments to ease the pain.
“Go there on my behalf. They would love to see mydaughter continuing my legacy.” The pride casts his features, “I tattooed almost everyone out there, except the younger kids. You’d be welcome to stay and spread your designs.”
That is a tempting offer. I had heard his crazy stories about this place since I was a kid and knew he had a blast tattooing whoever came there. “I don’t know, Dad.”
“Nonsense.” His eyebrows knit, nose crinkles. “Go!” he gestures with his tatted arm. “You’ve got nothing to lose.” His finger points at me in accusation, “Dwelling on your past won’t solve anything. Besides, it’s fun. It’d be a breath of fresh air because you’ve never been there before and you’d make me very happy knowing I won’t have to cancel my attendance.”
That last note twists the sharp blade stuck in my heart. “You don’t play fair, mister.”
He waves in dismissiveness, “Fair has never been in the cards for me. You either create your own game or someone else takes your spot in the present one.”
“Always the smart cookie,” I comment, shoving the soiled rag into the trash and grabbing the garbage bag on my way out.
Dad grins, patting his flat belly. “I could use one.”
