But with the city practically glowing with fresh snow, I decide to just let myself be happy about it. I’m a guy with a tattoo, and Joey thinks I’m hot, and that is definitely good enough for now.
CHAPTERELEVEN
JOEY
For a week after the blizzard,I keep myself busy as I can. Tattooing is careful, steady work, and when I really get in a groove, I lose myself in it, so I take on as many walk-in appointments as I can get.
Anything for a distraction. Because when I do think about that night and Milo, something in my gut gets tight, and my chest hurts.
I want him again, but I’m not allowed to want things like this. Just hearing his voice is a relief. It unhooks something inside me, something I didn’t know was caught, and then I can’t stop thinking about touching him. It’s a distraction and bad fucking news, but even the work I consume myself with reminds me that I’d rather be inking Milo’s skin again and adding beauty to his body. I’d rather be with him than just about anyone else I can think of.
I fucking love adding art to a body. Tattooing the workers at the dock felt like my private rebellion, a way to make the place better and show some appreciation to the men I respected. But that satisfaction never got close to what I feel now.
I rub my hands over my face and try again to force the thoughts away. I’ve just finished the last walk-in at Blade, and the shop is empty. When I go to check my schedule at the desk, I notice the date, then quickly pull out my phone to transfer some money.
After it goes through, I sit behind the desk and call my sister, who answers immediately.
“Joey.”
“Kris, I just sent some you something through Venmo.”
She lets out a relieved sigh. “Oh, good.” A second passes, and I wonder if she’s going to rush off the phone, which she does sometimes. “How’s Chicago?”
I relax back into the chair. We don’t exactly have a good relationship. Pretty fucking far from it, actually. But she’s the only family I talk to, so there’s something relaxing about hearing her voice. “Good. Just settling in at the shop. How’s it back home?”
“Same. Dad came into the bar to talk to me the other night.”
I frown. Dad and Kris basically broke ties when she was eighteen. Kris’s been hellbent on causing trouble as long as I can remember, and she took a special delight in pissing him off for no good reason. Even after all the damage they’ve both done, though, they have periods when they talk, which isn’t usually good news for her.
“Yeah?” I ask evenly.
“He wanted to know if I’m dating anyone. It’s fucked up. All he cares about is having a grandkid. You’re the son, and you’re older, why isn’t he bothering you?”
My jaw tightens. Dad has always made a big deal of having a son to take over the business at the docks. Growing up, I thought he was just traditional and kind of pigheaded about his ways. Of course, once I got older and figured out the family business meant moving crates of drugs and guns for organized criminals on the side, I came to accept that he cares more about secure business partners than he does about family.
“He’s not bothering me because I’m gay,” I remind her.
I can hear Kris rolling her eyes. “Who gives a shit? Get over it and give him a son so he leaves me alone.”
That’s what Dad had said at first, too, when the truth came out in an explosive argument. I want to snap at Kris and explain again that it doesn’t work like that—there are plenty of ways I could have a kid if I wanted—but I don’t bother. I know my sister is ignorant and that she has no intention of changing, and as much as it sucks, I try to accept that truth about her so I can have at least one family member in my life.
“If he wants you to have a kid so bad, maybe he can start helping you out again.”
“Why?” Kris asks sharply. “You can’t afford to help me now that you’re in Chicago? I thought your new job paid.”
“No, I can help you out,” I sigh. “I didn’t mean that.”
It’s not like she doesn’t work hard to support herself. She’s a full-time bartender with a cheap apartment. But she’s buried in debt and trying to take classes at the community college, and I figure if Dad won’t do the right thing and help her out, I can do it myself.
“Great, thanks, Joey,” she tells me. “And hey, don’t worry. I didn’t mention anything about you.”
“Thanks,” I grunt.
“Talk later.”
I sigh. I’m not sure if Dad ever would try to come for me, but he didn’t exactly give me his blessing to leave. He spent years training me to be the crooked, heterosexual son he wanted, and he thinks I owe him for turning out different.
At least it’s a good reminder to keep my head on straight with Milo. There’s a hell of a lot of trouble creeping behind me, and I need to make sure there’s no one close to me when it catches up.
