four
CHAINS
Finishingmylastsetof bicep curls. I put the weights back on the rack and grab a bottle of water from the minibar, downing it without taking a breath.
Lincoln and Asher stroll into the gym on the bottom floor of our apartment building, and I notice a yellow envelope in Lincoln’s hand. I toss the empty bottle into a nearby trash can before taking a seat on the bench as I swipe the sweat off my bare chest with a towel.
“Hey, Chains,” Lincoln says in greeting. It’s not the name I was given at birth, but Kade, the scared young boy, died a long time ago and was replaced by Chains. Someone stronger and harder to break.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Lincoln taps the envelope on his palm. “Bumped into Stanley in the foyer. Said he has your update.” Lincoln and Asher are my two best friends—no, I call them mybrothersand business partners. The only two people I’d trust with my life. The onlytwo people who know the shit I’ve been through because they’ve lived it too.
Every six months, I have a private investigator give me updates on my brother, who I was separated from years ago. Tossing the towel aside, I reach for it.
“Want some privacy?” Asher asks. They know how important these updates are.
“There’s nothing in here that I won’t tell you about later.” Breaking the seal, I pull out the contents. Getting reports this way seems old fashioned. Stanley has often suggested he can email it to me. I like the feeling of the photos in my hands and placing them in a book I can flick through.
Unfolding the letter, I read through it. Not a lot has changed: he’s still at the same address. The same job. Two months ago, he’d taken a trip to Hawaii with some friends. The photos show what looked like a happy trip. A week ago, he’d been at a friend’s kid’s birthday party, celebrated at their local park. People gathered around a pink and white cake. I can almost hear them singing Happy Birthday. There’s an older couple standing on the side, looking on with smiles. Maybe the birthday girl’s grandparents? There is a lot of love in these photographs. For now, all is right in his world, and I can relax for another six months.
I’m happy my brother is living a life without struggles and abuse. What would our lives be like if we’d never been separated? If his foster parents took me too? Would I have all that I have now? The businesses. The properties. The money. Probably not. I wouldn’t have had the drive to pull myself out of the gutter and prove to myself that I didn’t need anyone to help me get to where I am. Could I have lived in such a wholesome family? It’s hard to know. But what I do know is, I’m loving my life just the way it is.
I tuck everything back inside the envelope.
“All good?” Lincoln asks. The more jovial of us, and usually always ready with a joke, he looks on with concern.
Nodding. “Everything’s fine. He looks happy and well.”
“Great to hear,” Asher says. He’s the quietest. The one who’d rather watch the world around him than have long conversations.
“I’m going to go hit the shower. When you’re done working out, we can order pizza.” I walk past Asher, who puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “What the hell is that on your back?”
“Nothing.” I shrug him off. I know he’s referring to my new tattoo. I’d forgotten about it. But not the woman it represents.
I’ve never had a woman constantly on my mind before. Probably because I took the dare too far, and I felt a little guilty for deceiving her. Flashes of her full, pink, kissable lips fill my mind, trying to contradict me.
“What did you do to piss off Tricia this time?”
“Nothing.”
Lincoln strolls over to take a look. “Flowers? It’s almost as embarrassing as the puppy,” he sniggers.
“What’s wrong with flower tattoos? It’s not the first one I have.” Although those are dark roses, not delicate pink and white daisies.
Daisy Chain is what I called her. Combining our names, like we’re some sort of celebrity couple hashtag.
There’s something fucking seriously wrong with me.
“Yeah, but these are so… so dainty.” Lincoln grins.
“When do you use the word dainty?” I jab him in the arm to push past.
“Since you have pretty little pansies tattooed on your body,” he replies.
I toss my t-shirt over my shoulder, hopefully covering the tattoo. “They’re daisies, not pansies.”
Lincoln holds his palms up and mocks a remorseful expression. “Sorry for the mistake. I didn’t know you were a botanist.”
