Nine (A Pink Novel, #1): PINK, #1

Ten

A Prequel

Chapter One

I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE he’s gone. I’ve been standing here, staring at the darkened windows for what feels like an eternity, but somehow, I can’t seem to grasp what I’m looking at. I’m only vaguely aware that my legs are soaked. It’s been raining since I got here, but I’m standing under the awning, a fact which my brain is very hung up on right now, enabling my denial over the way the harsh wind is blowing a wall of water at my backside even as I’m standing in the wet cold, frozen in place.

I knew you’d turn up here sooner or later. It’s Sketch. My best friend. Only I haven’t seen her in nearly four years. Not since I moved up north. I hated moving. Hated leaving. But the money was twice what I was making here. With my dad’s mounting medical bills, I really didn’t have a choice.

I just can’t wrap my brain around this. I mean, Mateo’s Barbershop has been here my whole life. My dad opened it the year he and Ma were married. I remember sitting out here on the sidewalk, drawing massive pictures with the chalk he kept in that bucket behind the counter, waiting for him to get done with the last cut and shave of the night. I loved it. In a way, my dad and that chalk got me started with...with everything that means anything in my life. I’m crying. I hate crying in front of Sketch. She finds it disgusting. In the seventeen years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her cry and only ever heard her crying twice. Once, from inside a bathroom stall when we were in high school and she discovered that her favorite brand of charcoals had been discontinued and most recently, three years ago, over the phone when she called to tell me her sister was missing.

Shit’s been changing a lot around here. I think it’s this year’s theme. I don’t care for it, she says grimly, even though I know in her own way, she’s trying to make a joke about it. Because she’ll laugh at just about anything. She just won’t fucking cry about it.

Any news on Riot? Last I heard, they’d received an anonymous tip out of nowhere, prompting them to suspect the guy she’d been dating around the time she went missing. This kid named Nathanial something or other, but who everyone just knows as Memphis on account of him having been the only five-year-old anyone ever met who would rock out to Elvis. Him and Riot had been inseparable from the time they were kids and eventually became more as they grew older. I wasn’t as close to her by then as I’d been before.

Riot’s eleven years younger than us, something that didn’t matter much when she was little and we babysat her all the time, but as she got older and into her teens, it put some distance between us. I wish more than anything now, I hadn’t let that happen.

Nothing. Guess they cleared Memphis. Again. She rolls her eyes. She never believed he had anything to do with it anyway. He was just as devastated when she disappeared as everyone else was. Although my mom still thinks he’s behind it all. I don’t fucking know why. He’s a strait-laced kid from the right side of town, parents have more money than God and he was on the fast track to some Ivy league college before she went missing, full-fucking scholarship and all, not that he needed it. Did you know he wound up dropping it all to rodeo fulltime? They had to bring him home mid-season to question him.

Memphis’s grandfather is a retired bull rider. Became a bigtime cattle rancher when he settled down. I can only imagine the trauma it caused Memphis’s parents when they realized their only son was following in the old cowboy’s footsteps.

What sort of tip was it that made them go out and track him down after all this time again?

She shrugs. I don’t even know. Can’t have been anything legit. There’s no way Memphis would have ever hurt my sister. I don’t care what anyone else says. I know Memphis. And I knew my sister. She would have told me if something was wrong.

She sounds like she’s rationalizing things, but I don’t point it out. She needs this. She can keep it.

I feel like I should hug you or something. I hold my arms out toward her awkwardly.

Please don’t.

They drop back down to my sides. Relieved. I’m not a hugger. It’s just not something I’m used to. Although, I make an exception with my brother’s kid. I hug her all the time. Mostly so she doesn’t look at people someday the way Sketch is looking at me right now. As if I just suggested we dive headfirst into a pile of cow shit, not embrace for ten seconds since we haven’t seen each other in ages and both seem to be having a sort of shit year.

When’s the last time you talked to him? Sketch nods at my dad’s name spelled out above the shop.

Last week. I called to congratulate Madi on her report card. All A’s. I smile, remembering the undeniable pride in his voice when he first called me the day before to let me know. He couldn’t stop raving about what a genius she is. I think he exaggerates some, but then he’s her grandfather. He’s supposed to. I do it too. But in my case, it’s not just because I’m her aunt. She really is a genius.

That little nerd. Sketch smirks. I think you may be smarter than I thought. Lord knows, she didn’t get her brains from either of her parents.

I’m not sure it works that way. And truth be told, I haven’t felt all that smart lately. I stomp the puddle at my feet just to prove it as water splatters up my already soaked pants. Only now a fair amount of sidewalk funk leaves a delightful spray of mud and gravel behind as well.

You’re right. You do sound stupid when you say shit like that. Sketch shakes her head at me. Then she turns and starts toward the parking lot. Come on.

Where are we going?

My place. It’s dry.

I nod. I’ll follow you there.

The drive takes less than ten minutes and it’s just enough time for me to call Pru, Madi’s other aunt, the older, more responsible one who definitely didn’t sprout from my family tree, and check in on Madi. She’s only just turned twelve and the loss of her grandfather is hitting her hard. Not surprisingly, the man’s been raising her from the time she was four. He’s the only steady family the kid has ever known. I’ve done my best to be around as much as possible, but since I’ve moved away, that hasn’t been easy.

At her age she completely grasps the concept of death now. I didn’t even have a chance to try and ease the ache with consolation speeches of heaven and peace and better places. She’s heard it all before. And this time around, she knows the emptiness of those words when compared to the hollow hurt left behind in the hearts of those still living.

I’m hoping my visit and the change of pace will do her good. Even if it was prompted by her grandfather’s death, being surrounded by the family she still has is bound to ease the grief she’s feeling.

I’ve barely parked the car and hung up after Pru tells me for the tenth time that Madi is doing alright and not to worry, when my phone rings again and I answer in a mild panic thinking she’s decided to recant her previous assurances.

What’s wrong?

Miss Badilla? No one ever calls me by my last name. Hell, they don’t even call me by my first name. Almost everyone I know has called me Heartbreaker from the time I was sixteen and made the quarterback cry in front of everyone after he asked me out at a pep rally and I said no. Honestly, I thought he was kidding. It was the first time he’d ever talked to me.

I hold the phone out to see the screen. It’s a local number but I have no clue whose or how in the hell they got mine.

Who is this?

This is Henry Morgan, I’m the attorney handling your father’s estate. I was hoping we could meet in person to discuss your inheritance, as well as his granddaughter’s.

What? I heard what he said. I’m struggling to register it all though. I’m barely grasping that he’s gone for good. I’m not ready to hear about the possessions he left behind which now need to be divvied up among those of us still living.

Your inheritance, Miss Badilla? Surely he must have told you.

I shake my head, mouth open, no sounds finding their way out.

Sketch yanks my car door toward her and her dry tone rings in my ear. That’s not how phones work. You have to actually use your words.

Sorry, I mumble, I’m still trying to wrap my brain around everything. I grab my keys from the ignition and slide out of the driver’s seat. Somehow having firm ground to stand on appeals to me.

Completely understandable. You have my number. I’ll be waiting for your call whenever you’re ready. He actually sounds really nice. I didn’t notice until now. I probably didn’t notice much of anything.

What was that about? Sketch nods at the phone still in my hand, both of which are now dangling somewhere near my knees.

Lawyer. Apparently, my dad had a will. I flip the cover on my phone shut and slide it into my back pocket, sincerely hoping for some out of sight out of mind to kick in. My dad knew he was dying. Knew even when the rest of us were still hoping for a full recovery. He knew he was leaving us. I suppose it’s only logical he prepared for it.

She shrugs. Makes sense. No way he was going to leave Madi’s fate to chance. She starts walking toward the apartment building in front of us. She’s moved since I saw her last. It’s nice.

I’m not sure Madi’s fate is in his hands anymore. He was her legal guardian, but I don’t think that entitled him to set a new guardian for her once he was gone. God, I hope this doesn’t mean parental rights revert back to Marcus. My older brother and Madi’s father. Although, we rarely call him that. In fact, we rarely call him anything at all. Marcus barely exists in our lives. I like it that way. It’s safer like this. And accepting that was a hard pill to swallow. Sometimes I still puke up the aftertaste.

I don’t think that’s possible. I’m pretty sure he lost his rights permanently the day he tried to sell his daughter to that crazy couple from Utah to pay off his gambling debt. Sketch unlocks the door and gestures for me to go inside.

Thanks. I start every day with actively blocking that memory. I so appreciate you bringing up the most traumatic moments of my life when I’m already hanging on by the last strip of my sanity.

She smirks. Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t had a scrap of sanity to cling to since before I met you.

She’s not wrong.

Will there be coffee sometime soon? Or did we just come here so you could be more comfortable while you pick apart my life?

Please, she sighs. Like I’m in any position to pick apart someone else’s life. Come on. I’ve got ice cream, too.

Thank God. Knowing Sketch, it’s probably some no fat, no sugar, no flavor shit, but right now it’s still better than nothing, so I’m not complaining. Or inquiring. I’ll just take what I can get.

It only takes her a few minutes to get the coffee going. A second later she disappears into her bedroom only to reappear holding a towel and some dry clothes.

Thanks. I take the whole load and go about getting dried off.

No thanks needed. I’d just prefer not to have to explain your muddy ass-print on the sofa to my roommate.

I strip out of my jeans and pull the sweatpants she gave me over my sticky wet skin. I thought you kicked her out ages ago.

She shrugs. I meant to. Then rent was due and I remembered I don’t get paid enough to afford this place on my own.

Sketch takes my bundle of wet clothes and marches straight for the small laundry room beside the kitchen where I hear the dryer kick on a moment later. As soon as she comes back out, she heads for the coffee maker. The scent of hot delicious java is already filling the room. I can almost taste it. I want it so bad I’m tempted to stick my tongue out just to see if it’s possible to lick air. I’m pretty sure it’s not, but grief has impaired my brain for the time being.

I take it the shop isn’t doing so well? Sketch still works for the same set up we both interned at a few years back. Titan Tattoos.

She hands me a cup and we both settle into the couch. It’s definitely not doing what it could be. But you know Big Tits.

I laugh even though I shouldn’t. Don’t call him that.

She shoots me a dirty look over the rim of her mug. You’re the one who came up with the nickname in the first place.

Yeah. When we were interns and he went about assigning us every disgusting and humiliating task he could conjure up. Calling him Big Tits behind his back seemed like the least I could do to return the favor. But you’re not a lowly lackey anymore. You’re one of his top artists. And Titan’s been good to you. He’s been good to both of us.

Sketch doesn’t mull this over for long. "Sure, he’s been good to us. Good to us like he’s our Grandpa and he loves us, good to us, but at the shop, I’m still sitting wayyyy down on the totem pole and we both know I can draw circles around everyone there. Doesn’t matter. It’s the good ol’ boys club through and through. Yeah, they love me. They’ve got my back, but there’s no way in hell they’re gonna let me make a name for myself there. Even if they were willing to give up a piece of the pie, there’s no new blood walking in the doors, and Titan isn’t doing shit about it. And why would he? His shop’s been around forever and Bart over at Bold Ink is still his only real competition. And I use the words real and competition loosely." She lets out a loud frustrated huff. I get it. All of it. It’s why I had to leave.

So, get the fuck out of here and come up north with me. We could use your talent at the shop. I’m serious, Brighton would take you in a heartbeat.

I know before she even answers, she’ll say no.

You know I can’t. She stares off into the room, a dry, quiet laugh escapes her. Ironic, really. All the years I said I had to stick around to help Riot deal with Mom, and now, Riot’s gone and I have to stick around to help Mom deal with losing Riot.

I set down my mug and reach out for her arm. I squeeze it gently, even though there’s a solid chance my effort at affection will repulse her. Riot’s not lost. She’s missing. She’ll be found. You’ll see.

Chapter Two

THE DAY OF MY DAD’S funeral is here faster than I’m ready for it. I go back and forth on taking Madi. I’m torn. I don’t want to deny her this final farewell with her grandfather if there’s any sense of closure to be gained, but the last thing I want is for this moment to be the memory she has etched into her brain for all eternity when she thinks of him. He was the most vibrant man I’ve ever known. I don’t want anything to taint that for either one of them.

Aunt Liv?

I drop the eyeliner I’ve been holding within an inch of my eyelid for the last ten minutes and turn to look at her. What, baby?

She reaches for a strand of my hair and curls it around her fingers. She’s done this since she was a baby. Sometimes it still gives her comfort. Will there be a lot of people there? At Lito’s funeral? Will there be a lot?

I nod. Yes. They’re expecting a huge turnout. My dad wasn’t just a well-respected man in the business community. He was also one of the kindest, most generous individuals you could have ever hoped to meet in this city. People will be turning up from all walks of life to pay their respects. He touched everyone from the corporate men who came for their cut and shave, to the residents of the homeless shelters he visited every other Sunday to provide his services for free. And it didn’t stop there.

For as long as I can remember, my dad would have his eye out on the neighborhood, ready to pick up the most troubled teen he could find and employ them in his shop, sweeping the floors. A small, simple job that changed lives over and over again. I know. I saw it with my own eyes. The only boy he couldn’t ever save was his own. Marcus. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. My brother simply never wanted saving. Everyone blamed him when Madi’s mom died. And he was no exception. Part of me thinks he became who he is today to be worthy of all the horrible things people called him back then. To prove to everyone that he deserves every single shitty thing that’s ever happened to him. But I don’t know how much of that is just a desperate little sister’s inability to accept that the big brother she adored, grew up to be a monster she didn’t even recognize. I don’t suppose it matters much now. He’s gone. And if there’s even a shadow of the boy he once was lingering within him anymore, he’ll stay that way.

The doorbell rings, reminding me that I need to do something with that eyeliner other than hold it and drop it a few times.

Can you check who that is, Madi?

She nods and hurries from the room.

It’s not long before I hear voices filling my father’s house. A lot of voices. Most recognizably, Pru’s.

I sigh. I was really hoping she’d accept my repeated offers to just meet at the funeral rather than come here first. I know she wants to check on Madi. I know she cares. She’s just...difficult. A special kind of difficult, I don’t have the patience for today.

Hi, Pru, I call out from my room.

Shortly after, there are footsteps headed in my direction.

Olivia, her tone of concern is temporary however. Is that what you’re wearing?

It was my grandmother’s. A solid black dress with beautiful lace is classic. Always acceptable. It’s vintage, I point out, in case Pru still doesn’t understand.

She frowns. The dress isn’t the problem.

Oh. Right. It’s the short sleeves. And, not that I even considered wearing a turtleneck or anything comparable, it exposes the tattoo on my neck as well as the ones on my arms and hands. I guess she was prepared to accept the little flowers I have inked around the corners of my eyes. And the purple hair. Really, I don’t see the leap between those and this. If it helps, I have black gloves to go with the dress.

Full-length? she asks, hopefully.

No.

She makes no effort to hide her disappointment, leaving me baffled by the intensity of her feelings regarding the issue.

"Pru, can I ask why this matters to you? I mean, he was my father. You’re not even related to him. I’m not representing you in anyway. Everyone knows the only thing connecting us is Madi. And more importantly, everyone who knew my dad, knows I have tattoos."

She smooths out her own perfectly pressed and stylishly conservative dress with both hands, more for gesture than purpose. A haughty expression stealing its way over her face.

I respected Mateo a great deal. How he’s remembered today means more to me than you might imagine.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m bound to Pru for life and that she means well, even when she says things that make me so mad, I’d like to spit all over her ugly black pumps. Then, being the bigger person my father raised me to be, I take a step toward her and place my hand on hers. I swallow down the desire to point out that anything she’s feeling today couldn’t possibly compare to the emotions running amok in my system as I lay to rest the last of my family, the rock in my life, the man who held it all together even when the world around us collapsed, and then I say, I know he’d appreciate you being here today. He cared a lot about you, Pru, and he was always grateful for the way you included Madi. Even in the beginning. When it was hard.

She nods curtly. She’s not one to hug or show affection either. I suppose that’s one thing we have in common.

We’ll have to talk about that too, you know.

I don’t know.

Talk about what?

She blinks at me dramatically. She never misses an opportunity to point out how incompetent I am. Talk about Madi.

I shake my head and start to walk away. I’m meeting with my dad’s lawyer on Monday. It can wait until then, Pru.

So, you plan on raising her, is that it? And you really think that’s wise? The clarity of her words pushes past the fog I’ve been submerged in since I arrived in town a week ago and had to take on preparing everything leading up to today. The hardest day of my entire life.

"You think you’d be able to provide a better home for her?" A nicer house, sure. A better home? Not a chance. Pru lives in an uptight crystal bubble. Cold, expensive, and extremely fragile. Madi can visit. Madi can be best friends with her cousins, but there’s no way in hell I’d stand back and let that become her permanent home. Which I guess means, I do plan on raising her. I’m the only one left who can.

The realization hits me like a kick to the chest. I can’t breathe and I stumble backwards a few steps. It’s too much. My brain can’t go down this path yet. Not now. Not today. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I can consider the future. Today I’m just barely grappling with the present.

You came for my father, Pru. Let’s honor him today with a moment of peace. We can go to war tomorrow.

Then I walk out of the room with no regard to what I’m leaving in my wake. Sometimes I’m not the girl my father raised. Sometimes I’m just the one my mother taught by example.

Chapter Three

FIGHTING MY OWN DEMONS and winning in record time, I step into the kitchen with a fake smile plastered on my face, ready to greet the rest of the McNealy clan. Somehow, there are more of them today.