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  Micah

  (Damage Control #1)

  Jo Raven

  Micah (Damage Control 1) © Jo Raven 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  There’s me: Micah Owens. Tattoo artist at Damage Control. No parents or siblings. A past that still gives me nightmares.

  And then there’s her: Evangeline, the girl who saved my life and haunts my more pleasant dreams. Only she doesn’t know who I really am, and telling her might well send her fleeing for the hills. She deserves better than a loser like me. She’s pretty. She’s clever. She’s goddamn sexy and has a heart of gold.

  Which is why I can’t tell her. A smile from her and I’ll do all I can to make her mine – including pretending to be someone I’m not, someone worth having.

  Isn’t love weird?

  Chapter One

  Micah

  A flash of red and black catches my eye. A slim silhouette darts out of the donut shop right across the street, limping slightly, and I turn for a better look. She’s here. I pause, the tattoo gun buzzing in my hand, and curse inwardly. She’s late. Later than usual, that is, and my break is over, so I can’t watch her like I’ve been doing for the past week.

  And now I sound like a stalker… Shit.

  “Are we done?” my sullen customer demands to know. He’s young—doesn’t look older than twenty—but his expensive clothes and haircut scream money, something that places him galaxies apart from me.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, hurry up, will you? And keep your eyes on that damn thing you’re waving about. I don’t want you making any mistakes.”

  I clench my jaw, grip the tattoo gun more tightly and force myself not to reply. I continue inking a bleeding heart on the guy’s flabby back. I’ve never once made a mistake. Inking people is my life’s passion, and I was taught by one of the best.

  Zane Madden.

  Focusing on work shouldn’t be an issue. My job, the tattoo shop, this is everything to me. Literally. It’s all I have and I know I’m goddamn lucky to have it. It’s all I need.

  Or at least it was, until she started showing up every afternoon. The first time I saw her as I stretched my legs outside Damage Control, the tattoo shop where I work, I just about fell over. I think it’s her. Ev. I haven’t seen her in more than half a year, but I’d never forget her face. No way in hell.

  I think. Though Ev’s hair had seemed darker... Is it her? I just wish I could see her from up close to make sure.

  Frowning, I concentrate on putting the finishing touches on the bleeding heart and thorns that pierce it. It’s a simple design, easy to ink. As I add the colors and details, I lose myself in a trance, one I usually enter when I’m one hundred percent immersed in my craft, in the art of creating something beautiful.

  It’s some time later when Zane passes by my booth and nods in greeting I realize the light outside has faded. I step back and take in the finished tattoo. Crimson and black intertwine, blood and pain.

  “Good work, Micah,” Zane says, giving the tattoo an appraising look. He’s still here, his tall Mohawk a startling blue.

  I nod, warmth spreading through me at his approval. I’m just out of my apprenticeship and Zane is my god. Everything I am now I owe to him. Although he’s younger than me by almost a year, he makes me feel good about myself, watched over, looked after. He’s like the older brother I never had.

  I pull off my gloves and throw them into the trash, then wipe the new tattoo and apply a bandage. As I explain the basics of aftercare to my impatient customer, about when to remove the bandage and how to keep the tattoo clean and dry, I hear Seth talking in the next booth. Seth and I share an apartment not far from the tattoo shop. He’s barely turned eighteen and is an apprentice here, like I was before him.

  My customer gives me a curt thanks, pulls on his shirt and leaves the booth to pay at the counter, leaving me alone. For a few brief moments, I allow myself to lean against the counter and give in to the fatigue that still plagues me. It’s getting better these days and I’m damn glad. I do my best to keep it from Zane, though, ’cuz he’ll worry and send me home. The shop can’t afford it. Apart from me, Zane and Ocean are the only other licensed artists.

  Hell, I can’t afford it, either. Fucking need to pay the rent. Besides, I am much better now. A few deep breaths and I’m ready to face my next appointment.

  My only regret is not seeing her today. A face from my past I never thought I’d see again. Is it her? I need to get closer and gather the courage to talk to her. Christ, I hope it’s Ev. She saw me at my worst, and I want her to see me as I am today. Healthy. Strong. With a roof over my head and a steady income. With friends and a sort of family.

  And above all, I want to thank her for saving my life.

  ***

  Seth leaves before I finish work. I hope he doesn’t eat all the food we have at home before I arrive. I’m starving. My stomach’s growling like a grizzly. Now that I think about it, do we have any food left in the fridge? Sounds like it’s gonna be take-out night.

  By the time I clean up my station and wash my hands, the shop is deserted. I can see the glowing embers of Zane’s cigarette outside, so I close up and head out. I zip up my jacket and shove my hands into my pockets. The cold stings my face. I stand next to Zane and look across the street, at the donut shop.

  “You okay, Micah?” Zane shoots me a sideways glance. “You don’t look too hot today.”

  I wince. Nothing gets past Zane. “I’m okay.”

  He shakes his head and draws on the smoke. His face is in shadow, the glowing embers reflected briefly in his dark eyes. “Taking your vitamins?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  Zane chuckles, and I smile into the darkness, feeling comfortable and easy in my skin. This is what family should feel like. Zane is family. Plus, he taught me all I know. He saved me. Saved all of us who work in Damage Control: Shane, Ocean, Jesse and Seth. Sometimes I wonder if he realizes how much he means to us.

  “You’d tell me if needed anything, yeah?” He throws his cigarette down and steps on it.

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, then. Go home, fucker, and keep Seth out of trouble. I can’t keep an eye on all of you all the fucking time.”

  I nod and turn to go.

  “That girl you keep watching.” Zane’s voice stops me in my tracks. “Who is she, Micah?”

  I frown as the memories wash over me in a huge wave, hot and cold, painful and bittersweet. I turn back around and consider what to say. ’Cuz I can’t flip Zane off and walk away. Not him. But speaking about Ev to others feels like a violation of some kind. As if she’s a half-forgotten dream, precious and fragile, and talking about it might shatter it, prove it’s just a dream and not a memory.

  But she was there and not just that once. My memory of those days may be hazy but her face... I remember her face. Is it her, coming every day to the shop across the street, or is my mind playing games?

  “Micah?” Zane is squinting at me, a crease between his brows.

  “I think it’s someone I’ve met before,” I rush to say. “I’m not...” I glance again at the shop across the street.

  “You’re not what?”

  “Not even sure it’s her.”

  Zane plays with his lighter, flipping it on and off. “She means something to you, doesn’t she?”

  I shrug, trying to be cool about it. “I don’t really know her.”

>   “Not talking about whoever it is you think she is. I mean this chick across the street. I’ve seen how you look at her. You really dig her, don’t you?”

  Sucker acts like a big brother, too, all nosy and shit. “What if I do?”

  He snorts and puts the lighter back into his pocket. “Nothing. Just making sure I got my facts right.”

  “Fuck you,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my head.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Zane grins, looking pleased with himself. “Give her a kiss from me, will ya?” And he starts down the street before I can come up with an appropriate answer.

  I give him the finger anyway, though he can’t see it, and I sigh. I’ll be lucky to even talk to her, let alone kiss her.

  Kiss her. Her face comes back to my mind—her hazel eyes, her small nose, her soft mouth. Hell, I wouldn’t mind kissing her. Not at all.

  But dammit, although I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her look my way once or twice, she never waved or came over. Either she hasn’t recognized me, or she doesn’t want to talk to me.

  Can I blame her? Even if she recognizes me, why would she wanna talk to me? I was just a guy she was kind to, a guy spat out by the system and left to rot. I bet she never thought she’d see me around, either, a stain on her perfect life, just like I never thought our paths would cross again.

  I wonder why she’s here, if she lives or works nearby, and whether she’ll get fed up with donuts and coffee, and I won’t see her anymore.

  The thought jolts my heart into overdrive. I’ve put it off long enough. Tomorrow, I’m gonna cross the street and talk to her. Why the hell not? What do I have to lose? God knows I’ve learned by now that life is short, and you should do what you wanna do before it’s too damn late.

  ***

  My breath steams, and every exposed bit of skin hurts. The wind is ice-cold, and I hurry home as fast as I can. I still manage to make some rounds, though, stopping at Molly’s usual haunt outside a candy store to give her some money, and at the bench where Ben usually sits in the evenings, to check the old man is okay.

  A coughing fit grips me as I turn the corner to our building, and I have to stop and catch my breath before I enter. Shit.

  Seth isn’t at home when I unlock the door and step inside. Now that I think about it, he said something about starting a new job today. I think it was at a bar nearby? Being a tattoo artist apprentice won’t pay the rent, unfortunately. At least I have a full-time job there.

  It’s also damn cold, so I turn on the heater and sink in our threadbare couch, rubbing my hands over my face. I’m still panting. Leaning back, I wait it out.

  I’m getting there. Seven months ago, I was a wreck—too thin, too weak, too sick. Too far down to really get up. But I made it.

  I really want her to see that. I don’t give a shit about people’s opinion of me. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. Who the fuck cares? But she matters, because she was one of the few who really saw me when I was down and didn’t ignore me. I want to show her that her help amounted to something.

  Okay, so it doesn’t hurt that she’s pretty. Cute. I hadn’t even noticed until this week. In my memory, Ev’s just a pair of large, soulful eyes and a soothing voice that kept me afloat when I sank. And I sank pretty damn low.

  Maybe it’s not her. And even if it is... Who says she’ll talk to me?

  I get up and go check the fridge. Empty. I slam the door closed and consider calling for a pizza. My multivitamins sit on the counter. I should eat and take them, or tomorrow I’ll be fucked up, walking like a drunk.

  But I’m tired and not really hungry. Fuck it. I won’t die if I don’t have dinner tonight. Heaven knows I’m used to it. Depression clings to me. It’s too quiet here. Her face brings back too many memories that crowd my mind, and I don’t want to have to face them.

  I weave through the quiet apartment, find my bed by feel and drop on it like a stone.

  Chapter Two

  Evangeline

  The afternoon sky has darkened to coal. Heavy clouds hang overhead as I finish work. I limp down the street from the sports store where I landed a part-time job, heading for my favorite donut place.

  Resisting the urge to reach down and massage my aching leg, I walk faster. There it is. It’s a mom-and-pop shop. Mava’s Donuts. I enter and inhale the scent of sugar and fat. Cheap, greasy, delicious sweetness. Just what I need right now. Best drug against nerves.

  My hands shake. I’ve turned my cell off after Blake’s last message, and I don’t know if I’ll be turning it on again anytime soon.

  Blake. Major asshole. Ex-boyfriend.

  Only he doesn’t seem to get the ‘ex’ part. I broke up with him right before the accident, seven months ago. Then life got sort of fuzzy, then sort of exhausting, and then Blake started sending me gifts and coming around to visit me. I thought we could be friends.

  But then his hands began wandering, and I had to tell him—again—that we were not an item. And the worst part? He seemed to think I was joking.

  God.

  My jogging shoes squeak on the floor as I shift to my good leg and stretch the other. People turn to stare at me and I paste on a smile.

  ‘Where will you find better than me?’ Blake had sneered at me. ‘You’re not getting any younger, Evangeline.’

  Yeah, I’m so old. All of nineteen.

  ‘Why can’t you think of your future? All you do is hang around homeless bums, and look where it got you.’

  Where it got me? Well, screw you, Blake. I finished school, and I’m still recovering from the accident where I was run over by a motorcycle, breaking my leg and busting up my knee. I got a part-time job, and I’m going to figure out what I want to do with my life. What’s wrong with that?

  Besides, I honestly fail to see the connection between helping someone survive the night and getting run over by someone who shouldn’t even be allowed to drive. But Blake has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to homeless people. He believes it’s their fault and their choice. He insists they have no roof over their heads because they’re lazy, stupid and careless.

  Yeah, right. People are forced onto the street. They don’t fall out of the sky. It’s statistics. It’s life.

  ‘Who will save you next time, Evie? Who will bring you home if something else happens to you?’

  Because, of course, he had to be the one to find me after the accident and call 9-1-1, turning into a hero in my family’s eyes.

  And finally, when he saw I wasn’t moved, he said the scariest thing ever: ‘Christ, Evie. Who else do you think will want a cripple like you?’

  Stabbing into the sorest part, the most insecure part of me.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears and root in my bag for money as I approach the counter. Maybe nobody will ever want me. It’s not like boys are lining up to ask me out. I don’t have my brother Joel’s rock-star looks. I’m just the mousey little sister with the wide eyes and non-descript hair. Nor do I have his abilities. Hell, he’s got a sports scholarship running track and is doing great at college. I can’t even jog without someone running me over with a bike and spending months trying to walk straight again.

  I take my donut and walk out into the cold, along the tables and benches they have for customers.

  I need to get my life back. I need I find myself again. Blake is an ass, and I need him to leave me alone. So I’m ignoring his texts and calls, his taunts, and moving on.

  Really moving on.

  Across the street is a tattoo shop. Sometimes a tall, blond guy stands there, staring right at me. At least, in my direction. Sometimes I fantasize that it’s me he’s looking at, that he’s attracted to me. Even from across the street he looks handsome with his square jaw, the clean planes of his face and the wide set of his shoulders.

  Yeah, Ev. Dream on. Why should he be looking at me of all women?

  I glance up and freeze. He’s there, at his usual spot outside the tattoo shop, his back propped against the building, his hands shoved in his pockets. He’
s dressed in faded jeans, black boots and a black jacket. His head is tipped back, his eyes closed, his short blond hair catching the faint sunlight.

  With one last look at his long legs and broad chest, that bright halo of hair, I hurry away. God, what if he caught me looking?

  Mortifying.

  My leg twinges and I slow down. There’s a heaviness on the air. The fracture in my leg hurts, my knee above all. Although it’s almost healed, I’m a barometer, able to tell you when rain is coming. Who needs the weather forecast when I’m around?

  I cross the avenue carefully. Not that I have a phobia of bikes now, but I sure as hell don’t want to get run over again. So okay, I may be a bit scared of them... with good reason.

  As I reach the bus stop, I hear a distant shout behind me, but when I turn I don’t see anyone. Cars race by. Drivers honk and rev their engines. I must have imagined it.

  Shrugging to myself, I board the bus and take a seat by the window. What do I want to do with my life? There's one thing I love doing: helping people. But I’m not supposed to care if the homeless people I see around me live or die. If they’re sick or hungry. That’s none of my business.

  ‘They don’t deserve your time or our parent’s hard-earned money,’ Joel tells me day in and day out. ‘They live in their own world. Lazy bums. Low-lives.’

  He sounds so much like Blake it’s unbearable.

  If I don’t go to college, if I keep my job at the sports store instead and rent a cheap apartment on the wrong side of the tracks, will I be a low-life in his eyes, too?

  And hell, how can I jog—well, at this point, limp—through my neighborhood, in my shiny new jogging shoes and pants, wearing my new watch that does everything apart from making coffee, with my cell phone that can read my emails out loud in case I’m too bored to use my hands, in front of people who don’t have to eat?

  So, yeah, I know we’re not millionaires, and I know I shouldn’t waste money on stupid stuff, and I’m aware that my parents worked hard to get where they are now and be able to afford two cars and all the nice things in life, but hey... Using my pocket money to buy food and sometimes medicine for people who need it isn’t big spending. Pocket money indeed... It’s not like I’m taking anything away from anyone.