Page 7 of Tony

All three of them wear black leather jackets Belinda painted. I noticed that the first day I saw her with the brothers. Her artistic style is easily recognizable. Maybe the only thing about her that hasn’t changed in the past eight years. She has a color palette that she almost never deviates from. Muted grays and pinks. The occasional splash of sea blue and light violet.

It’s very Key West.

And you’d think that grown men calling themselves Sick Boyz would go for a color scheme that’s a little more… masculine with their leather-jacket paint jobs.

But the designs on the jackets aren’t feminine at all. Even with the muted colors. Her designs are skulls and flowers. Birds and hearts. And if I were to just describe that to someone and tell them she was a tattoo artist, it would make sense.

But it doesn’t make sense. At least not to me. Her designs aren’t something you see in tattoo form. They are street art of the highest quality. That’s what she used to do back in Florida. She would paint murals. It was graffiti at first, but she did one actual commission on the side of a building near her mother’s motel before she left.

Things changed a lot over the years she’s been gone. That building was sold, the mural painted over, and that was that. All evidence of her art was wiped away. I told her she should put her designs on canvases, but she didn’t listen to me.

But I guess… she did listen to me, didn’t she?

I understand the draw of painted leather jackets, but she’s not fooling me with this tattoo artist dream. We had one last fight before she left Key West to go meet up with her new best friend, Tara. It was a brutal fight over her decision to leave Key West again and go home.

Like this place is her home.

It’s not.

Our words came out like sharp daggers, meant to wound more than kill. But it wasn’t her words that pissed me off when we had that fight. It was her tears.

I hated them. And I get it. It’s not fair. How can I love the after-sex tears and despise the fight tears?

I can’t explain it, but it makes perfect sense in my head.

She dug in her heels during that fight, insisting that this tattoo shop, these Sick Boyz, this town—all of it was her future.

Key West was over.

We were over.

I walked away first. I said something mean, turned away, and never looked back.

Because of course we were over.

That wasn’t what I was trying to say. At all.

And yet here I am. Stalking her at two AM on a dark night. Two thousand miles away from where I should be.

I think I’m in the middle of a crisis. That has to be it. I mean, of course I’m in the middle of a crisis. My family runs a human smuggling ring in Florida propped up by some, most likely, sketchy FBI agents. And now those sketchy people propping us up aren’t on our side anymore. They might even be angry enough with us to hurt us. Not just a get-you-busted kind of hurt either. They do carry guns, after all. People get killed when mutually beneficial deals with sketchy organizations suddenly become un-mutually beneficial.

So yeah. That’s a fucking crisis.

But that’s not what I’m talking about.

Like, I don’t even have time for that actual, real-life crisis shit. Because Rosalinda. I don’t know what it is, I just can’t get her out of my mind.

So. The hate fuck. I’ve done some research and there is evidence that this is a cure for old wounds and past-the-expiration-date relationships.

That’s how I’m rationalizing my odd behavior. I just really don’t have any other explanation for it.

The three of them duck into a driveway and I walk a little faster now that there’s no chance of them noticing me. But by the time I get to the mansion where they live, all three are inside.

The main house is mostly dark. But there’s a glow leaking into the front rooms from the back of the house and I can see tall shadows crossing in and out of view as I invade their privacy with my unwanted voyeurism.

The garage apartment has no windows on this side, so I can’t tell if Rosalinda went home to her place or is inside the main house.

I take a chance and slip around the side of the garage, heading for the back where there’s a set of stairs leading to her deck.