Rattled: Rattled (The Baxter Boys #1) Read online

  Rattled

  A Baxter Boys Novella

  Jane Charles

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Kelsey

  Alex

  Kelsey

  Alex

  Kelsey

  Alex

  Kelsey

  Alex

  Kelsey

  Alex

  Kelsey

  Alex

  More

  Excerpt - STILL RATTLED

  About Jane Charles

  Jane Charles’s New Adult Romance

  Jane Charles’s Historical Romance

  Copyright © 2015 by Jane Charles

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  For all mothers everywhere.

  The ones who scolded and hugged, had many sleepless nights, bandaged knees, sent them off to school, watched them graduate, and beyond.

  For the mothers whose child was taken from them far too soon. Whether they were an infant, a toddler, teen, or adult, I can’t begin to understand your pain.

  For the mothers faced with the decision of keeping their child or giving them up for someone else to love. A heartwrenching decision, and too personal for anyone to judge.

  And for the mothers who have opened their hearts and taken those children in,even though the DNA will never match, you still gave love because you had it to give.

  And for our mothers, because we wouldn’t be here without their love and devotion.

  Kelsey

  * * *

  I shake out my hands, take a deep breath, but continue pacing in the green room. Why am I so nervous? This is all I’ve thought about for over a year. I’ve saved every penny and existed on ramen noodles just so I could get this done. And it has to be today. And it has to be here. The Reeds are and have some of the best tattoo artists around and I can’t just trust this to anyone.

  I’m not alone in here. There are others, all waiting to see a tattoo artist, but I’m not really paying attention to them. I’m too anxious to just sit and make idle chitchat with a stranger.

  I planned ahead and made the appointment weeks ago, but instead of getting on the schedule, I was asked if I’d be interested in letting one of the artists being auditioned for the show do my tat. At first, I rejected the option. This was an important tattoo and I didn’t want it fucked up by an amateur. But then I went back and watched the previous shows. The Reeds don’t just let anyone walk in off the streets and start tattooing, or even audition. The artists are vetted way before they are trusted to apply ink. So after thinking about it further, and knowing the price is half of what I’d saved for the occasion, I called back and asked if I could still participate.

  It’s probably better that I didn’t get one of the Reed brothers anyway. I’ve watched since their show first aired and if I came face to face with any one of them I’d probably go all fan girl and humiliate myself. Today is going to be hard enough.

  It’s already hard.

  I clutch the worn manila envelope close to my chest. Everything that’s important to me is in here. It’s with me always. If it’s not in my big purse, it’s in my backpack. It goes everywhere I go, and what I want is in there.

  My stomach churns and I take a deep breath. I just hope to hell that whoever I get assigned to doesn’t fuck this up.

  Alex

  * * *

  I’ve checked my station five times. I have everything I could possibly need for a tat. All I can do now is wait for the skin to get here.

  I just hope she’s clear in what she wants, and that she’s not difficult to please. I’ve done tats that are perfect, yet sometimes customers are just never happy, and others have remorse. But for the most part, everyone has been happy with my work, often returning and referring customers. I need one of those today. This is too important and I don’t need a bitch or an asshat showing up, being a pain in the ass.

  I need to land a spot on the show. I need to work for the Reeds.

  I’m good at what I do. Damn good. But they’re better. Nobody is as good as they are, and anyone who gets an opportunity to work with the Reeds will only get better.

  Once I’m on the show, I’ll have a regular paying job and I’ll be creating art. In time, I’ll have name recognition and will be able to do what I really want.

  The door starts to open and I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Your skin is here, Mr. Dosek,” says one of the producers.

  A young woman steps through the door. Her dark head is down and she’s clutching a wrinkled and stained manila envelope to her chest. The door closes and she slowly looks up.

  Her brown eyes meet mine and widen. “What the fuck?” she says by way of greeting.

  I glance around. There is a cameraman watching my every move and recording everything I say. Is this some kind of joke? Are the Reeds really auditioning me or is this about to turn into a bad episode of “What Would You Do?”

  I shake the stupid thought from my head. How could the Reeds, their producers, or anyone know of my connection to Kelsey Fry? I haven’t seen her in five years. Not since I graduated from Baxter Academy of Arts.

  “Hi Kelsey, how have you been?”

  “Are you really the artist?”

  I hold out my hands palms up and smile. “Yep.”

  She turns to the door. “Well, I want someone else.”

  If she walks out now, it’s a fail. Immediate crash and burn. Besides being a great tattoo artist, people skills and customer service are also at the top of the list to get hired. I won’t get another chance if she leaves. I’ll be shown the door. “Please?” I hate to beg, but I will. “Don’t go. This is too important to me.”

  Kelsey slowly turns, her mouth open and dark eyes wide. “Too important to you?” she asks with indignation. “This,” she thrusts out the envelope, “is too important to me, and you are the last person I want doing my ink.”

  I can’t really blame her. I was a fucking dick to her back then. I hated her for what she’d done and a part of me still holds a lot of resentment for her actions. But I have to set it all aside. Make it right, at least until the tat is done. My future depends on it.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” she yells.

  I take a deep breath. “Listen, I was seventeen. I had a chip on my shoulder. I was an ass and I treated you like shit.”

  “You got that right.”

  “It was also a long time ago.”

  “Not that long.” She snorts and then narrows her eyes on me. “And I’m supposed to believe you’ve changed? That you’re no longer a dickwad?”

  I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure I can still be that, but not in here. Not with you, and never, ever when I’m doing a tat.”

  “I still don’t want you touching me.” She takes a step back and I rush forward.

  “Listen, I swear that it will be the best tat you’ve ever had. It will be perfect and exactly what you want. Please, don’t walk out. You won’t get another artist and I’ll get booted.”

  She frowns, biting her bottom lip. “I can’t just switch with someone? Others are waiting in the room. I’ll just ask one of them to trade.”

  “If I lose a customer, I’m out.”

  “I can explain—”

  “It won’t matter.” I step closer. “Please, Kelsey, I need this. It’s a chance for a break and I could really use one.”

  Her brown eyes stud
y me as she bites her bottom lip again. It seems like forever before she says anything. “Do you promise not to give me any shit for what I want, or why?”

  I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering. “I swear I won’t.”

  “I mean it, because you aren’t going to like what I want, and I’ll be damned if I have to listen to your opinions on the matter again.”

  My gut tightens. What the hell does she want? We’ve only disagreed once, when I yelled at her for being a selfish stupid bitch. We never talked again after that. Just glares in classrooms and on campus. Thankfully, we didn’t have that many classes together because I was a year older and our art concentration was different. “I swear. I have no opinions or thoughts in this room except for what the customer wants. There are some things I’m morally against, but it isn’t my skin.”

  “Would you turn someone away if they wanted something you are morally against?”

  “I have twice before.”

  “Then I might as well head for the door now because you’ve made your opinions of my choices very clear.”

  “Wait!” I have to stop her before she’s gone. “I’m sure whatever you want doesn’t come close to my moral compass code.”

  She snorts. “Really? I’m not so sure.”

  “Unless you want a swastika, I’m sure there is nothing you can suggest that I’d find offensive.”

  She turns, a look of disgust on her face. “God no! Do people really get those?”

  I shrug. “I’ve seen them. I just don’t do them.”

  She tilts her head and studies me. “Anything else on your list I should know about?”

  “Nope, that’s pretty much it—or any hate symbol, for that matter.”

  She’s nodding, studying me, back to biting her bottom lip. “Are you any good?”

  “Would I be here if I wasn’t?” I grin.

  She doesn’t return it. “Your ego has never been in question. Are you any good? Because this is important.”

  I’m not going to win her over with apologies. “I am good. One of the best. And trust me, this is just as important to me.”

  Again she studies me, and it’s almost like I can see her battling with a decision behind those dark brown eyes. Slowly she holds the envelope out to me. “You better not fuck it up, and you better not give me any shit.”

  I assume there’s a picture of whatever she wants on her body in the envelope. I reach out for it. Her hands are shaking and if I’m honest, so are mine. Seeing her for the first time since high school, and remembering how much I resented her and made her life hell, has me unsettled. I’m afraid karma is about to bite me on the ass.

  She lets go before I can grab the envelope and it falls to the ground. A small pink rattle rolls out onto the floor.

  She may be anxious about all this, but seeing what just came out of that envelope has me a bit rattled too.

  The old anger at what she did surges, but I force it away. She’s a client. I won’t judge her for her decisions or actions. I may have then, but I won’t today. Not in this room. And not when I have so much to lose.

  When the tat is done, and I’ve made the show, then I can go back to resenting Kelsey Fry once again.

  Kelsey

  * * *

  I reach down and grab the rattle before Alex has a chance to. It’s the only item I have left. Or ever had, for that matter. I had swiped it from her bassinette, placed there by her new parents, before they took her away. And I don’t want him touching it.

  Clutching it tightly in my hand, I stand up and wait for his hateful words, but they don’t come.

  I can’t believe that the artist I’ve been assigned is Alexander Dosek, better known in my mind as Alexander Douche. The bane of my existence at Baxter Academy. All high-and-mighty. Judging me because of a decision I made that didn’t affect him in the least. Reminding me daily, just by a look, that he considered me the lowest form of scum.

  Asshole! What the hell did he know about my life and circumstances? How could he possibly understand the decisions I had to make and how they’ve haunted me?

  He can’t and will never be able to because he’s a guy.

  And now I’m about to let him do my tattoo. If I didn’t need to have it done today, I’d walk. Screw him and his dreams. This isn’t about what he needs but what I need, and if he fucks it up, I’ll never forgive him.

  “So, first off, where do you want your art?”

  I blink up at him. I may have been planning this for the past few years, but I haven’t decided on a location or exactly what I want it to look like. That’s another reason I came here. The Reeds always know what the customer needs even if they’re unsure of what they want.

  “Someplace where nobody will see it.”

  He lifts a dark eyebrow and his cobalt eyes study me. He’s cut his hair since school. Black and short. So short that I can practically see his scalp, but his chin is bearded and neatly trimmed, and those blue eyes are watching me. Waiting.

  “It’s too personal. It’s for me, and only me,” I insist. “I don’t want to have to explain to anyone who may ask, because it’s my memory and my heartache.”

  Alex nods. “Okay, I get that.”

  “But I want to be able to see it,” I blurt out. “So not on my ass or anything like that.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” he says and leads me over to a table, placing the manila envelope between us. “Is the artwork in there?”

  “Kind of,” I answer, and dump the contents on the table. I pick up the cream-colored embossed document and my heart tightens. “This is her birth certificate.” It isn’t the official one that’s filed with the county office, but a keepsake with my baby’s height, weight, date, time, footprints, and handprints. “I was thinking of having her footprint.” I lay it flat on the table so Alex can see it, but I’m reluctant to hand it over. This guy made my life hell and I’m still waiting for him to give me more shit.

  “You’re tracing the hand, though,” Alex points out.

  I smile. He’s right. My index finger is smoothing over the small palm, like I always do when I look at the certificate. “I can still feel it, sometimes.”

  He leans back and studies me, but I don’t see any of the old recriminations as I had in the past. Is he genuinely interested? Has he grown a heart in the past five years, since I last saw him?

  “How?” he asks.

  “When they laid her on me, right after she was born, Brandy’s hand was right here.” I point to a place between my left boob and breast bone. “Her hand, over my heart.” I can feel my smile growing bigger with the memories of the most awesome experience in my life, and one of the saddest. “Her little arms were crossed, and as one palm rested on my chest, the other hand was turned out, and I remember studying the little lines on her hands and fingers. So perfect.”

  “Show me.”

  I try and demonstrate, but my hands are five times the size my daughter’s hands were at her birth. I glance up and Alex is watching me, and unlike when we were in high school, the deep blue of his eyes is filled with empathy. Maybe he has grown up.

  I begin to relax. “She was curled up against me, her little feet pressing against me right here.” I point to my ribcage, just below my right boob.

  “I’m surprised they let you hold her,” Alex finally says after clearing his throat.

  “Mrs. Robak didn’t want me to,” I tell him. “She said it would be harder in the end, but I had to hold her at least once.” Mrs. Robak was in charge of Baxter Academy when I was there, and I think she still is.

  He nods and grabs a sketch pad and starts drawing.

  “I know that Brandy was only a few minutes old, but I needed to explain. I needed to tell her about her father and the reason I couldn’t keep her.”

  His jaw tightens and my stomach knots. If he’s going to lecture me again about giving up my baby, I will walk. I can’t deal with his self-righteous opinions right now, and I sure as hell don’t give a damn if it ruins his chances for landi
ng a spot on the show.

  “Tell me about the father. You never mentioned him in school.”

  “It’s not like you and I ever talked,” I remind him.

  Alex winces and his face turns red. Good, he should be embarrassed for the way he treated me.

  He sets his pencil aside and looks up. “Tell me your story, Kelsey.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s important.” He settles into a chair and stares at me, and waits for me to start.

  Alex

  * * *

  She asked for a foot, but that isn’t what she needs. What else don’t I know? The fact that she’s kept her baby’s birth certificate, rattle, and all the other things I haven’t even looked at means that the decision wasn’t as easy for her as I once believed. “As you said, I was a dickwad back then.”

  “True.”

  “I’m not now. At least I hope not.” My face is getting hot, and I hope it isn’t obvious to whoever is going to watch this how embarrassed I am and what I was like back then. “What roads led you to Bax—” I stop myself. This is being recorded. A cameraman has been walking around and shooting us at different angles, and another person with a clipboard is hanging out by a table with a variety of drinks in a large tub of ice. This could air one day, and I’m not going to be the jerk that outs Baxter Academy of Arts for what it is. “How did you get to my high school?”

  Her brown eyes soften, but it isn’t because of the question. I know she caught my near slip and she’s not about to expose Baxter either.

  “Start at your birth, or anywhere in between then and the day we met.” I pick up the sketch pad again and write the names from the birth certificate. First “Brandon Lange,” then “Brandy Anne Lange,” and put question marks behind each of the names in case I need to ask more when she’s done.

  “Let me think…” She sighs. “My mom was raised in an extremely uptight and religious household. No sinning allowed and punished to the fullest extent. At least that’s what she told me, and I believe her.”