Delayed by Nathan Kingsly (the false prince TXT) 📗

time as I look across the street. Of course, she did. The house seems quiet, all but for the curve of the curtain in the living room window. She’s watching this, enjoying it, and I bet she’s laughing behind her hand. She’s won this round, but in the end, I’m determined to win back my place in their lives.

“Is your offer still good for a ride?” I look back at the officer.

“Depends where you’re headed. Otherwise, I’ll find you a car service.”

It’s been a few years, but thinking of the surrounding area, I know where I’d be welcome, and it’s a hell of a lot closer than a hotel. “Sweet Hell.”

He nodded when I thought I’d have to explain, but he must know this town like he’d lived here his whole life, and he probably did. Not many that live here leave.

I get to my feet with my bag in tow, I freeze when his hand comes up, and his hand rests on his belt over the top of his gun.

My hands come up in surrender in front of me. “Whoa!”

“Sir, drop the bag!”

Slowly I do as he says. When his hand comes up, it’s with the gun, and the other cradles it. “Don’t move.”

My brows knit as he skirts the edge of me as if I’m about to strike like a venomous snake. His hand comes toward me, and it takes everything to lock my muscles as he grabs my holster and the gun I bought first thing when arriving in Georgia.

He slams them on the roof of his car and puts his own away. He comes around me, and his grip is stronger than I expect when he puts me in cuffs, reading me my Miranda rights.

“What you're doing is illegal,” I say without emotion.

“It’s for my protection. My partner died over a routine check like this, and I am not about to follow his example.”

I’ve lost the amount of time I have been sitting in the back of his car waiting for confirmation my permit is valid. He’s going to find I am cleared to conceal carry in thirty-eight states, including Georgia.

“Sorry about your partner.”

“Me too.” He says off-hand as he types something else in his computer.

Trying to get comfortable in the back of a patrol car with handcuffs is impossible. My shoulders are aching, and my wrists tired of twisting into the only four positions they're allowed.

“Look, man...”

“Robertt.”

“Fine, Robertt, are the handcuffs necessary? I’m not a threat.”

“Not taking the chance, plus I’m nearly done.”

“Done? With what?”

“My paperwork for this shift. This was a nice break.” He adjusts in his seat and puts the car in drive.

“You’ve got to be shitting me…”

In the rearview mirror, I see his smirk. “I’m too close to retirement to play by the rules. Plus, don’t think I forgot you and your sister used to live up on Hitchens when I started out.”

I’d been right, as Robertt, with two tt’s, drives us; reveals he’s lived here his whole life. Nice guy, but he still made me ride in the back of the car like a perp with the handcuffs on. Apparently, it only took ten minutes to verify my claim, but my sister and I played a prank on him when he started to patrol on our street. Some firecrackers that we slid under his car, and I remember like it was yesterday. This is what he calls some harmless payback.

Before he leaves, he says that he hopes he’ll never see me again. I, too, wish that. What a welcome home it's been; I can only hope it gets better from here.

It is getting dark, the sun is close to its horizon, but this place will be open even after it goes down. The warm glow of their lights highlighting the sidewalk from the entrance, a temptation in itself for the mood I’m in. The same mood I’d been in the first time I came to stand in front of Sweet Hell Ink’s door. I’m lost and unsure of my place.

After my father died, I felt lost, but even more so six months afterward. I’d lost my scholarship, let the school drop me because I felt like my family needed me at home. That’s what I had thought until hearing my mother's accusation and watching her fall apart in front of me at the hospital.

Watching her being sedated, seeing the fight drain from her eyes as they glossed over, not only took something from her but stripped me of something too. I couldn’t protect her. I’d been tricking myself into believing that my presence every day had helped. But it was me she blamed after all, and that cemented my own fears. Feeling more out of control than I’d been in my life up to that point, I bypassed my car in the hospital parking lot and ended up walking aimlessly, hoping to clear my mind. Maybe even in an attempt to escape from my reality for a while.

Being the safe haven it was then; it isn’t a surprise I end up here again. The little bell above my head jingles as I walk through the door.

There’s something about tattoo shops that feel like home. I’ve spent so much time within them, but nothing compares to being back in Sweet Hell.

The familiar smell of ink reminds me of fresh cut paper. Ink, never able to escape the association, hits my nose first. Second, the mingle or euphoric anticipation or nervous hesitation charging the air, making my heart beat faster for a different reason. It’s the only place that my heart races from excitement.

The smile that accompanies me to these places freezes on my face as Emma appears in my mind. Nothing could touch me here, in my element, my escape, and yet she's stamping her mark on something that should be separate. The joy abates, and all I can feel are her fingers gliding over my chest, around the edges of my tattoos, burning herself deeper into me.

“Liam?”

My head