Truth In Wildflowers Read online

  Truth in Wildflowers

  Kimberly Rose

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © October 2014 by Kimberly Rose

  Ebook ISBN : 978-0-9909103-0-5

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9909103-1-2

  To Vickie, the rocky to my road and the vodka to my tonic.

  Prologue

  August

  Blurred. Black, and grey, maybe some white, but mostly black. There's a lot of black. My converse blur below me set amidst of a pile of bottles on the dry dirt. I should have never come here. I‘m not blind to the power of this place. I didn’t flee here to find any peace in my hell. I came here to add to the flames. I didn’t care much for improving my mood. How could I? My mom told me to stay present. Whatever that means. She encouraged me to take the time I need to grieve, but that people needed me. I call bullshit. The one whom truly ever needed me isn’t here. No one needs me. I don’t even need myself. What good is a guy who can’t save the people he loves? I failed her.

  “Dude.” Wes’s shoes crunched up the path behind me. “The dirt field and that six hundred and seventy two pack treating you alright?” He sat down beside me on the bench and patted my shoulder causing my limp body to sway.

  “No.” I shrugged my shoulders at him. Getting drunk sounded like a fantastic idea when the service ended, now not so much. I still remembered it all. I still felt it all. Only now my singed soul blurred a little to the left.

  I held my shit together since the night of the accident trying to be the strong one. Spouting words of consolation and promising some sick divine plan in this hell. The moment the casket descended into the ground and disappeared in the grass that façade crumbled. My lungs collapsed with my heart folding in on itself. I suffocated on my grief. Thick dark hands enveloped my throat and squeezed tight until my eyes watered. The bastard choked any purpose of living out of me.

  “I'm not sure what to say here.” Wes held out a pack of gummy bears, but I declined.

  “Nothing.” I preferred the silence. I liked being wrapped in the isolation more than token words of sympathy. Sorry? The word and the lowered eyes accompanying it made my stomach churn. I’m not deserving of compassion or hope to heal. What I deserve, is to feel the bone crushing pain to remind me of how I fucked up.

  The weather at the service was abnormally windy. The scent of freshly cut grass mixed with cheap cologne assaulted me with blow after blow. Life. I fled. Familiar voices rapped in the wind at my back, but I didn't stop. I ran until I reached the stagnant space of my car where the wind couldn’t pummel me and the grass couldn’t nauseate me. I yearned to be roused from my nightmare. I needed to wake up to the hillside covered in color and life, but when I got here I received a sucker punch in the form of dirt, miles and miles of dirt. No color, and no life.

  We sat in uncomfortable silence when Wes leaned down to the rocky soil below us. Out of the corner of my eye I caught him twirling a dandelion in his fingers. I chanced a glance at the flower and followed its fluttered decent to the ground as his fingers let go.

  “Come on.” Wes stood up and dusted off his black pants. He looked ridiculous in them. He shouldn’t have dressed up. I didn’t. “I’m going to go find a trash can for all these.“ He kicked a glass bottle. The empty vessel rolled across the dirt until it was stopped abruptly by a rock. “Then I’m taking you home.”

  “I can’t go home.” I couldn’t face any reminders of my life being taken away. My entire life gone, but I was still living. The twisted world cursed me.

  “Alright dude,” Wes said. “You can crash with me as long as you need too, but we need to get out of here. We are taking this day by day, and this day is about done.” He cocked his head towards the sun beginning its decent below the hill.

  I nodded and stood up on swaying legs, but only because I had to piss. Days, the beginnings, the ends, the in-betweens, they didn’t mean anything to me anymore. The days were just heartless bastards.

  Chapter 1

  Kensie

  I wondered if I could catch the breeze. If possible, I’d catch one and bottle up the ease in which it blows. I flopped my hand out the window, and only the wind forced it to move. The streams of fresh air wove themselves between my fingers and clasped tightly around my palm. Trading places with my arm, I slid my head out of the window. The caress of the fresh air brushing across my face intoxicated me. It stroked its fingers through my hair, and with a tender touch, it pulled out all my worrisome thoughts.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get your head back in the vehicle.” Lennon’s shriek yanked me from my Zen.

  “Clearing my head.” I pulled my head back into the stillness of the bug.

  “More like losing your head to a semi!”

  I rolled my eyes at Lennon and tossed my cell phone back into my bag. “You’re so dramatic sometimes.”

  “Never.” She grinned at me and focused back on the road. “What’d your dad say?”

  I deleted the voicemail my dad’s wife left me. He and I seldom spoke, but when we did, our conversations resembled nails on a chalkboard. I don’t remember when our relationship morphed into one of obligation, but it was somewhere between the pain and numbness.

  His wife was cordial enough, but she was always making excuses for him. His stepdaughter succeeds on both social and academic scales. She was what Lennon called a Facebook whore, collecting friends like baseball cards. Of course, his stepson was an athlete, unlike me. Dance doesn't qualify as a sport.

  My dad left my mom. Said he wasn't happy anymore, hadn't been in years. I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it all fell apart, though I tried to in my young mind. I noticed the tension steadily increase the older I got. When he’d encourage me to try a sport instead of dance, they fought over how to support my interests. When I brought home C’s instead of A’s, they fought over who was supposed to help me with my homework. I even remember them fighting over how late to let me stay up on a school night.

  "He said nothing because, that was Jodie." Always Jodie. "They want to see me for Thanksgiving.” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes as I climbed out of the passenger side of Lennon’s old bug and gave the door a couple of good slams before it latched shut.

  “He can’t even call his own daughter himself? Daddy Douche needs to man up.”

  Lennon knew all about my a
bsent father and his impeccable, shiny new family. I don’t often gripe outwardly about the situation, but she’s lived with me long enough to catch on.

  I sighed to myself, holding the door open for her as we walked into the tattoo shop, causing a jingle from the bells tied around the handle. “If you go, you should wear that Halloween costume from last year. That’ll shock the self-righteous shit right out of that family.” Lennon strutted past me.

  “The naughty Pocahontas one? I still can’t believe I let you talk me into that.” Lennon had somehow convinced me to be her date to one of the frat parties. She went as a “Tantric Turkey.” I didn’t ask any questions, but it turned out amazing with a splattering of brightly colored feathers in just the right places.

  “You rocked it. Especially the pigtails.” Oh the pigtails. Frat boys liked tiny pieces of cloth mixed with those beauties. By the end of the night, Lennon became known as my roommate with benefits. I had said what I needed in order to keep them away. “This place seems legit.” Lennon sauntered around the waiting space.

  The shop exceeded my expectations thus far, resembling more of a lounge than the concrete abyss I’d imagined. The light was brighter in here, and it took my eyes a beat to adjust. I blinked several times, letting the cream walls come into focus. Pictures of tattoos and artwork that resemble tattoos, cover every surface of the walls. Thick, burgundy curtains over the front windows block out most of the natural light.

  “Be with you fine ladies in a sec!” A voice hollered above the hum of a tattoo needle and a soundtrack of instrumental rock. Lennon raised her studded eyebrow and sauntered to the wall of example pieces. She fit in perfectly here with her spunky red hair and pixie cut. She had donned one of her trademark band shirts and plaid skirts that only seemed to highlight her personality.

  “I don’t know… a butterfly or something?” I suggested, shrugging my shoulders and tracing my eyes casually across the artwork. I admit this wasn’t a well-executed plan. One look at my dad’s new family pictures posted on Facebook courtesy of his “daughter”, and I was pulling Lennon out of the door and down to the shop. I needed something to permanently set me apart from the explosion of khaki and polo smiling back at me.

  “Seriously.” She stared at me. “A butterfly?” I didn’t know what was wrong with a butterfly. I’d seen a lot of girls on campus with them.

  “Okay… a rose?” I suggested with a toss of my hand in the air. Lennon’s stare stabbed the side of my face.

  “Oh Jesus… my individuality is curling up in a fetal position. You know you could always do something less drastic. A little nose ring would look spicy on you.”

  “Nope, it's got to be a tattoo, Len.” My dad despised tattoos, and his perfect little family was pretty clean-cut, so I doubted any of them had one. How cool would it be, though, if my sweet stepsister, Bethany, had a tramp stamp? Dad would probably lose faith in humanity, or at least in clean-shaven, suit-wearing humanity.

  I’d always tried to keep myself looking just like their family. I guess that was how I feigned inclusion. From the outside, I blended in flawlessly sitting at the dinner table with them every Sunday night. On the inside, however, I never fit in. A weed in their otherwise manicured garden.

  “Well, let’s do this.” Lennon hopped her elbows up on the front counter causing her little feet to dangle off the ground. “Hello? Earth to tattoo man. I'm gonna need a walker here soon.” Oh no, my little friend wasn’t dramatic at all. I hip checked her, or intended too.

  A low chuckle vibrated through the floor, shocking my senses and rendering me motionless. I felt the tremors pulse up through my feet, then legs, right up to the ridges of my hips. The clanking of the tattoo gun echoed in the empty space.

  “What can I get ya, little lady?” A tall and extensively tatted guy walked up to the counter, wiping his hands on a paper towel and laughing. The chuckle didn't belong to him—shame because he was one hunk of a man, though a little furry on the face for me.

  “Well, cowboy," Lennon clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, "my girl here wants a generic tattoo lacking any sense of imagination or identity." She rolled her eyes at me and pointed a tiny finger to the artist. "But make sure it is aesthetically pleasing."

  The artist popped his lips and opened his arms wide. “Lucky for you, I specialize in pleasing and have been known to look good doing it."

  Lennon and I shared a look of shocked horror and she narrowed her eyes at him. “You keep your hands on your gun, cowboy. She can please herself fine on her own.” My face heated. I should have never told her about my rabbit.

  Cowboy wasn’t fazed. “Noted. Let me finish up this ugly fool back here and I’ll be with you in a minute.” He smiled a dimpled smile and winked at me as he headed back to the customer he was finishing up. “For the record,” he shouted back at us, “I can do better than fine.”

  I slapped my palm to my face, but I laughed. I couldn't pretend his overinflated ego wasn't a bit charming.

  “And so can he.” He winked directly at me and tossed his head toward the customer in the tattoo chair.

  “Thanks, dude.” The customer spoke, and holy vibrations. It was him. I feared looking in his direction, but the way my skin prickled suggested he had been watching me before I noticed him. I faced Lennon but chanced a quick glance at the ugly fool out of the corner of my eye.

  “Shit,” I murmured under my breath. He was anything but ugly. He was quite the opposite of ugly. He was handsome, gorgeous, masculine, fucking hot, but nope, not ugly at all. I had to repeat the word ugly in my head to keep myself from doing the very thing I was doing now. My traitorous body had drifted to face him without my permission and left me in prime gawking range, drooling, gaping, call it what you will. I called it appreciating. I was appreciating his resistance to ugly and mentally raising my arm in support.

  “Shades of blue or plum?” Lennon’s snarky voice broke my stare.

  “Blue or plum what?” Seriously, now was not the time to discuss colors. I was knee-deep in a personal revelation.

  “For the wedding.” I widened my eyes in embarrassment over being caught. “Maybe you should date him first.” She patted my shoulder and walked through the saloon door, leaving it to swing between the two front counters. My breathing matched the nervous rhythm. I hadn’t been on a date in three years.

  “Check it out, little lady.” The tattoo artist waved Lennon over. “See if this is up to your expectations.” His eyes bypassed Lennon and winked directly at me again.

  “It’s Lennon, cowboy, and my friend you keep winking at is Kensie.” Her eyes urged me to meet her at the chair where the vibrating stranger sat.

  “Stop winking at her, Wes.” His voice tickled my insides, but I forced myself to walk. I came up on the three of them, growing self-conscious with the stranger’s eyes following me. I sensed them daring me to make contact, but I ignored the pull. Instead, I peeked around him and looked at the tattoo on his back.

  It rendered me speechless. From what I noticed in my hungry assessment of his large frame, this guy didn’t have any other tattoos. This one, though, this one covered most his solid back. The tattoo mimicked a series open wounds on his skin, an artistic juxtaposition of grotesque and beauty. Each wound held bold script work between the lash marks. Wes (I assumed was the artist’s name) wiped a fresh red scar he had just completed.

  “What does it say?” I asked in a soft voice that didn’t sound like my own. If I had moved closer, I’d be able to read it, but the distance I now stood from the stranger was a safe one.

  “It’s from this song called ‘Sweet and Low’ by this band Augustana,” he answered, turning around and locking his dark eyes on mine. They held my own reflecting relief at finally making a connection. They also resembled chocolate. I loved chocolate. What a coincidence that his eyes were the exact shade of chocolate I loved, and why was I comparing his eyes to food? I mentally put his chocolate eyes back in their velvet box, where I could devour them later.

&
nbsp; “I know that band.” Thank God I sounded more certain of myself this time. “They’re one of my favorites. I think in this song he’s asking, or begging really for an honest love?” I asked as if the song wasn’t familiar, when I’d actually spent hours in my room with it on repeat.

  His eyes narrowed at me. “Or asking for her to save him from his fear of love?” He posed his own interpretation as a question too, but not because he didn’t know the song. No, he had to be well acquainted with the lyrics to have them inked into his skin.

  “Fear,” I muttered, once again losing the strength in my voice. I knew fear well, but that didn’t mean I wanted it permanently etched on my body. Having fear etched on my heart was plenty.

  “See? That’s a tattoo worth having,” Lennon said from behind me, breaking my stare. “A butterfly you picked off the wall isn’t something you’ll want forever.” She had a valid point. I felt more connected to this stranger’s tattoo than I did to the one I chose five minutes ago.

  I disregarded Lennon, wanting to know more about the stranger. “Why all the scars with the lyrics?" I found myself curious about his tattoo, but more than that, I was curious about him. This piece of art across his back reflected a piece of his soul back onto the world. It fascinated me.

  His eyes flickered around the room. Crap, I made him uncomfortable. “I mean if you don’t mind me asking. You don’t have to answer. I was just curious. It’s just that it’s really gorgeous and seems like it may hold meaning...”

  “It’s okay.” He cut off of my nervous ramble with a reassuring smile that did things to me, wonderful, tingly things. “You’re right. It means a lot to me.” He adjusted himself in the chair to get more comfortable, but I doubt he sought physical comfort. No, my question clearly caused an amount of irritation in him, or annoyance. Oh god, I hope I’m not annoying him. “It represents my past, things I need to remember.” His answer was vague, but it wasn’t my place to pry any further.