descended of the larger-than-life Vikings and that he couldn’t find any genetic anomalies for her to worry about when she grew up and wanted to start her own family. But mostly, he just wanted to sing her to sleep and get drunk on her laughter. Will she even know who I am or let me to sing to her if I find her now?
“Fuck!” Dax cursed as he threw the covers off and rose from the bed. Scrubbing his hands down his face, he paced, talking things out the whole time. Getting involved, or potentially involved, with Stacy brought a whole boatload of doubts, memories, and questions to the fore. For one, what would a commitment-phobe do if he brought a teenage daughter home? Would she bolt? John knew every detail about Sam and Macy; most of his friends did, but not Stacy. He never hid it, but a mention in passing here or there by him or another of the Reid clan wouldn’t dare do the situation justice.
The only reason he hadn’t launched into that particular story in detail was selfishness. He was afraid to spook her before she gave him a shot as more than just a friend, but now that this might actually happen, he needed to give her all the sordid details. What if she doesn’t think I’m worthy like Sam obviously did, what will I do then?
That self-posed query was the number one reason he had not highlighted the details. She knew he had a not-quite-ex and a kid, but she never asked for more and he never elaborated. Would she find him as inadequate as a partner and a potential father as Sam had?
Well, it was a question he had no choice but to seek the answer to, but damned if he wasn’t quaking in his boots.
Stacy was never far from his thoughts as he showered and hopped on his bike. The bike wasn’t his everyday mode of transport; he much preferred his classic rebuild. But today was a wind in your face kind of day and he had yet to fix the convertible top motor on the Camaro, so, his Panhead was up. On the ride to the shop, his mind toggled between Stacy and Macy.
He laughed out loud at a light, and the mini-van family in the next lane looked at him like he was deranged. He turned to the passenger and shouted over the engine, “They rhyme. They freaking rhyme.” As he shook his head, they not-so-subtly closed the window and stared at the red circle above them, willing it green.
Dax didn’t give two shits what they thought. He’d just had the best night of his life, Chuck was making progress, and he believed with all his heart that Stacy wanted all the things he did, he just needed to show her that she did.
Pulling up to his shop, Imagine Ink Tattoo Parlor, was always a satisfying experience. He built it with his bare hands, not just the building, but the business. Even with all his fancy-schmancy degrees, he chose to tattoo. There was something deeply personal about inking people that just drew him to the craft.
He parked next to Walker’s bike and made his way inside. With a deep inhale, a sense of rightness washed over him, just like it did every single time. The dude Walker was inking looked up with a nervous gaze. Dax was used to it. His presence was imposing, at best, but it never bothered him; he knew that as soon as people spent a few minutes with him, they relaxed and realized he wasn’t going to eat them.
“Well, well,” Walker looked up from the forearm he was working on, “look what the cat dragged in. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, can I have your liver?”
Dax was puzzled. “What are you about, Dubya?”
Walker returned needle to skin and concentration to the tattoo, and answered Dax with a smartass attitude and a smirk, but Dax knew there was genuine concern there. “Just that I did a lot of drinking back in the day, probably on borrowed time with that organ.” The client’s sharp intake and widening eyes brought Walker to halt. “No worries, man, I gave that shit up. You’re in good hands.” Walker reassured his client, dipped the gun and continued, both the tattoo and the
“Fuck!” Dax cursed as he threw the covers off and rose from the bed. Scrubbing his hands down his face, he paced, talking things out the whole time. Getting involved, or potentially involved, with Stacy brought a whole boatload of doubts, memories, and questions to the fore. For one, what would a commitment-phobe do if he brought a teenage daughter home? Would she bolt? John knew every detail about Sam and Macy; most of his friends did, but not Stacy. He never hid it, but a mention in passing here or there by him or another of the Reid clan wouldn’t dare do the situation justice.
The only reason he hadn’t launched into that particular story in detail was selfishness. He was afraid to spook her before she gave him a shot as more than just a friend, but now that this might actually happen, he needed to give her all the sordid details. What if she doesn’t think I’m worthy like Sam obviously did, what will I do then?
That self-posed query was the number one reason he had not highlighted the details. She knew he had a not-quite-ex and a kid, but she never asked for more and he never elaborated. Would she find him as inadequate as a partner and a potential father as Sam had?
Well, it was a question he had no choice but to seek the answer to, but damned if he wasn’t quaking in his boots.
Stacy was never far from his thoughts as he showered and hopped on his bike. The bike wasn’t his everyday mode of transport; he much preferred his classic rebuild. But today was a wind in your face kind of day and he had yet to fix the convertible top motor on the Camaro, so, his Panhead was up. On the ride to the shop, his mind toggled between Stacy and Macy.
He laughed out loud at a light, and the mini-van family in the next lane looked at him like he was deranged. He turned to the passenger and shouted over the engine, “They rhyme. They freaking rhyme.” As he shook his head, they not-so-subtly closed the window and stared at the red circle above them, willing it green.
Dax didn’t give two shits what they thought. He’d just had the best night of his life, Chuck was making progress, and he believed with all his heart that Stacy wanted all the things he did, he just needed to show her that she did.
Pulling up to his shop, Imagine Ink Tattoo Parlor, was always a satisfying experience. He built it with his bare hands, not just the building, but the business. Even with all his fancy-schmancy degrees, he chose to tattoo. There was something deeply personal about inking people that just drew him to the craft.
He parked next to Walker’s bike and made his way inside. With a deep inhale, a sense of rightness washed over him, just like it did every single time. The dude Walker was inking looked up with a nervous gaze. Dax was used to it. His presence was imposing, at best, but it never bothered him; he knew that as soon as people spent a few minutes with him, they relaxed and realized he wasn’t going to eat them.
“Well, well,” Walker looked up from the forearm he was working on, “look what the cat dragged in. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, can I have your liver?”
Dax was puzzled. “What are you about, Dubya?”
Walker returned needle to skin and concentration to the tattoo, and answered Dax with a smartass attitude and a smirk, but Dax knew there was genuine concern there. “Just that I did a lot of drinking back in the day, probably on borrowed time with that organ.” The client’s sharp intake and widening eyes brought Walker to halt. “No worries, man, I gave that shit up. You’re in good hands.” Walker reassured his client, dipped the gun and continued, both the tattoo and the
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