Black Sheep by Tabatha Vargo

me like a sharp blade, making me feel as though I was doing something wrong when I wasn’t. I’d offered Tyson everything—I’d told him my feelings and begged him to reveal his. It wasn’t my fault he refused.
    What was I supposed to do?
    Live my life chasing after a man who was too afraid to want me? A man too afraid to touch me—too afraid to be touched.
    I couldn’t do that anymore. No matter how much his silence hurt me, I deserved to be happy. I knew that, and I knew Tyson knew it, too.

SEVEN
    Tyson
     
     
     
     
    I KNEW PAIN . I’d lived it until I was twelve years old and then in my nightmares every night since then. I’d been beaten and raped. I’d been burned and verbally abused. But none of it rocked me as hard as seeing Nicole kiss another man. None of it had killed me as badly as seeing her arms around him and the way he smiled down at her. It left me feeling sick in my core and hurt in a way I never thought I’d feel.
    Her performance had been amazing. She was beautiful on stage in her element—her body stretching and bending with the music from the orchestra. I’d always loved to watch Nicole dance. The exhilaration on her face when she was dancing was contagious. The music and the calculated movements of her body were soothing. Watching her on stage made me glad that I’d gone to New York with the Palmers.
    After Thanksgiving, I didn’t see Nicole again before she went back to school. I did, however, see a new picture she’d posted on her Facebook with her mom and dad. The nasty bruises on her cheek made me pop open a fresh bottle of beer. Knowing I was the culprit behind that bruise—that I’d marred her beautiful face—made me nauseous.
    She probably thought I was a total dick for not coming to see her off to New York after Thanksgiving, but fuck it. I was staying away for her. She thought she knew what she wanted, but I knew what was best for her, and I wasn’t it. No matter how badly I wished I were good enough, I wasn’t.
    Instead of dwelling on it, I worked my ass off, staying so busy I didn’t have time to think about anything else. When I got back to my lonely one-bedroom apartment, covered in motor oil, I’d shower, I’d drink, and I’d crash.
    It worked.
    “Bro, what the fuck’s wrong with you?” Nate asked.
    We worked side by side at the garage, plugging tires and changing oil. He was also co-owner of The Blind Tiger, the tattoo shop where I worked when I wasn’t slinging spark plugs at the garage.
    I’d known Nate since my junior year of high school. There was a fight in a Burger King parking lot, and I was outnumbered by five dudes. Nate had stepped in and made sure I didn’t get my ass kicked too badly.
    Afterward, he’d taken me back to The Blind Tiger, given me a beer, even though I was underage, and grinned at me with a bruised eye and a bloodied lip before we both burst into laughter. We’d been close friends ever since.
    “Nothing, man, I’m good.”
    It was a lie.
    I wasn’t good.
    I hadn’t been good since Nicole ran off to New York.
    I knew it was what she wanted. I was aware of how amazing she danced and how far she’d go in the world. I didn’t belong in any part of her perfection, but that didn’t mean it didn’t suck not to see her every Sunday at dinner. It didn’t mean I didn’t miss her.
    “You’re so full of shit.” He laughed.
    The guys at the garage were my friends, and most of them were older, except Dennis, the owner’s seventeen-year-old son. And since I’d started working there when I was younger, we’d become a bit of a family. The boys had my back, and I had theirs.
    I finished the day with a tattoo of an American flag and a bald eagle at the Tiger and went home to find Mr. Palmer waiting out front.
    “Hey, bud, work hard today?” he asked, grabbing one of my bags and helping me carry it inside.
    “It was a long one. What’s up?”
    It wasn’t often that Mr. Palmer stopped by, but when he did, there was a damn good