Mason: Inked Reapers MC (61 page)

Chapter 2:

While her brother slept Brea poured over the local newspaper, determined to find herself a reasonable job. Sadly, there wasn’t much work available for her skillset. Most of the jobs posted required some sort of relevant experience which Brea didn’t have. Pretty much the only thing she really excelled at was her art. Beyond that, she could cook and clean but no one was hiring a surrogate sister or mother.

Leaning back in her chair Brea sighed, feeling deflated. She glanced sadly towards the bedroom door beyond which Sylar was sleeping soundly. A part of Brea knew that there was more to his damaged eye than he was letting on. There had to be. He was always getting strange and mysterious wounds and she kept turning a blind eye to them.

“What do you do at night?” she wondered aloud, still staring at the door. She feared that perhaps Sylar was getting involved in the seedy underbelly which had slowly rotted their once wholesome town. Back when their parents were alive, it was the kind of place where you could leave your front door unlocked at night and let your kids play out on the front porch. But all that had changed during the last decade. Now if you walked home alone at night you kept your steps fast and your head low. Their town was no longer safe and was Sylar possibly contributing to that?

No. Brea shook her head. She wouldn’t believe that Sylar was doing anything dishonorable. That wasn’t like him. He was the protective older brother who had been there for her, who had helped raise her. He could never hurt someone.

With a sigh, Brea looked back down at the paper. It was slim pickings for jobs. There wasn’t even any waitressing work ads. Groaning Brea scrunched up the page and pushed it aside. It was useless. As bummed out as she was, she went back outside to work on some more sketches beneath the willow tree and clear her mind.

When Brea drew the world around her, she disappeared and she became lost in her art. The process consumed her. She’d learned early on that drawing was a great way to get away from all the pain and sadness which haunted her day to day life. With a pencil in her hand she could get away, she could draw beautiful castles or strong, powerful animals capable of carrying her off on their backs. And her pictures were good, she was sure of that. Whenever she plucked up the courage to show them to Sylar, he was always full of praise.

“Wow, Brea, those are amazing,” he’d gush proudly. “Clearly you got all the talent in the family.”

Brea would blush modestly, secretly warmed by his words. If Sylar liked her pictures, then they must be good. Yet no one else had ever seen them. Had her parents still been around she’d have showed them but beyond them, the town of Harlow was cut off from most people. There was nothing like a tragedy to show you who your real friends were. Those that did stick around had recently left town for college, leaving Brea well and truly isolated with only Sylar for company.

She realized that she wanted a job for more than just financial reasons. She longed for companionship. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met someone new. In her town people only ever left, no one new ever showed up.

Placing down her artist’s pad Brea saw that the sun had started to dip in the sky. She wasn’t sure of the exact time, but she sensed that it was late afternoon. Sylar would be waking up soon and her plan had been to ambush him with her idea of getting a job. He was always most receptive to change when he was fully rested. But if she went to him with only an abstract idea he’d never go for it. She needed something concrete if she was going to win his approval.

Standing up Brea dusted herself off and headed back inside. A quick glance at the clock told her it was four o’ clock. She had little over an hour until Sylar awoke. Brea stood in the kitchen and debated what to do. She knew that she had to cast her net a little wider to find a decent job. The newspaper had been a dead end which meant that really, she needed to look online. Only her house didn’t have internet. Sylar was bizarrely dead set against having it. Brea paced around the small table, debating what she should do.

An hour, that was all she needed. If she left now, she could cycle into town and use one of the computers at the library to access the internet. But if Sylar found out he’d be pissed, and that’s putting it mildly. Not if he never knew, not if she was back in time. Before Brea could talk herself out of it, she was heading out of the front door and reaching for her bike. Despite the lateness of the day, the air still felt hot and humid. Pressing down on the pedals Brea started to cycle and was soon leaving her street and heading into town.

The feeling of freedom was intoxicating. As the wind blew through her hair, she leaned back and relished the sensation. She pedaled harder to help whip her hair into a wild frenzy. She was laughing, delirious with the excitement of it all. The fact that her visit to the library was forbidden made it feel all the more wondrous.

She was giggling to herself like a crazed sole conspirator as she chained up her bike and hurried up the stone steps towards the library. It was now four fifteen leaving her only thirty minutes to find the perfect job, which Sylar couldn’t possibly say no to.

“You can do this,” she told herself confidently as she entered the air-conditioned cool of the library. Pushing back her shoulders and lifting her chin she approached the section with the computers and tried to blend in, acting as though she belonged there, that what she was doing wasn’t actually some strange act of defiance. As she logged into a vacant computer, she prayed that her perfect job was just a few internet searches away.

Chapter 3

A shiver of excitement danced down Brea’s spine. It flooded her whole body with a warm tingling sensation. She had found the perfect job, she was sure of it. Leaning closer to the computer screen she read the post through again and again, each time feeling more certain that this was the job for her.

A tattoo artist in the next town over was seeking an apprentice. Experience in a tattoo parlor wasn’t necessary, all they wanted from applicants was ‘a sincere love and appreciation of art in all its forms.’ Brea clasped her hands together in delight and stifled an excited squeal. She most certainly did have a love of art. She had a sketch book full of drawings to prove it.

After printing out the details of the posting, Brea used the rest of her allocated time on the computer to research tattoos. It was a subject area she knew little about. She remembered a few of the girls at school talking about getting tattoos, but no one ever did. As Brea started scanning through internet images of tattoos, she saw why the love of art was required. Each tattoo she saw was a work of art in its own right. She saw designs so intricately beautiful that they threatened to bring tears to her eyes. And the people who had these designs tattooed on them had the privilege of being living, breathing works of arts. It was amazing.

With wide eyes, Brea tried to take it all in. As her excitement mounted, she became increasingly certain that this was where she belonged. Tattoos were living art, lifelong testaments to beauty. This job would be the perfect fit for her.

“Just one town over,” she mused aloud. It really wasn’t that far. It would take her half an hour, maybe a little bit more to cycle there. It was nothing really. The biggest hurdle she’d have to overcome was facing her brother. He’d be angry if he found out she’d been at the library, how could she expect him to allow her to go and work in a different town? But he had to.

Brea folded up her printed pages and placed them in her purse. She knew in her heart that her brother had to approve, had to let her take this job. She couldn’t spend her life locked up in their parent’s house like a prisoner. It was time she found herself and experienced the world and he couldn’t deny her that.

As Brea cycled home, her initial excitement dwindled and turned to nerves. In her mind, she rehearsed what she was going to say to her brother, how she was going to make him see that her getting a job was a great idea. She wished, as she so often did, that her parents were still alive. The memories she had of them though dulled with time, were still a source of comfort. She remembered them being kind and enthusiastic people. She had no doubt that if she’d gone to them with her desire to become a tattoo artist’s apprentice that they would have been supportive. Perhaps she needed to remind Sylar of that fact? For so long he’d embodied both mother and father for her – putting food on the table and a roof over her head. But he’d forgotten the most important part of being a parent – supporting your child and nurturing them into an adult.

If her parents were still around, what would they make of his dangerous night job which saw him coming home with black eyes and shaken nerves?

Brea shook her head, dismissing her dark thoughts and letting her hair tumble into her eyes.

“Urgh,” she scoffed as she released one hand from gripping her bike to toss the hair out of her line of sight. She was almost home. Just a few more blocks and she’d be there, with her brother hopefully still sleeping soundly in his bedroom and none the wiser of her little trip out.

When Brea got home, she was grateful to have been right. The house was silent as she crept inside. She braced herself for her brother’s anger when she walked through the door but was met only with tranquility. Sighing with relief, she headed towards the kitchen and turned on the cooker, ready to prepare that pizza she promised him. She dropped her purse but couldn’t stop thinking of the printed article inside. She knew she had to approach her brother about it and this was the best time to do so – when he was well rested.

Brea nervously prepared a frozen pizza. She kept glancing at the clock and chewing her lip, wishing it was already time for Sylar to get up so that she could get the awkward conversation out of the way, but then also wishing time could go slow and prevent their encounter altogether.

Eventually the pizza was cooked, she carefully removed it from the oven, the cheese atop it all golden and bubbling as distantly a door creaked open. Sylar was awake. He strode into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and a loose fitting white t-shirt. The musky scent of sleep still clung to him.

“Dinner smells good,” he commented, patting his belly.

“Just took it out of the oven,” Brea smiled a little too widely. Her nerves were getting the better of her. She sliced up the pizza with a shaking hand, but she kept her back to Sylar so that he wouldn’t notice the tremble in her wrist as she used the knife.

“You had a good day?” Sylar asked as dropped down onto the sofa and flicked on the TV.

“Uh huh,” Brea replied ambiguously. “You sleep okay?”

“Like a baby.”

“So you’re all good and rested?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome,” Brea bought a plate of pizza slices over to him which he gratefully accepted. She lingered by him for a moment, wondering if this was the opportunity she needed to seize in order to discuss the job with him. But then she decided it was better to let him eat first. Rested and well fed would leave Sylar in the optimal mood to approach the topic. Retreating back towards the kitchen Brea picked up her own plate of pizza and came and sat beside her brother.

He was watching a Nascar race, his bare feet kicked up on the coffee table. For a while, they ate in silence, with only the excited chatter of the commentator and the roar of the engines filling the space between them. There had been a time when her brother was determined to be a Nascar driver. He’d power his little go-cart up and down the street and tell everyone that one day he was going to be a famous driver and be the fastest in the world.

“Speed isn’t everything,” their father would warn.

“It is if you want to be the best,” Sylar would challenge. Even as a little boy he was a hot-headed thrill seeker. He’d ride his go-cart so hard and fast that the tires wore too thin and pedals became loose. Sylar was competitive too. He’d challenge any kid he saw on their street to a race and he’d beat them every time, even if they were on a two wheel bike. It was like there was a fire inside him that would only diminish when he was racing through the wind on his go-cart and then eventually his bike.

Brea often wondered what happened to that fire after her parents died. She often thought it must have just been abruptly extinguished by sorrow. But when Sylar bought himself a motorcycle she began to entertain the thought that perhaps the fire was still there. Perhaps a part of Sylar still had to race to be the best. But she never asked. There was so much between them that went unsaid.