The Mad Tatter by J. M. Darhower

  I open—and close—my mouth a few times, on the verge of trying to talk her out of her choice, certain she will someday regret it, when amused snickering distracts me. My gaze shifts to the goddess on Bridgette's left as the girl fights, and fails, to restrain her laughter.

  "What's so funny, A?" Bridgette asks, looking at her friend.

  "Nothing," the girl says quickly, a slight flush overcoming her cheeks at the attention as she waves us away. "Was just thinking about… something. It doesn't matter. Don't mind me."

  Bridgette shrugs it off and turns back to the drawing, launching into detail about how she wants it done and where and why, while I can't tear my eyes off of her friend. She fidgets at the attention, still trying to contain her smirk, her face only growing redder under my intense gaze. I can feel my cock stirring, hardening and straining the fabric of my ratty old jeans as my eyes scan her slowly, assessing like I always do when I meet somebody.

  Working in this business taught me to be a pretty good judge of people, and this girl… this goddess… is a virgin. Probably not a sexual one, but she is undoubtedly a blank canvas, untainted, uninked, and I love nothing more than being first. Very little is more thrilling than conquering the unconquerable… attaining the unattainable… claiming the unclaimed.

  Doing what everyone says I can't do.

  Proving them all wrong finally.

  Others may have touched the goddess, and maybe even marked her for a short time, but I want to be the one to leave the lasting mark.

  I want my touch to be permanent.

  "Sounds great," I say, reluctantly turning my focus back to Bridgette when she stops yammering. Business first, then pleasure. "I'll get it drawn up for you and then we'll get started."

  Nodding politely at the girls, I grab the picture from the album and take it back to my workspace. Before I start, I pop a fresh piece of gum in my mouth.

  It doesn't take me long to play copycat and sketch a rendering of the tattoo, grudgingly adding the name 'Johnny' in script and hoping like hell they'll be together for a long time after this. Shaking my head, knowing the odds aren't in their favor, I head back out to the lobby, my footsteps faltering when there is only one girl waiting now.

  The goddess.

  Christ, it's peculiar.

  I can't put my finger on it, but for some reason she's striking.

  "Is your friend...?" Please tell me she came to her senses.

  "Bridgette just walked outside," she says, motioning toward the glass front door of the business. "She said she needed a quick cigarette."

  The word is like a trigger on a gun, pulled carelessly, a bullet haphazardly striking me right in the gut. Shots fired! It feels like hot iron, the yearning burning my insides. And I know just one cigarette, one puff of the nicotine-laced smoke, will be all it takes to cure what ills me, to put out the fire raging inside.

  Too bad I promised her I would kick the bad habit, no matter how miserable quitting makes me.

  Fuck knows she's probably disappointed enough by everything else I've done.

  "So, uh, have you worked here long?"

  I raise an eyebrow when the goddess attempts small talk. "A few years now."

  "Oh. Cool. You must be good, you know, to work here. Bridgette says this place is one of the best in the city."

  I chuckle as she wrings her hands together in her lap. Nervous. "I like to think I know what I'm doing."

  In more ways than one...

  Before she can respond, the door to the shop opens and Bridgette steps back inside. The odor of smoke clings to her, calling to me, making my body twitch and my skin itch. I want to spray her with Lysol and send her right back out the door, far, far away from me.

  Clearing my throat, blowing out a deep breath to try to shake it off, I motion for the girls to follow me to my room. Goddess takes a seat in a folding metal chair off to the side as Bridgette climbs up on the reclining tattoo table. Quietly, quickly, I tweak the drawing to her specifications before printing off the stencil and positioning it on her body... on her chest, over her heart.

  "That's where he is," she says dramatically. "In my heart. He'll be there forever."

  Unlikely. Give it a decade, and if she even remembers he exists, she'll probably want nothing more than to wring his fucking neck.

  "Choose some music," I say, kicking the box out from under the desk. It's packed full of old tapes I've accumulated over the years, a little something for everyone.

  "Cassettes?" Bridgette asks, shifting through them. "Do these things even still work?"

  "They work perfectly fine," I say. "Pick your poison."

  Bridgette settles on Bon Jovi. I shove it in the boombox and press play. After putting on a pair of black gloves, I flip on the tattoo machine and set to work, sighing exasperatedly when Bridgette cries out the second she feels the needle against her skin.

  Low pain tolerance.

  "You and Johnny been together long?" I ask curiously, trying to divert her attention off of the pain. The more she flinches, and writhes, and tries to slink away, the longer this session will take.

  "Yes," she says. "We're going on six months now."

  I try not to, but I cringe. Only six months? "You know tattoos are permanent, right? They're a bitch to have removed."

  She laughs. "Of course, but I'm not worried. Johnny and I will be together forever."

  "Good to know," I mutter, once more ignoring my common sense and continuing on with her tattoo. Again, what the customer wants, the customer gets.

  I work diligently, trying to pour myself into the tattoo, but the tedium of the design doesn't interest me and the goddess in the corner keeps distracting me. My eyes shift her way whenever she speaks, or moves, or even fucking breathes. I want to block her out and focus on my work, but it's hard to disregard her presence. I can even smell her perfume every time she shifts around in her seat, slowly scooting closer to where I sit, the sweet scent sending shivers down my spine when I inhale deeply.

  Fuck.

  The girl has magic wafting from her, entrancing me, her body calling out to me in more ways than one. I'm not sure what's tempting me most at the moment. Cigarettes suddenly seem the least of my concerns.

  The tape is flipped once before I finally finish my work. I shut off the machine, the humming dying as I move away from Bridgette. "Give it a look, sweetheart, and let me know what you think."

  She jumps up, practically running to the mirror, and lets out a squeal of excitement. "Oh my God, it's perfect!"

  I stand and tear off the gloves, throwing them in the trashcan. Bridgette continues to gaze in the mirror as I lean back against the table and turn to her friend. "Your turn?"

  Her eyes widen slightly at the question as she shakes her head. "Oh, no… no way… not me."

  I cross my arms over my chest. "Fear or repulsion?"

  "What?"

  "There are usually two reasons people snub tattoos—they're either afraid of the pain or they don't like the art. So which is it?"

  She hesitates. "It's just that, well… it's like you said. They're permanent."

  "So you're not a fan."

  Goddess's eyes shift to her friend as she continues to admire her fresh ink in the mirror. "I am… sometimes. But other times, you know..."

  Other times they're senseless pieces of shit, stupid mistakes you can never completely fix. You can cover a tattoo, or try to have it removed, but parts of the original always leave a mark on a person.

  I understand that. I live it everyday.

  "Tattoos are personal… or, well, they should be. What's good for someone won't be for everyone else. You just have to find something that's you."

  "And I haven't," she says. "I haven't ever found anything. I don't know what that something could be."

  I reach past her and snatch one of my business cards off of the desk. I hold it out to her. "Well, if you ever want to figure it out, you let me know."

  Goddess takes the card, blush staining her cheeks. Her brow furrows
momentarily as she reads it. I watch her mouth slowly move, silently reading the words, and nearly moan out loud, imagining those lips wrapped around my cock.

  This girl is sin in disguise, lust embodied, unleashed on earth to taunt and tease me.

  I surrender.

  "Reece Hatfield," she says, glancing back at me. "That sounds familiar for some reason."

  "I don't know why it would."

  She ponders that for a moment before shrugging it off, pocketing the card. Kevin's name is the one everyone remembers. He's the moneymaker of the shop, the White Rabbit that draws the crowd into Wonderland. He's taken to calling me the Mad Tatter these days.

  Bridgette swings around, excitedly raving about her tattoo as she pulls out some money, leaving a hefty tip. I smile politely, pocketing the extra cash, as Bridgette runs outside to call her boyfriend.

  Goddess stands up then, smiling sheepishly as she smoothes some invisible wrinkles from her pink dress. "Nice to meet you, Reece."

  "You, too…" I hesitate. "I don't know your name."

  "Avery."

  Avery... I don't think I've ever met an Avery. While I'm decent at remembering faces, I've always been terrible at names.

  She starts to walk out when I reach over and grasp her wrist, stalling her. I don't even think about it when I do. It's instinct. I'm not ready for her to leave yet. Her gaze darts to my hand, startled, before she hesitantly meets my eyes.

  "I mean it," I say, my voice low, earnest. "Let me know if you're ever interested in me, you know… exploring you. It would be my pleasure."

  And most decidedly yours, too.

  The dark sky is spitting when I step out the front of Wonderland Ink at closing, sporadic raindrops falling, hitting the damp sidewalk around me. I hesitate right outside the door, fixing my hat so it's straight before pulling my hood up over my head. I shove my hands in the pockets of my black hoodie, lingering there for a moment as the door is locked up behind me.

  "Night, Reece," Ellie says, elbowing me as she dodges past with Martin in tow. "Get some sleep, will you? You look like a dead man walking."

  Silently, I nod, watching them head down the street, toward Ellie's beat up old Volkswagen Bug, as Kevin pauses beside me. He fishes around in his pockets, pulling out a pack of Marlboros, and holds it out toward me.

  I stare in silence at the rumpled up red-and-white pack for a moment… and then another moment… and another fucking moment… trying to get my mouth to work to say no, but I know if I open it, all that will come out is a pathetic whimper.

  Man, after the day I've had? I'd kill for one.

  After another moment, I shake my head, using every ounce of my willpower to look away from him.

  He shrugs, popping a cigarette between his lips before pocketing the rest of the pack. He blocks the raindrops as he lights it, taking a drag so deep that it makes even my chest ache. He exhales slowly through his nose, casting me a wary look. "You finally quitting?"

  "Yeah," I grumble, running my fingers along the edges of the lighter still in my pocket. "I said I would, so… yeah."

  Kevin regards me for a moment before smiling and taking a step away, keeping his eyes fixed on me. He points at me, his fingers clutching the lit cigarette. "I don't care what anybody says. You're a damn good kid."

  Before those words are even completely from his lips, I'm rolling my eyes. Kid.

  "I mean it," he says, ignoring my reaction to the word. Kevin is in his late forties, was tattooing roughnecks way back when I was still in diapers. To him, I'm still that troublemaker he met years ago, the kid with too much time on his hands and not enough sense in his head. "You might be a little rough around the edges, but I always saw the good in you. You wouldn't be working here if I didn't. And talent?" He lets out a low whistle. "I was admiring your work before I even knew who you were."

  He salutes me before turning and strolling away.

  "Ellie's right, though," he calls back. "You look like shit. Get some damn sleep."

  I wait until Kevin is gone before lowering my head, glancing both ways as I quickly jaywalk across the street. I head straight for the small dive bar just down from the shop. The Spare Room is everything you'd expect from a hole-in-the-wall in the Lower Eastside: dim lighting and cheap booze, an outdated jukebox and the stale odor of old beer. The floors are stained, the stools are old, and the bartender doubles as an overworked therapist to the drunks he serves.

  My kind of place.

  People leave each other alone here. They don't judge each other here. We're all a little bit fucked up, broke as shit but needing to relax. Nobody looks at me like I don't belong here. I appreciate it.

  I slide onto the wooden stool closest to the door… my usual stool… and rap my knuckles against the bar. The bartender shoots me a look, offering a nod in greeting, before sliding a can of Genesee my way. "Rough day?"

  I pop the top on the beer and take a long drink before responding. “You could say that."

  He pours a single shot of whiskey and nudges it toward me, but I instantly motion for a second one before he can walk away. Bridgette left a decent tip, and I'm all too eager to spend it.

  He pours another shot before moving on to someone else. I pick them up, downing the liquor quickly, and relax back in my seat. As I sip the beer, I pull out my lighter, gripping the cheap plastic as my thumb turns the metal flint wheel, creating a small spark, over and over and over again.

  What am I doing here? I don't know. Out of habit, maybe… or maybe I just really don't want to go home.

  I drink a beer, then another, all the while turning the wheel on the lighter, igniting the flame, cursing when I burn my thumb with it. Idiot. After tossing money on the bar to pay for all of my drinks, I walk back out.

  I'm barely outside when my phone starts to ring. Something inside of me lurches, tightening at the sound. I reach for it, pulling it out, the face of the goddess from the tattoo shop still on my mind. Avery. I expect her to call eventually, but this soon?

  I don't bother to even look at the screen. Hitting the button to answer, I bring the phone to my ear. "Yeah?"

  "Reece!"

  I cringe at the voice. Lark. "Uh, hey."

  "You ducked out early this morning," she says. "I didn't get to say bye."

  "Yeah, you know… work."

  "I get it," she says. "What are you doing now? You want to come over? My parents are still out of town."

  I pause on the street corner just down the block from the tattoo shop, my attention drifting toward a new construction site diagonal from where I stand. The entire corner is blocked off, the sidewalk extended out to divert foot traffic past the work area. The side of the abandoned building is covered with dark weatherproof tarps, including the concrete wall along the bottom, twenty feet tall, spanning over sixty feet long. It's little more than a box of black plastic, a far cry from the colorful onslaught that used to always greet me at this corner.

  It's amazing how much shit changes when you're not looking.

  The sight makes my muscles grow taut, a heavy sensation swelling inside of me, like I've swallowed lead weights.

  It feels like I’ve been kicked in the gut.

  The world is a little less bright today.

  I'm exhausted, and it's starting to grow cold. The last thing I want at the moment is to be alone. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

  Turning away from the construction site, I head in the opposite direction, back toward the townhouse I skipped out of at dawn this morning. I have a thing against repeat visits, especially this soon, but what harm can it do?

  My world is already fucked up.

  The damage is done.

  The parts of me that aren't damaged, the part of my heart that still strongly beats, belongs entirely to somebody already... somebody who isn't good at sharing. Whatever's left—the broken, hardened parts of my soul—has no interest in ever being healed. I don't need God, or Dr. Oz, or Dr. Phil… I have all I need.

  Fuck everything else.

&
nbsp; Literally.

  I live with a void most days, a bitter loneliness that a woman's touch eases, but it's only temporary. They satisfy the outside, caressing my skin, but no one ever gets further than that… and I prefer it that way.

  So as wrong as I know it is, flirting and fucking my way through the female population, I have no intention of stopping, because very little ever feels right to me, anyway.

  Lark is sitting on her front step when I make it there, sipping on something in a plastic cup, but she’s not alone. Another young blonde sits beside her, the two of them dressed almost identically in jeans and boots and dark sweaters. I’d almost call them twins if I didn’t know that Lark was an only kid.

  I know, because she told me, along with every other damn thing about her, those two long weeks we texted.

  “Reece!” Lark says excitedly, jumping up as a wide grin splits her face. She practically throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck, and planting a kiss right on my lips. I dodge it the best I can, laughing under my breath, as I grasp her hips and push away.

  “Hey,” I say, glancing past her, at her friend, watching as the girl drinks what’s left in her own cup before setting it down beside her. Lark turns around in front of me, leaning back against my chest, and starts to take a drink, but I steal her cup from her hand before she can. Bringing it up to my nose, I inhale, the concentration of alcohol nearly burning my fucking nostrils. I take a sip, grimacing. “Jesus, girl, what is this?"

  “Banana Red."

  “Banana Red what?"

  “Mad Dog."

  She giggles as she says it, while I just shake my head, taking another sip before tipping the cup over, spilling the rest out on the street behind me. The cheap bum wine is nothing to fuck with.

  “What did you do that for?” she asks, eyes wide as she grabs the empty cup back from me.

  “You shouldn’t be drinking that shit,” I tell her. “It's just one step away from drinking malt liquor from a brown paper bag. Who bought it for you, anyway?"

  She rolls her eyes, crushing the cup, as she motions toward her friend. “Jenny."