Pretty In Ink (9 page)

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am.”

She pressed her hands against my chest and pushed against me harshly. As I recovered from her shoving me, she leaned back, furrowed her brow, and glared at me. Sitting with the comforter now nestled around her waist and her upper body exposed and naked, it was difficult to take her seriously.

“I’m on birth control, you dork,” she said.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well you do now,” she said. “So do you want to?”

“Come inside of you?” I asked.

She shifted her eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “Yes, dork. Do you want to blow a load in my twat?”

I shrugged my shoulders and widened my eyes playfully. “With an invitation like that, who could refuse?”

And, in all actuality, I could hardly wait.

STEVIE

I never really had many options for what I could have done with my life regarding work, but my decision to be a tattoo artist proved to be a very wise choice for me. I loved my work, I was a very good artist, and I was often able to produce a piece of work I seriously doubted any other artist on earth could come close to reproducing.

“Stop twisting around or this thing is going to look like Keith fucking Richards,” I said as he turned to the side.

“It better not,” he said as he relaxed again.

I lifted my foot from the switch. “Look, it’s really close to being done. It doesn’t matter if you’re looking at the tattoo or looking at the fucking wall, it’s going to look the same when I’m done.
Unless
you keep dicking around like you’re doing now. It’s on your ribs, and every time you twist like that, it’s like yanking against a painter’s canvas while they’re trying to paint. Just hold still for fifteen more minutes,” I said.

“Alright,” he sighed.

He had been a pretty good customer considering he was getting a three hour long portrait of his father on his ribcage. According to the story he told, his father had died of lung cancer at the age of forty-eight, and I was doing my best to produce an exact likeness of the photograph he provided.

A huge cloud of smoke slowly migrated into my station and began to loom over my chair. I released the switch again, lifted the needle from his skin, and glanced toward Blake’s station.

“Dude, seriously?” I said.

Blake was tattooing one of the employees of the local hippie pizza joint, who was an avid smoker of the e-cig. When the product first came on the market, they resembled cigarettes and produced a small puff of smoke. Now, batteries the size of a clenched fist and oil tanks that resembled shot glasses emitted clouds of smoke that could easily fill a room.

And this hipster was blowing them out like he was at a fucking Cheech and Chong concert.

“Dude, have some respect,” I said.

He raised the contraption to his lips, inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled a ten second long cloud of citrus smelling nonsense into the air. The shop looked like the stage in an old school Def Leppard video as the cloud of smoke encompassed everything around it.

“It’s not smoking, it’s water vapor,” he said. “It’s completely legal.”

“So is taking a fucking shit, asshole,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean you need to do it in mixed company.”

“Put it away,” Blake said.

“Dude, seriously?” the hipster asked.

Blake nodded his head.

“Thank you,” I said.

I glanced down at the tattoo and tried to remember where I was when I was enveloped by the smoke cloud. After studying it for a few seconds, I dipped the needle, stepped on the switch, and preceded.

“Just a few more minutes,” I said as I alternated glances between the photo and the tattoo.

After completing all of the black and grey, I rinsed the needle, dipped it into the white, and gave a few highlights to the eyes and in the reflection of light in the hair. I carefully wiped the tattoo with the back of my glove and rolled my stool back slightly.

I nodded my head.

“Hold still, I’m going to wipe it down,” I said.

I wiped the tattoo with green soap, and then with witch hazel. A thorough inspection revealed no imperfections that I could see, and I relaxed into my seat satisfied with the job I had done.

“Take a look,” I said.

He rolled to his side, studied the tattoo, and sighed heavily. “It’s perfect. You did my pop proud.”

“Thank you. It’s a great piece,” I said.

I opened my drawer, pulled out a care card, and handed it to him.

“Don’t listen to your tattooed buddies, or follow recommendations you read on the internet, do what it says on this card. As long as you follow these instructions, the work’s guaranteed,” I said.

“I’ve got other tattoos,” he said.

“I don’t give a shit how many tattoos you’ve got. Follow what it says on the card,” I said as I waved the card in front of him.

He accepted the card and slid it into his back pocket.

“Three hundred?” he asked.

“Yep,” I responded.

He stood, removed his wallet, and pulled out four one hundred dollar bills. “Keep the other. A tip for a great job, I appreciate it.”

“Thank you,” I said as I pushed the money into my front pocket.

“What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Stevie,” I responded as I reached for the cellophane wrap.

“Let me wrap that for you. Just leave it on until you get home,” I said.

He shifted his eyes up from admiring the tattoo. “Alright.”

I wrapped his tattoo in cellophane and taped the edges with medical tape. After making certain the bandage was secure, I nodded my head.

“You’re good to go,” I said.

He nodded his head, shifted his eyes toward my hands, and then raised them to meet mine.

“You want to go out for a beer sometime?” he asked.

“Sorry, spoken for,” I responded.

“Don’t see a ring,” he said.

“Still spoken for,” I said.

“Not very loudly,” he said with a grin.

I pressed my hand into my hip and cocked an eyebrow. “You stumble over that white BMW M4 on your way in?”

“I saw it, yeah. Bad ass ride,” he said.

“That loud enough?” I asked.

He pulled his shirt over his head and tugged the wrinkles out before fixing his eyes on mine. “Your man buy you that?”

“Sure did,” I responded.

He nodded his head and turned toward the door.

“Wouldn’t have guessed you for a gold digger,” he mumbled as he turned away.

“Excuse me?” I said.

He continued to walk toward the door as if he didn’t hear me, but I was sure he did.

“What did you say, you pinch faced little prick?” I asked in a stern tone.

He stopped and turned around.

“I said I wouldn’t have guessed you for a gold digger,” he said.

I was far from a gold digger. I wasn’t with Wilson for his money, and in fact he exact opposite was true. Even if he had nothing, I would be with him. His manner of treating me with respect, being kind, and his considerate nature were just a few of the reasons I was attracted to him. And, of course, the fact that he could make me have multiple orgasms. For this hatchet-faced little punk to say anything otherwise was pure unsubstantiated bullshit.

“I’m not a gold digger, you dick,” I said.

“He bought you that car, didn’t he?” he asked as he turned away.

“I’m not with him for his money, fuck you,” I said.

He pushed the door open, paused, and spoke over his shoulder.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he said.

“Fuck you,” I shouted.

As I watched him walk down the sidewalk toward his car, I turned toward my station, still fuming mad.

The hipster’s wide eyes were fixed on me.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” I asked.

His eyes quickly shifted toward the floor.

“That guy was a dick,” Riley said as I walked past.

“Fucking douchebag,” I said.

I walked to my station and peered down at the floor beside my toolbox. The pair of Red Bottom shoes I had worn to work sat beside my toolbox. I was wearing a pair of the designer jeans he bought me, and the key fob for the BMW sitting outside was stuffed into my front pocket.

I turned toward the mirror. The top I was wearing was also something he had given me.

But it wasn’t why I was with him, it was coincidental.

I was sure of it.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?” Riley asked.

I turned around, glanced at the clock, and glared at her.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said. “Don’t be mad at me.”

“Blake, I’m leaving early,” I said.

“Okay by me,” he said over the sound of his buzzing machine.

“Be back tomorrow,” I said as I stormed toward the door.

On my fucking bicycle.

WILSON

Investing a significant amount of money in a highly speculative common stock valued at less than a dollar a share was dangerous, but had the potential of being very rewarding. My early morning gamble of purchasing several million shares of a stock valued at eighteen cents was a tremendous risk considering the rumors of bankruptcy and the potential of losing my investment, but the seven cent increase in value when they announced a merger with a competitor cleared me almost two million in profit.

Not a bad profit at all for a day’s work.

“One point eight nine seven clear!” I screamed as I sold the stock.

“Outstanding,” Andrew responded from down the hallway. “Congratulations.”

“It’s high time we replace that ratty Audi you’ve been driving,” I shouted.

“I like my Audi,” he said.

The sweat stains on the armpits of his shirt indicated he was having a more difficult day than me. 

“Antiperspirant works wonders,” I said with a laugh.

“Let’s just say my day hasn’t gone so well,” he responded.

“Haven’t lost more than a million eight ninety seven, have you?” I asked.

He shook his head, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and sighed.

“Well then, it doesn’t really matter,” I said.

“Very well. I’m going back in,” he said.

“Best of luck to you,” I said with a nod.

As he turned and walked away, I glanced around my office. On the high I was normally on when I made a huge profit, I was ready to spend money on
something
. Personally, I needed nothing, and my contributions to charity for the year were at an all-time high. Fully aware of the possibility of losing as much as I made in a matter of one poor decision made very little difference to me at the moment, and after a few minutes of contemplating, I picked up the phone.

“Sharpe, Please,” I said as the receptionist answered.

After a short wait, he answered the phone.

“This is Sharpe, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“Sharpe, Asher Wilson. How are you?” I asked.

“I am well, Mr. Wilson. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Do you have a new M5 on your lot? One, let’s say, in a fun color?” I asked.

“Have one on the showroom in Sakhir Orange with the same interior,” he said.

“Describe it,” I said.

“In one word,” he said. “Money.”

“Is it a metallic paint?” I asked as I typed the color into Google.

“It sure is. This one has twelve thousand dollar HRE rims, a full Akrapovic exhaust, and a Dinan stage three chip; it’s pushing six hundred and seventy five horsepower. It sounds like a Formula One car,” he said.

“Price?” I asked.

“With options, for you? One hundred thirty-two even,” he said.

“Do you have any bows in contrasting colors?” I chuckled.

“I can sure have someone make one in a powder blue,” he said with a laugh.

“Have it delivered to my office, would you?” I asked.

“Sure will,” he said.

“Put the company name on the title, I’ll come in this evening and sign for it. I’ll have the bank wire you the money. One thirty-two even?” I asked.

“Yes, Sir,” he responded.

“Do you have a tow truck?” I asked.

“Which one’s broke down?” he asked.

“None of them. I want Andrew’s old Audi towed out of here, and that one put in its place. Before he leaves here this evening. Can you do that?” I asked.

“I can do anything. And the bow?” he asked.

“Powder blue sounds great,” I said.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wilson,” he said.

“Likewise. And tell the wife I said hello,” I said.

“I certainly will,” he responded.

As I hung up the phone my mouth curled into a grin of accomplishment. Andrew’s Audi wasn’t a bad car by any means, but it was far from new, and certainly not indicative of his performance with the company. His demands of keeping it, in my opinion, were a means of punishing himself for what he believed was insubordination. Nothing could be further from the truth. I had purchased the Audi when he started working for me, and it was high time it was replaced.

As I rolled my chair toward the window, the elevator bell rang. My sphincter puckered at the thought of my mother arriving again, and I rose to my feet in anticipation of just that. As Stevie poked her head through the door, I sighed in relief. Wearing jean shorts, sneakers, and an extremely worn “DEVO” concert tee, she looked adorable.

“Shut down the shop early?” I asked.

She pressed her hands against her hips, shook her head, and huffed a very vocal sigh.

“Give me a ride home?” she asked.

“A ride? Where’s your car?” I asked.

“Downstairs?” she said.

I shook my head in confusion. “Why do you need a ride?”

She turned her palms up and shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t need it anymore.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing’s going on. Car’s downstairs with all the clothes you bought me in the trunk and the back seat. Don’t want it anymore. Clothes either. Can I get a ride?” she asked.

Confused, shocked, and unaware of what she was thinking, I walked in her direction, glared at her as I stepped past, and pulled the door closed.

“What’s goin on?” I asked as I walked past her.

“I need a fucking ride,” she snapped back.

“Because?” I said, dragging the word along for a few seconds.

“Because I need to know for sure that I’m with you for all the right reasons,” she said.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. For her to even question why we were together was ludicrous and without merit. As I reached my desk I turned to face her and crossed my arms in front of my chest as I did so. 

“Do you believe you’re with me for my money?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I need to know.”

The thought of her questioning herself angered me slightly. I suspected someone said something bringing her to question herself. I stood and struggled mentally with a means of convincing her she truly had feelings for me, and not for my wealth.

“And you’re afraid you don’t?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders again.

I uncrossed my arms and shook my head. As the anger built within me, I turned toward the window and peered out over the city. This was not what I wanted to hear, and certainly not something I felt I should have to deal with. I felt I should be able to do whatever I was able to for her and not have her question her sincerity. I felt I needed to convince her of her true feelings, but continued to struggle with a manner to do so. After a moment of staring blankly through the glass and listening to her breathe heavily, I turned around.

Undesirable circumstances can only be resolved by equally undesirable actions.

“Fine. I’ll give you a ride home, but it will be the fucking last you see of me,” I said.

It was the first time I had ever cursed in her presence. I hated to do it, but I felt it was necessary to make my point.

Her bottom lip began to quiver. After a few torturous seconds of watching her, she began to sob. It was all I could do not to intervene and attempt to comfort her, but I felt I needed to prove a point once and for all. And she needed to fully understand how she felt about
me
.

“But…” she blubbered. “But…I…I…love you.”

I opened my arms and rushed toward her. As I picked her up from her feet and held her in my arms, she pressed her face into my chest and continued to cry uncontrollably.

“I would never do anything of the sort,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I just wanted to prove a point.”

As I held her, I realized what she had said. Although we had been in a relationship for over a month, the “L” word had never been spoken. I had felt as if I did love her, but feared a premature claim of love would cause her to possibly turn away. Now that she had claimed it, not only did it prove to her – and me – how she truly felt, it opened the door for me to be honest about my feelings toward her as well.

I released her from my arms and held her by the shoulders. Her eyes immediately fell to the floor. I placed my index finger under her chin and lifted it slightly.

“Listen to me,” I said.

She shifted her eyes upward and bit her lower lip. “I am.”

“I’m sorry. I said that to prove a point. Now, answer this…” I paused and allowed her to collect herself.

“How did you feel when I said that?” I asked.

“Heartbroken,” she said.

“Not here for the money, are you?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Why are you here? Why are you with me?” I asked.

“Because…”

Based on her response, I wondered if she even realized what she had said earlier.

“Would you like to know why I’m here?” I asked.

Still biting her quivering bottom lip, she nodded her head.

“Because I love you,” I said.

She fell into me and squeezed me tight. After a few seconds of listening to what appeared to be her hyperventilating, she leaned away and looked up into my eyes.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I really do.”

“Are you going to take your things back where they belong? Home? Your car and your clothes?” I asked.

She nodded her head. “I’m sorry,” she breathed.

“Alright, but there’s something we need to take care of first,” I said.

“What’s that?” she said as she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

“I’m not going to say,” I said. “But you’re going to need to get undressed.”

What excited me more about the thought of fucking Stevie at that moment wasn’t that I was going to fuck her in my office for the first time, or that we were going be doing it up against a twenty story window looking out over the city. What had me more excited than anything was that while we were doing it, I was going to be able to tell her I loved her.

Which was something I truly felt had been missing.