Tattooed (4 page)

4

T
he random movements of people on the sidewalk set McNally’s teeth on edge. The rows and rows of bread in the grocery store…nine grain, whole grain, vitality, soy, cracked wheat, organic this, vegan that. Everything was so…complicated.

And the girls and women… Everywhere.

His first few days on the outside had been a blur. Rick Lovett, who once had hung on his every word, was as of today his new boss. His old friend had greeted him with a warning: “Stay away from me. No drugs. No police.” Lovett had unlocked the now-vacant superintendent’s apartment in one of his lower-rent apartment buildings in the North end. “You are on call 24/7. You have weekends off. Rent is included. Don’t scare the tenants.” He had tossed the keys to McNally, doubt in his eyes, regret already twisting his lips. “And wear a baseball cap on your head until your hair grows in. You look like you belong to a gang with that tatt.”

A flush prickled McNally’s neck, but he slipped the keys in his pocket. He walked through the doorway of the apartment.

It was small. It was bare. It was his.

He could do whatever he fucking wanted to do in here.

His heart began to race.

“Will do, boss,” he drawled and closed the door on Lovett’s ugly face.

The next morning, he woke up at 5:04 a.m. He grimaced. It was early even for prison time.

He buried his face in his pillow. He had wanted to sleep in to celebrate his first day in his new life.

But neither his mind nor his body had made the leap yet.

He jumped up from his mattress, unable to stay still. He would make a cup of coffee, write a list of things he needed.

Half an hour later, the list was two pages long and frustration made his body tight. At the wage Lovett paid him, it would take at least a year to earn enough money to afford everything he needed.

And wanted. Like a professional tattooist’s kit.

He put on his running shoes. He didn’t have any gym clothes, so his jeans would have to do. He slipped into the hallway, locking his door—pushing down, down, down the memory of the thousands of times that he had watched a CX lock him up—and headed to the parkade.

Lovett had given him the keys to a company truck. It was navy blue, parked in a corner, easily identifiable with the large gold logo of Lovett’s real estate company: Lovett Group Limited.

The vibration of the V8 engine dug pleasantly deep into his bones as he drove across the bridge and headed to Cole Harbour. Fifteen minutes later, he turned down Bissett Road—snorting at the religious exhortations on the billboard of a local fundamentalist church—and drove to the turnoff for Rainbow Haven beach. He sensed, but could not yet see, the ocean in the distance. He turned into the parking lot. His tires crunched, the truck’s engine a low throb in the hush of near-dawn.

He was the sole visitor. He jumped out of the truck.

Sea air—tangy, damp, invigorating—brushed his face.

He broke into a run, savoring the air on his skin, empty space all around him.

He jogged past the canteen and change rooms. His sneakers made a hollow thud on the wooden boardwalk. It took only a minute to arrive at the beach.

He stopped. The sweeping majesty of sand, water, sky made his chest feel hollow. His heart pounded.

Quiet.

When had he last heard quiet?

As he stood, he became aware of the soft roar of the tide, the muted call of a seabird, the wind confiding in his ear.

The waves were low today. When he was a teen, he had surfed on white, foaming breakers that carried the energy of inestimable particles of water. They had been some of the best days of his life.

He let his gaze wander down the long, sandy beach.

Sea foam, a dead crab, pebbles worn by a hundred thousand waves.

Dawn imbued the sky with a luminous gold. It moved under his skin, seeping through his cells, injecting light where there had been gray for as long as he could remember. Color bloomed through his blood.

For the first time since his incarceration twelve years ago, tears tightened his throat.

He put his face to the wind and began to sprint down the beach. He eventually slowed into a steady run, only stopping when the frantic energy in his muscles had subsided to a manageable buzz.

Just over an hour later, he climbed into the truck, his body sheathed in sweat, eager for another cup of coffee. He switched on the radio and found a station that played classic rock. By the time he reached the bridge leading to Halifax, he was singing at the top of his voice.

The hope had been short-lived. As soon as he walked down Spring Garden Road, ready to throw himself into the bustle of one of Halifax’s main shopping districts, his muscles tightened. Became twitchy.

There were eyes watching him, all the time. He stood at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. He glanced over at the girl who stood just behind him, in a tiny tank top and cutoff shorts. He had been all ready to smile at her, but she edged away.

He hurried into the drugstore. He needed a razor and shaving gel. He took his time, his brain adjusting to the overwhelming variety. The back of his neck prickled. The sales clerk was staring at him. He chose a five-pack of disposable razors. He tucked it under his arm while he sniffed the shaving gel. One of them had a clean, fresh scent.

“Mmm…you smell so good,” Kenzie murmured into his neck. “Like citrus or something.”

This one smelled citrusy. He added it to the package of razors tucked in his arm and walked to the back of the line at the cash. He skimmed the tabloid magazines until it was his turn to pay. The cashier eyeballed the pockets of his jacket.

He dropped his purchases on the counter—enjoying the cashier’s flinch—and paid for the items. But as soon as he resumed window-shopping, his neck prickled again. Everyone stared at him. He shoved his hands in his jean pockets and retreated to a magazine store.

It was cool. Quiet. He drifted down an aisle. The images from the magazines jumped out at him. For years, he had only been permitted to use a black or blue pen for his drawings. The saturated color and pictures of beautiful women stirred a desire to create something in ink. Preferably in the flesh.

The tattoo magazines were tucked into the bottom shelf of the far corner. His heart rate quickened. Tattoo magazines had been contraband in prison. The few that circulated were before his time. He crouched down, his gaze jumping from cover to cover. He couldn’t decide, so he grabbed a copy of each, and strode to the cash. It added up to more than he expected—more than he could afford—but he bought them anyway.

Half an hour later, he lay on his mattress, flipping through the magazines. Midway through one of the most popular tattoo magazines, his fingers paused. He stared at the page.

Kenzie Sloane, The Goddess of Japanese Tattoos. The headline slammed into him.

Kenzie gazed at him—only a foot and a half from his face—glossy and in hi-def. So now he knew how the past seventeen years had treated her.

Well.

Very well.

Black eyeliner outlined those sky-blue eyes. The years had given her face a new assuredness. A plain black tank top provided stark relief to the riot of Japanese designs swirling on the skin of her arms, her chest, her neck.

Her neck.

His eyes flitted back and forth between the words of the article and the exuberant images of the photo spread.

The more he saw, the hungrier he grew.

The more he read, the angrier he became.

Had Kenzie ever once acknowledged that
he
was the one who had introduced her to tattooing?

No.

She’d used him.

And then abandoned him. “The bitch!” He threw the magazine onto the floor, jumping to his feet, his heart racing.

He knew she had been successful with tattooing, but he had had no idea what a celebrity she had become.

Had he just been naive? Willfully blind?

Or stupid?

He snatched the magazine from the floor and studied her face again.

The chronic infection of his heart—which had not eased over seventeen years—intensified.

He needed to see her. Talk to her. Make her see how terrible her mistake had been.

Make her sorry for never once calling. Never once visiting. Never once letting him know how much she regretted running away that night.

No, instead she hooked up with some guy who made her an apprentice at his shop in Montreal. And then she moved to the States. And now—his jaw tightened—she had a Q&A column called KOI—“Kenzie On Ink.”

You think you’re so clever,
he thought.
But I bet all that tattooing advice you dish out is the stuff I taught you when you were seventeen.

“Kenzie welcomes questions from tattooists at all levels,” the magazine gushed. It then listed her website, where “All of Kenzie’s guest studio appearances are listed.”

He stuck the magazine in his jacket, grabbed his set of master keys and strode down the hall to the manager’s office. One of the tenants turned from the row of mailboxes that stood sentry to the office door. “You’re the new super, right?” the short, tubby guy asked with an ingratiating smile.

McNally flipped through the key ring, searching for the one to unlock the office. “Yeah.” He gave him a look that had ended more than one conversation in prison.

The guy stuffed his mail into a grocery bag. McNally wanted him to scurry back to his apartment, but the tenant pulled out a flyer to the discount store and began to flip through it.

McNally swallowed his irritation.

This key looked about right. He stuck it in the lock and turned the knob.

Bingo.

He walked into the office. He felt the tenant’s eyes on his back, felt them tracing the lines of the spiderweb inked on his skull, sensed the man’s indecision about whether to ingratiate himself further—or keep a safe distance.

He shut the door on the tenant. Then bolted it.

It was for the man’s safety, he decided. Because if that guy bugged him any more, he’d punch his face in.

He turned on the computer. He had little access to computers on the inside, but he had received some job training while out on parole a few years ago. The computer was old and slow. By the time the software loaded, his teeth were gritted. He typed Kenzie’s website URL, and watched the site load.

His throat tightened. Koi fish swam up the sides of the computer screen. The background was a faint image of a waterfall. He entered the site and faced Kenzie, full screen.

His entire body flushed at the sight of her long, tattooed limbs. Her full breasts. Her mocking smile.

Had she ever tried to find him? Had she ever looked up his phone number or tried to search for
him
on the internet?

She had told him he was her soul mate. And he had believed her. He had been desperate to believe her. After years of being sent from foster home to foster home—and never once hearing from his own mother—Kenzie had been the one thing he could call his own. He had let her into the darkest parts of his soul—and she had reveled in them.

He had given her everything.

He had done everything she asked.