Beautiful Ink Read online

  “I don’t have anything scheduled right now. I’m kind of hoping to head out of here early,” I say, biting the inside of my lip. “If that’s okay with you?” I know he likes to keep all the chairs filled. No artist, no customers.

  “Girl, you know it’s good with me,” he says, nodding. His thick black dreads bob up and down with the movement of his head. He uncrosses his sinewy arms.

  I can’t help but appreciate the array of countless tattoos visible on the light brown hue of his skin. He raises his hand toward his mouth, rubbing the dark, manicured hair of his mustache down to his goatee. Those eyes of his never leave mine.

  “Any certain clubs you plan on hitting up this weekend?” His cheekbones slightly darken at his own question.

  “Nah, not really,” I answer. I nervously drop my gaze to the ground. “I may stop by Lowry’s before heading home.” My own plain brown eyes slowly rise back to his. I watch him nod, then finally look away. He releases a loud exhale.

  “Yeah. Be careful, okay? School is back in session and these kids are restless from this cold-ass weather. Drives ’em a little stir crazy. Know what I mean?” Malik turns to look at the schedule on the computer screen. He drags his finger across the keyboard, his silence confirming that we should end this crazy conversation.

  “Sure. Yeah,” I reply. My own pent-up breath releases in a loud whoosh. Well, it sounds loud to me anyway.

  I know that walking away is the best closure, so that is what I do. The woman in me begs to turn back around to invite him out or at least back to my small apartment. But I do neither. Instead, my self-preservation kicks in into high gear and I do the sensible thing, which is to leave him the hell alone. I slide my leather jacket on before locking up my toolbox where I keep most of my everyday supplies. My machine I take home with me inside my rolling suitcase, never knowing when I may have to run. I mutter my goodbyes on the way out as I drag it behind me. Malik nods while everyone else yells “’night” back.

  A full-body shiver racks my frame when I step out into the frigid night air. Winter is definitely upon us. The frozen ice crunches underneath my black boots as I move toward my car. My eyes scan the perimeter, seeing more than the average person normally would. I watch carefully and listen closely, the way most people instinctively take their next breath. The world narrows and I see the streetlamps lighting the road, illuminating the drunks and partygoers who line it while listening to the clash of rap, rock, and country music drifting out of the different bars. The pop-pop of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle engine always puts me on edge, which thankfully I don’t hear tonight.

  “Hey! Wait up, Keller,” Ginger says, opening the door and letting it close behind her. She starts out in a run before almost slipping and busting her tiny ass on the ground. Her hands wave furiously in the air while she tries to maintain her balance. Her high-pitch shriek shatters the silence around us. “Freaking, ice. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here,” she yells.

  “Uh, are you okay?” I ask, unable to hide the amusement in my voice. She nods, walking toward me again.

  I stop to wait for her. Ginger cracks me up on a regular basis. First off, you never know what color the girl’s hair is going to be. As of right this minute, it is a bright canary yellow with burnt orange tips that reach well past her shoulders. It’s her eyes, though, that are the most visually stunning aspect of her appearance. The violet contacts she wears are so unnatural that people are dumbfounded for minutes when she first meets them. Her incredibly tall height makes her skinny body seem more willowy than lanky, and she doesn’t have a single piercing or tattoo on her virgin skin. I have heard from the moment I started working here that she is planning to get tatted, but that lily-white skin of hers remains unmarked.

  “Are you heading over to Lowry’s now?” Ginger’s strange eyes seem to almost glow in the dark. We both walk over to my rundown Honda parked across the street from the shop.

  “Yeah, I think so. What time are you getting off?” I ask, lugging my tools to my trunk to lock them up.

  “In about an hour, if we don’t get too busy. I’ll meet you there,” she says, craning her head to see who is out partying

  We both turn, walking back toward the sidewalk in front of the shop. Lowry’s is located two doors down from here. It’s a small bar where most of the locals hang out. Well, mainly the non-collegiate ones.

  “Call me if dickhead is there. I’ll need to prepare myself to administer a serious butt-kicking since he hasn’t called me. No text or nothing. Nada,” she says, nudging me with her bony elbow.

  Dickhead refers to one of the bartenders at Lowry’s whom we both knew was a dog before she even decided to take him home—fleas and all. He evidently rocked her world and now will not call. I say good riddance, but then again, my recent history of unintentional celibacy doesn’t really warrant comments from this corner. I keep my mouth shut and just listen like a good friend should.

  “I will. Just remember, though, that you attract more bees with honey. It all depends on what statement you’re trying to make,” I say, hopefully giving her good advice while knowing I am the biggest dork ever. This friend stuff is hard, but I love having someone close to me. I try to sound like it’s second nature, having a girl who’s a friend, but in all reality, I’m lost as to what to say or do.

  She looks confused for about two seconds before shaking her head. “Whatever, Keller. Just call.” She turns to walk into the shop.

  Well, I thought it sounded good. I head toward Lowry’s, sidestepping several shady characters hanging out in front of the bars that line the street. I chant in my head that they don’t scare me; this is my life. They can’t find me. I force myself to think of something else. Ginger attends the local college, working toward a Bachelor of Arts degree. I have seen her amazing charcoal abstract art. It is sensually dark, actually stirring deep emotions within me—some that I prefer remain locked tight inside. But that is what makes her such a great artist. Her art evokes feelings in me that should never see the light of day… and memories of a certain dark-haired boy that are too painful to remember.

  I step into a doorway that has a sign proclaiming Lowry’s across the outside and a neon beer sign in the dingy window. This small dive is the only place where I feel almost comfortable, other than Screaming Ink. When I look around, I see the roughnecks that I am accustomed to, not the college kids in my everyday life who flash me their virgin skin, marring it for the experience and not the magic.

  My skin has been marked in two ways: freely and by force. Both were life-changing experiences. One should have scarred me, forever branding me with hatred for this passion of ink and art, but instead showed me the beauty of choosing living artwork. Every piece that is tattooed on my body will have significant meaning to me whether I’m nineteen or ninety. Even the one that wasn’t my choice is a painful lesson in remembrance.

  The high-pitched voices from the live girl-band, carries through the small, dank, dark bar. It is cramped with bikers, punks, emo dudes, and hardcore chicks. Anyone who feels and looks different finds anonymity amongst others here. If not for the colorful tattoo sleeves completely covering both of my arms, my numerous chest pieces, and several back tats, I would look like every other college coed walking this campus with my dyed jet-black hair barely reaching my shoulders and toned, lithe build. But with my tats, nose piercing, little black tube dress, matching leather jacket, and killer biker boots, no one gives me another glance. I’m just one of them. I might look the same as those I run from, yet I’m radically different. No one owns me, nor controls my actions here. They don’t dictate my future or signify my past. I revel in precious freedom amongst strangers who feel like old friends.

  I find an empty barstool at the end of the aged wooden bar. A cloud of thick cigarette smoke burns my eyes and clogs my throat. It wears off only seconds before the bartender comes over to take my drink order, smiling at me. Thankfully, it’s not the dickhead, but a familiar female bartender. I am sure she doesn’t know me
by name, but recognizes me as a regular.

  “Cherry Coke, right?” she asks, the rings in her thin eyebrows, broad nose, and mouth a matching bright fuchsia tonight.

  “Yeah, thanks.” I reply, giving her a smile for remembering my drink order. Especially, considering I don’t drink anything heavier than soda.

  I shrug my jacket off of my shoulders before letting it slide down my arms. My hands catch it so that I can lay it on my lap. I contort my body sideways on the barstool, watching the enigmatic band on stage. It is the first time I have ever heard them play and I’m surprised at their immense talent. The beats are solid, the melody a darkness that blends with the occupants easily.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” A voice asks over the music. “I’m a sucker for a girl with flames tattooed on her arm.”

  I glance over at a fine male specimen leaning on the bar. He is definitely my type with his rough exterior. Tattoos cover the majority of his skin that I can see, including his bald head. His preference for facial piercing is a definite turn-on, but it is the kind look in his eyes that is usually the most attractive feature for me. And as much as I want to accept, something cautions me to decline. I’ve said yes to his type before, only to find that something stops me from sharing my body and mind, just as I don’t share the secrets I hide.

  “No, thanks. I’m waiting for someone,” I say, smiling at him.

  He nods, seeming disappointed. Yeah, you and me both, I think to myself. My eyes find the tattoo he is referring to on my upper arm. Red and orange ink shade inside black outlined flames, carefully designed so that they come together to form a heart in the center. They were lovingly inked on my body years ago. Not my first tattoo, but one that reminds me of a painful time in my life. I stare at it. The memory it evokes takes me back to somewhere long forgotten and by the time my drink arrives, I’m already transplanted to the past I can never escape.

  Stepmothers are stupid with a capital “S” and so are dads who never come home, I think to myself as I wipe the dumb tears away. I slam the door to my and my little sister Tara’s room, locking it behind me. My hands automatically cover my ears, ignoring whatever Paula is screaming on the other side.

  “Some wady called looking for daddy today. She said it’s his new gwaddam girlfriend,” Tara says, her lisp worse when she gets upset. She is pretty smart for a five-year-old.

  I remove my hands and step away from the closed door. That would explain what crawled up Paula’s butt and died.

  “That claptrap better quit yelling,” I say, marching back and forth across my room. I have no idea what a claptrap is, but it sounds a lot like Paula.

  School ended for summer last week and I hate being home all day with her. Today started out good because I went swimming at Holden’s house with his best friend, Mikey. Tara can’t swim, so Daddy says she has to stay at home. Holden’s daddy and my daddy have been best friends since they were little.

  Holden says that Ward told him that he is my protector. Ward is his daddy, but for some dumb reason he calls him Ward. I tell that crazy boy that just because he is three years older than me don’t mean he is my boss. He is stupid if he thinks he can tell me what to do. I’m almost taller than him by a half an inch. He complains that he hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet, but whatever.

  “You little shit! Open this damn door right now!” Paula yells, the sound of her fist pounding on the other side of the door.

  I jump back, the harsh sound scaring me a little. Lately it seems she gets madder and meaner the more she drinks. She hates me—I know she does. I try to stay out of her way, making good grades and stuff like that. But I don’t know why she doesn’t like me. She grinds her teeth when she looks at me sometimes. I hope they break off in her mouth one day.

  “Helen Rudder, you open up this instant,” she screams.

  “Go, Hels. She won’t hurt me.” Tara begs, reaching for my arm and looking up with fear in her matching plain brown eyes. We both also have the same blonde hair as our mother did. Maybe that is why Paula hates me. She has nasty black witch’s hair. I bet she wishes she had princess hair like ours. No, that can’t be it. Tara has the same and she doesn’t seem to bother her like I do for some reason. It has to be something else about me.

  “She can kiss my A double S!” I let a loud yelp out. A burning starts inside of my chest. My breaths seem to come faster like I’ve run for a long time and I want to hit something. I never curse, but for some reason I think now is the perfect time.

  “Pease, don’t say that, Hels,” Tara says, looking over at the door like a scared, old cat now.

  “I hate her, Tara. One day somebody’s going to hit on her and I’m going to laugh like…” I pause, not knowing what I’ll laugh like. “Like a… monkey. And I don’t know why you are being such a chicken now. She never touches or yells at you.” Inside, I secretly hate that she likes Tara and not me. It makes me mad at Tara sometimes. I march over to the window and slide it up, hoisting myself up to straddle the ledge. I have long legs like my momma did and it makes it easier to climb in and out.

  “One day, I’m going to be bigger than her and then let her try to scream at me,” I mumble through gritted teeth. Taking one last look at Tara, I shake my head at her. “Don’t let her in. Give me a couple of minutes then shout through the door that I went out the window. Follow me if she doesn’t leave you alone. Okay?”

  “’Kay,” she replies, giving me that little kid smile with two missing front teeth. No tooth fairy visits for us, like I hear other kids talk about at school. It’s not fair.

  I turn and drop to the ground only a couple of feet down. I start to run, looking back to make sure Paula isn’t peeking out of the window, when my body slams into something or someone.

  “Girl, where the hell are you running off to now?” Daddy asks, grabbing hold of me.

  My heart wants to beat out of my chest. I look down to see his greasy hand tightly gripping my arm. He jerks me nearer toward him, the smell of stale cigarettes and beer on his breath makes me want to puke. When he holds me tighter, I’m too close to the stink and stain of oil from the cars he works on at the garage, that cover his t-shirt. My eyes follow the patches up his black motorcycle cut to see his face. His skin scrunches together like one of those wrinkly dogs that run wild in the backyard.

  I remember when I was little how his eyes were like the blue of a summer sky. My momma once told me if it weren’t for those damn eyes, she would have kept on looking. I never knew what she would have kept on looking for though. Now his eyes are bloodshot most of the time. That is what Paula calls it anyway. We both turn our heads toward the single-wide trailer when we hear her yelling my name.

  “Paula’s mad ‘bout something,” I murmur.

  “That bitch is always pissed at something I’m doing. She knew the life when she said I do,” he says, letting me go. He reaches into the pocket of his cut for his cigarette and lighter. “She’s more of a fuckin’ headache than she’s worth.” I watch him place the smoke in his mouth.

  When he flips the lid up on the lighter, I stare at the flame that appears. The orange and red colors look so angry within the fire, both fighting each other to be the brightest. He brings it to the tip of the cigarette, burning the end before closing the lighter. I look up into his face again and watch him blow out a white, fluffy smoke cloud.

  “Go back in there and say you’re sorry. Get her off the warpath and my damn back,” he commands.

  “Hey! I didn’t do nothin’ to her.” I stamp my flip-flop against the sandy dirt. Something gritty squishes between my toes.

  “Nobody said you did, kid. And I really don’t give a fuck. Get your little ass in there and smooth this shit over. Nobody’s getting supper with her in this mood,” he says, the cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he speaks.

  My daddy scares me. Not that he has ever hit me, but I know he wouldn’t hesitate to give me something to cry about. I stare up at him. Somehow him not touching me at all is scarier than if he hit me all the
time.

  “Fuckin’ females. Worthless, the lot of ‘em.” He turns to walk toward his motorcycle. He loves that thing more than me. More than Tara.

  My ears hear the words that he mutters. He doesn’t care about me. He has never wanted me, or my sister. It feels like I have swallowed a big, fat cotton ball and it’s stuck right in my throat. I hate him. I hate Paula. I wish he weren’t my dad.

  I turn and dash for the woods. My small feet carry me faster into the trees behind the trailer park. Every few steps, I stumble so I put my arms straight out at my sides, trying my best to keep balance. I hear Daddy hollering, but it doesn’t stop me. His screams push me deeper, but I stay clear of the swamp. A batch of thorny weeds whips against my knees, lashing painful scratches across my chicken legs, but I keep running. They hurt less than her slaps and his words.

  Paula is drunk as a skunk. She has only been his old lady for the last two years, but dated him for much longer. Tara, my little sister, was not even a year old when my dad first brought her home. I guess I was about seven at that time. My real mom died in a motorcycle accident when Tara was only months old. My dad went through our home madder than I had ever seen him and tore down all of her pictures, including the ones with us in it. I hid one underneath my mattress, a photo taken at the hospital of my mom, Tara and me, surrounded by my dad’s friends, the Hell’s Highwaymen Motorcycle Club.

  My dad spends more time with those dumb guys than he ever has with any of us, including Paula, the puke head. The only time we get to have with him are dinner some nights and when he takes us to cookouts at the clubhouse next to Dawson’s Garage where he works. The club is the Hell’s Highwaymen Motorcycle Club or MC. My dad said that he and Ward started the MC back when they were teenagers. Ward owns the garage and built the clubhouse. He says they’re the only family that matters to us.