Beautiful Ink Read online

  I race until I don’t hear her or him screaming my name anymore, only the silence of the woods, which creeps me out. The sun is starting to fall and I am not sleeping out here in the dark. I don’t want to be alligator bait. I have never run from my dad in my life, probably because he’s usually never home. There is only one place that I can go and be safe.

  By the time I walk through the clearing to Holden’s house, I’m out of breath, but I’m happy I made it just in time. The sun has gone and hid from the daytime again. Hold’s home is a big two-story house that seems huge compared to mine. I stop to watch his mom, Sage, folding clothes as she removes them from the wire hanging between two trees. Her midnight hair whips around her from the wind that is picking up. She wears tight blue jeans and body-hugging shirt like all of the other MC old ladies who like showing off their boobs. Paula calls her the HBC or head bitch in charge, and actually seems pretty scared of her. Sage has always been nice to me, but I don’t want her to notice all the bloody scrapes that now cover both my legs. They really hurt and I don’t want her or nobody touchin’ them.

  There is a trellis—Hold calls it that—placed next to his bedroom window. I slowly climb up the white wood frame, ignoring the twinges of pain from the scrapes. My arms shake by the time I crawl through his window and land directly on top of his twin bed. The boy always leaves it open in the summertime for me to climb through. I’ve been escaping here for years. His parents know it and he says that they’re cool that I come here.

  I take my once-pink flip-flops off and sling them to the floor. A hiss escapes me when I accidentally brush my hand against a long, thin cut that reaches from my knee all the way down to my ankle. Something wet slides down my cheek. I hurry and wipe it away. Stupid tears.

  My head hits the bed hard, like a ton of bricks, as I lie down. The painful scratches rub against his blanket, but I ignore it, curling into a ball to face the wall. I stare at the motorcycle posters, burying my nose in Hold’s pillow. His sheets always smell so good. It’s the same scent as the baby powder I used to sprinkle on Tara’s butt as a baby. I think his mom changes them all the time. Paula washes mine once a month if I’m lucky. Maybe, I can get Hold’s mom to show me how to wash mine and Tara’s.

  I turn my head toward the door when I hear it creak open and rush to sit up. Holden walks through in his blue pajama pants, matching t-shirt, and toothbrush. He stops when he sees me on his bed.

  “Bitch Paula again?” He shakes his head when I nod. “I can talk to Ward like last time. See if that helps. My mom said she better not lay a hand on you,” he says. He starts to say something else but stops when he sees my legs. I watch his face turn redder than a tomato and his blue eyes widen so big, they remind me of those plastic alien eyes. “I am going to kill her myself. Did she do that?” He points his toothbrush toward my legs.

  I violently shake my head back and forth. “No, I ran to get away and the weeds got me. Don’t you dare say anything, Holden Lee Dawson. Do you hear me?” The last time he did, my dad cussed Paula out so bad that he made her cry. Things were better for a week, before they turned the worst ever. I swore I would never mention any of it ever again.

  “You better not be lying to me,” he says, pointing his toothbrush at me again.

  “I wouldn’t lie for that pig,” I say, knowing I would in a heartbeat if it meant she would leave me alone.

  “I don’t know why your dad lets her treat you like that. It’s not right, Hels.” He places his toothbrush down before walking over to switch off the lights.

  “It doesn’t matter. When I get bigger, I ain’t gonna live here anyway. I’ll take Tara and go far, far away. You just wait, Hold. I’ll marry someone rich and famous. We will have a big ‘ole house, fancy cars, and nice clothes. Better than Jenny Smith and her stupid friends.”

  “Scoot over,” he says, sliding next to me on the bed. His voice sounds like he is mad at me. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. You’re just a little kid.”

  “I do too know what I am sayin’. I am eleven and you’re only three years older than me. That don’t make you smarter. I make all A’s.” I draw my fist back, letting it go to punch him in the shoulder.

  He rubs it, pretending it hurts, while shaking his head at me. “No, you don’t. The club is our life—yours and mine. Ward has told me that we are the future and he is setting it up so that we’ll have all those cool things you want. One day, I will be running the club and you won’t have to worry no more about Paula. And you will have everything nicer than what Jenny Smith and those mean girls have. I promise you, Hels.”

  “I hate Paula,” I whisper, tired. “I hate him.”

  “I know,” he says, quietly. “Listen, tomorrow we’ll hang out and swim off the boat ramp all day. We’ll even take Tara with us. Okay? Just lie down and go to sleep.”

  I watch him crawl underneath the covers. We both lie still, next to each other, staring at the fluorescent lights of his glow-in-the-dark planets stuck on the ceiling. The sound of his breathing comforts me. Hold is my best friend. None of the other girls around town talk to me. They never have. He has been the only friend I have known other than Tara, but she is just a baby.

  Once his breathing slows and I know that he is sleeping, I quickly grab hold of his hand. I wish that Tara could feel as safe as I do right now. The stupid water starts to fill my eyes again and I shut them tight. I keep them closed, praying silently that the pain in my chest that is making me shake all over doesn’t wake Hold.

  The sound of doors slamming and loud angry voices wakes us. I leap up first, sweeping my long blonde hair back from my face and the dreamless sleep from my eyes.

  “What is going on?” Hold asks sleepily. He yawns while sitting up in his bed. His black hair stands straight up all over his head. I watch him run his fingers through it, mussing it worse than before.

  “Don’t know.” I look out the window to see that it is still dark outside. The sound of someone’s feet pounding up the stairs scares me. Holden’s door swings wildly open. We both jump when it slams against the wall behind it.

  “Thank fuck’s sake,” Ward whispers, his massive body blocking the doorway.

  We both watch him stumble into the room and fall heavily to his knees. He lowers his head and clutches at his chest. His big, muscled body trembles like he can’t stop it. Hold’s mom runs in next. Sage looks weirdly at Hold and me before falling on the bed, reaching out to roughly grasp both of us. I notice the red of her eyes and the tears that overflow them.

  Something strange is happening here. I pull away to look over at Ward. There is this sadness that creeps me out coming from Sage, but it’s Ward who scares me. He is running both hands over his face, down his long, dark beard. I can’t help but notice he has on the same clothes that my dad always wears. A white t-shirt covered by the club’s black leather cut and jeans. The difference is the word “President” patched on his chest where my dad’s spells “Vice President.”

  “Come here, darling,” he says. Ward’s big ham hands motion for me to come to him.

  Ward isn’t someone I have been around a lot in my life, only at cookouts at the club where all the kids like myself are told to scat and every once in a while when he is at home and I’m here with Hold. He mainly ignores me, which is okay, considering he’s kind of scary. I have never had a reason not to like him, so I slip out beneath the covers, tiptoeing over to him. He offers his hand, pulling me tightly in for a bear hug that swallows me up. My nose wrinkles at the smell of burning fire that covers him.

  His voice sounds gruffer than normal, almost like he has a sore throat. He clears it several times before speaking in my ear. His humongous body shakes against mine. Is he cold?

  “Helen, there is something I need to tell you, girl,” he starts, but pauses before continuing. “There was a…” he stops once again, his voice sounding weird. “I need to tell you something.” He pushes me gently from him, gripping my scrawny arms in his large hands.

  With Ward on his
knees, I am eye level with him. Large tear drops pool in the creases of his scraggly face, shocking me for a minute. Something bad has happened. Something really, really terrible. Men like him, like my dad, never cry.

  For a minute, I don’t want to hear it. I want to scream at him to shut up. Just don’t say it and whatever it is can’t be real. My heart starts galloping wildly in my chest, hurting from near bursting. I jerk away to try and break free from his hands, but he doesn’t let me.

  “Don’t say it.” I scream, bucking my body back to make him release me. I don’t know what it is. I don’t want to know. I shake my head back and forth, closing my eyes tightly together. Keep them out! Don’t listen, I tell myself. Don’t feel. Adults lie. My own tears flow from the corners of my eyes. A black monster grows in my belly, eating all the blood and guts inside. I whimper, feeling it now, an emptiness. Something inside of me is missing. Lost. Gone forever. “Tara,” I whisper, the air leaving my lungs. My knees buckle and I fall, damaging my already shredded legs.

  “She’s gone. Paula. Your dad,” he quietly says, his voice sounding as broken as I feel. “A fire. Everything burned to the ground while they slept. That cunt probably fell asleep with a cigarette in her drunk-ass hand. My brother Sam… my… gone.”

  Ward stands, leaving me frozen on the floor. I can’t breathe. I. CAN’T. BREATHE.

  He walks to the door, facing away from us. “We thought you were in there, too, but when they couldn’t find a fourth… we hoped you were with Holden. Now don’t you worry, girl. I have connections. You’re one of us. The Hell’s MC is your family and we take care of our own. This is your home now.”

  I don’t hear his words. I can’t look at any of them as my entire body starts shaking. My teeth chatter, snapping together so loudly it clangs in my head. I can’t stop it. My baby sister. The one who never had a mother to love her, no memories of her like I had. Her sweet breath as she lay next to me at night, scared as I was, never knowing what tomorrow would bring. Her giggle that was magical to hear, because she hardly ever got a chance to laugh. Please no. NO! I rock back and forth, trying to stop all these memories that crowd my brain.

  “Please give her back.” I wrap my arms around my knees, praying to a God that doesn’t know me. No one’s ever took me to that church place on Main Street where he evidently lives. My heart hurts. Ward’s words reached in and snatched it right out. I’m afraid to look down, knowing I’ll see the big hole where it used to be. I forget all about the scratches from earlier. “Just give her back!” I scream at the ceiling.

  I feel someone roughly grab my arms, lifting and turning me, hauling me tightly against something hard. His bony chest feels larger than life and I latch on. He is the only person who has ever been there for me, the only one to never hurt me, the only one I can possibly allow near me now. My only family. Holden.

  Anyone who cleans on a day off should be shot. Accordingly, my bathroom has not been scrubbed down in my rundown one-bedroom apartment for months—if ever. I stand to stretch my back muscles out, noting that a popping sound accompanies every bend. Damn, I am a hot mess. I can’t help but notice my tired reflection in the oval mirror above the sink. My doe eyes, which are normally enhanced by the tilt at the corners, are dull and lifeless. I look more like the Beast than Belle, with my hair sticking out around my head, a reject from the 80’s hair-band days. You know it is time for another dye job when you can see the blonde bleeding through the black locks, looking too much like gray. Eek!

  Fatigue shouldn’t be plaguing me, with the time I took to rest this weekend, but Friday’s trip down memory lane has prohibited the sleep that should have taken care of the blue bruising underneath both of my eyes. Ginger joined me at the bar for drinks after she got off that night, but I was already wanting to leave. My head was filled with too many thoughts that I couldn’t share, leaving me with nothing to say to her.

  Saturday was much better. Ginger came by and we spent the entire day shopping and hanging out… and laughed so hard I almost peed my panties, especially when we gossiped about the weirdos who came into the shop that week, and which hot boy in a perfect world we would hook up with. It was great, but now I have to reap the consequences of putting off the cleaning. I turn to walk back into my bedroom, blowing away a stray lock of hair that continues to fall in front of my eye. The sound of my cell phone ringing changes my direction, and I walk to retrieve it from my bag. When I glance down, I see that it is Malik’s number. My head cocks in interest.

  “This is Keller,” I answer, chewing on my lip in excited expectation of his impromptu phone call.

  “Hey, girl. Sorry to bother you, but I need your help,” he says, using his no-nonsense business voice.

  Not interesting. Like any good employee, I know what that line means when the boss calls on my day off. I try to hold my groan in unsuccessfully.

  “Listen, I’ve got three guys who didn’t show up for their scheduled chairs and I desperately need to fill them. I’ve got a waiting room full of clients and two artists available including myself. Please Keller, come save my ass,” he begs. I can imagine him tugging on one of his dreads as he talks. It’s what he does when he is pissed that other asshole employees don’t take their jobs seriously.

  I whine a little before answering him. I know he can’t see me, but I roll my eyes dramatically as I stomp the floor.

  “Keller,” he starts.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming.” I chant. Now I am pissed that I even answered the damn phone. What was I thinking? What? That he was going to ask me out, or something like that? It takes me only seconds to press the end key, but minutes to calm myself to keep from throwing my cell phone across the room. It’s not the phone’s fault.

  I march back into my bathroom to turn the shower on to warm. The only positive about that call was no more cleaning. I have an honest excuse from myself. It doesn’t take long to wash up, and even a shorter time to get dressed and ready. I’m not really a girly girl. Fortunately, I was blessed with my mom’s natural beauty, needing little to no makeup. The Cherokee Indian blood that ran through my ancestors on my dad’s side leaves a yearlong sun-kissed look to my skin. I thankfully washed a load of clothes earlier this morning so I grab a pair of clean skinny jeans to pour my body in and I add to that my “It’s Not Ink… It’s Art” t-shirt. It pretty much says it all.

  On the way out, I grab a can of Diet Coke before leaving my apartment. I’ll need all the caffeine I can digest for the duration of the day. My mind is so full of the list of chores that I had planned on accomplishing that I miss the bottom step, and my feet fly outward. I grunt as my not-padded-enough butt lands on the concrete ground hard, sending shooting pains ricocheting up my spine. The wind is knocked completely out of my chest, forcing me to gasp for air. My soda stains the ground in brown bubbles around me.

  I remain motionless in a stunned silence for what seems like an eternity, before busting out laughing. It hits me that this is a life of normalcy—from the weekend rushing by, to my cleaning my home on a day off. Now, getting called into work is the oh-so-freaking cherry on top. I have been so caught up in myself, in this life I am making, that I realize I have relinquished some fear of my past. It is a miraculous moment and I am no longer pissed at getting called in, but excited to get to work.

  The day flies by in a flurry of stencils and ink. It seems that everyone decides that they want a tattoo today. Around lunchtime, it starts raining, turning the wet drops into a sprinkling of snow showers. The colder the weather becomes, the more people who roll into the shop. Tattoo artist love drunk nights and rainy days. It’s considered our rush hour. Most of the pieces requested are very simple. Normally, I would spend time painstakingly ensuring my client is one hundred percent emotionally invested in the tattoo he or she is getting. Well, that is, until it’s rent time and the waiting room is packed with serious spenders. Then I think to myself, come on, big money.

  I am lost in a palette of colors, etching my own private world and doing what I l
ove best. The hum of my machine is sweeter than the ambient music. I could live the rest of my life doing only this. It is worth the cramping and sore muscles at the end of the day. Some of my clients chatter relentlessly through the process while others respect the silence. I can ignore them both to do what I do best: tattoo.

  At some point, darkness falls outside. It is my only recognition of time passing. I have just finished my fourth tattoo and take my time to clean since the rush has slowed. My niche is more fine lines and photorealistic art. I love the realism brought to life on my canvas, but lately script pays the bills and does not take me as long to complete.

  “If I tat out one more pussy tenderfoot, I am going to scream,” Billy says, referring to the clients who cannot handle the pain. She is the only other female artist in the shop.

  I look over to see that we are all in between customers. Billy wipes down her station while Malik looks at something on his laptop.

  “The last motherfucker cried the entire time. I really don’t see how you can block that shit out,” she says, looking pointedly at me.

  “It’s a gift,” I say, smiling at her.

  “My girlfriend had her clit tatted and pierced without making a sound,” she huffs, obviously priding herself on the fact.

  “I also heard Rachel likes to be gagged and tag-teamed,” Malik says, cutting his eyes to me. He shakes his head before looking back at his laptop screen.

  I muffle my laugh, but not before Billy gives me the evil eye. We all know about Billy’s girlfriend because she is pseudo-famous in the adult entertainment business.

  “Her job is strictly for dicks and real life is about the chicks,” she says.

  “At least you got the plural part right about dicks,” Malik says.

  These two are closer than their bickering indicates. Billy is the Caucasian female version of Malik, with her smooth, heavily tatted skin and long, bleached-white dreads that cover her head. She is also pierced in every possible place imaginable, which includes two massive gauges in her ears. She has never revealed her age, but I would guess it to be around twenty-eight—same as Malik’s. They joke constantly, showing love for each other with their snarky comments.