Beautiful Ink Page 5

  “Have you ever lost someone whom you loved more than life itself?”

  I’m caught unaware at his very personal question—I am actually gutted by his words. I release the pedal beneath my foot, not looking at or answering him. The silence is more pronounced between us without the sound of my machine. I am afraid to glance at him: my insides freeze at his question and my steady hand shakes.

  “I’m sorry. I should haven’t asked you that,” he says, leaning to speak directly into my ear.

  My eyes shift upwards to his, our mouths only inches apart. “I guess I asked first. Yeah,” I say. “Hasn’t everyone?”

  “I was admiring your tattoos, especially, the one on your right forearm. For some reason, the bird cage with a pair of angel wings locked inside spoke to me of some type of personal loss.” He looks down at the spot to which he’s referring.

  I glance down at the tattoo. No one has ever guessed out loud what it might allude to before. It is almost as if someone has ripped off a piece of my clothing, baring me to the world. I need a minute—or ten. I push my chair away from him. He has jolted me viciously from my secret world of art.

  “Listen, I am evidently way out of line,” he starts.

  I hold up my hand to halt his words. My instinct is to run when anyone asks too many questions. Unfortunately, I cannot walk away unless I want to redress my entire area. I have to be sensitive to contamination issues. He starts to sit up, but I stop him.

  “Sit back,” I say, pointing at him. I slide my chair next to him. “You want to know about my tattoo?” I don’t wait for an answer. I press the pedal down, putting needle to skin. For me, it’s easier to talk about the tattoo than specifically about whom I have lost. “That tattoo is meant to represent someone I love very much. While on this earth, they are trapped in a life not of their making. The angel wings are a representation of their inner goodness, too good for the world they were born into. If you look closely, there are small feathers that are falling to the bottom of the cage.” I am shocked at what I just revealed. It is not like me to share something so personal.

  “There is no door on the birdcage,” he says.

  “No, there isn’t.”

  “Is that on purpose?”

  “Yes.”

  For the duration of time, he doesn’t utter another word. I wipe his tattoo down before sliding my chair back to preview my work. Hallelujah! I am finished.

  “You done?” he asks.

  “Yep. Take a look at it in the mirror and then I’ll wrap it for you. You’ll be ready to go.” I watch him walk over to inspect his tattoo. It looks aesthetically fine to me. Should someone ever glance upon it, he or she will see only a date, but for Vin it will mark a time that forever scarred his soul. Never to forget. As I start to shift my eyes away, I catch his in the mirror. They stare directly back at me. I see more than just the color now, something that scares the bejesus out of me. A connection. His hand hovers over where I just tatted him. He mouths “thank you” in the reflection. I nod before standing.

  He walks back over. Without saying anything, I carefully place a strip of plastic wrap over his tattoo. I tape each side down. The entire time, I can feel his eyes boring into me.

  “Ginger, at the front, will go over all the necessary care instructions. You can head that way when you’re ready,” I say, turning so I can begin to clean my area. I look over to see Malik still working on his customer while Billy pierces another, singing the lyrics to “Soul to Squeeze” that is playing overhead.

  “Keller, would you like to have coffee sometime?”

  His voice surprises me for a second. I look over and don’t hesitate before answering him. “I’m sorry. I stay pretty busy.” My heart doesn’t skip beats; it skips entire lines. I feel like I am going to hyperventilate, not because of his question, but because I want him to leave.

  “Did I do or say anything to piss you off? If so, let me make it up to you. I’ve been pretty nervous tonight, with getting my first tattoo and might have said something to offend you accidentally,” he says, placing his hoodie back on and zipping it all the way up. “I’m here on a work project and I only know a few people in town.”

  “We aren’t allowed to date customers,” I say, which isn’t a lie. It is the truth. Sort of. Malik has warned that it is not a good idea; however, it’s not a policy or anything. I busy myself at my station so that I don’t have to look at him.

  “That’s the great thing about coffee—it doesn’t have to be a date. C’mon, just say yes. Put me out of my misery. Two friends having espresso… lattes… cappuccinos… whatever you women drink these days,” he says, smiling.

  “Whatever we women drink these days?” I ask, sarcastically raising my eyebrow at him. “I drink black coffee, thank you very much.”

  “I am digging a deep hole for myself,” he says, uttering a nervous laugh. “Okay, I think I’ll stop there and say thank you for the tattoo. It is absolutely amazing. I don’t think I’ll ever experience it again, because I’m a wuss. But hey, never say never, right?” He starts to walk away, before stopping and slowly turning around. He begins to say something, but pauses and shakes his head before looking once more at me.

  Something happens. I cannot explain it. But when he looks at me for the last time, something deep passes between us. An electrical current runs through my body, heating everything in its path and I know something uniquely different is passing me by. The question is, will I let it? Minutes tick away with neither of us saying anything—my definite answer. He finally bows his head, then turns to walk up to Ginger to complete payment.

  I turn back to finish cleaning my station. A large wad of emotion is lodged in my throat. I look down at my arm, at the tattoo that caught his attention. It is hard to run from my past when it is clear for the world to see. I must have wanted to share it the only way I knew how, the only way that didn’t get me, or the people around me killed. It is really fitting considering a tattoo started all of this—and could have been the reason I ended it all.

  He is the biggest idiot that I know. I stand looking at him, wanting to throw everything in my hands at his big head. And considering it is every single one of my textbooks, I really could knock his stupid ass out. Which is probably what the dumb lug needs—someone to knock some sense into that dense brain of his.

  “Calm down, Hels,” he pleads, backing up to stand behind his motorcycle. The sunlight bounces off his chrome wheels, blinding me for a fraction of a second, but doesn’t douse my anger.

  “What do you mean you quit school? It just started only months ago and you’re a freaking senior,” I say, trying my best to hold back from yelling. We both stand in the almost empty school parking lot. The single-story, red-brick building, proclaiming Harmony High School across the front in ugly metal letters, looms in the background behind us.

  “You know how much I hate it.” He tosses his arm back toward the school in dismissal. “I don’t plan on going to college. Ward really needs me more at the garage.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Look, I’m goin’ to get my GED—it’s not like I’m ignorant. I have more important stuff that I need to be doin’. And if you’re worried about your ride to school every day, I am always goin’ to drop you off and pick you up. Ward knows and is cool with it.”

  My first textbook whizzes directly over his head.

  “Hey, you almost hit me,” he yells, looking surprised.

  “There is no almost about it: I missed on purpose. You’re the one who taught me to throw a baseball hard and true. You should know I don’t miss.”

  “Hels, calm down.”

  “Holden Lee Dawson, you march yourself straight into the school counselor’s office and sign yourself back up for classes.”

  He runs his hands over his buzzed cap of black hair. Slowly, he raises those big baby blues up to me, his square jaw stubbornly set. “I’m sorry, Hels. Not goin’ to happen. I’ve tried for months to talk to you about this and you didn’t wanna hear it. School isn’t for everyone.”
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  “It is if you want to get out of this hellhole. You’re smart, Hold. Don’t waste it. Education is everything for people like us or it should be. I want us to both go away to college.”

  “Hels,” he says, dropping his voice low. “We’ve talked about this. It’s not goin’ to happen. Not for me, anyway. I wanna be a part of Hell’s Highwaymen. It’s my legacy. The MC is not only my family, but my way of life. I’m not ever leavin’ Harmony. It’s my town… it’s my blood.” His face turns red at his declaration.

  “You are so dumb!” I stamp my foot, my black Converse smacking against the pavement, and turn to put my books in my backpack. After a minute, a tanned hand reaches over my shoulder, holding out the book that I tossed at his head.

  “You’re so cute when you get mad,” he whispers, his words tickling the back of my neck.

  “Shut up or I’ll show you cute when I slash your tires,” I say, sweetly. I squirm to get away, before dooming myself to look back at him.

  His laugh is the only answer I get, but it’s his single damn dimple in his left cheek that melts my heart every damn time. Seconds later I hear the deafening roar of a motorcycle approaching. I glance up to see one cruising directly for us, screeching to a stop in front of Hold. The rider switches the roaring motor off before stepping to the ground, and removing his helmet.

  “Hey, man,” Mikey says, nodding at Hold and completely ignoring me. “You finally quit this hellhole for real?”

  “You know it, brother,” he says, stepping up to Mikey and giving him that half hug that I see the MC guys always do.

  Mikey wears the black MC cut, but he isn’t patched yet. On the back of his vest, instead of a large patch of a motorcycle riding through flames with the name Hell’s Highwaymen printed across the top, his patch only reads “Prospect.” This means that he is a member in training and does whatever the club wants him to do. I’ve heard Hold say they do the shit work, which to me seems like they must clean the toilets at the garage. Yuck!

  “Well, get ready to inherit the kingdom. It’s just the beginning, brother. One day we will run this shit.” Mikey claps him on the back and laughs.

  I know what that means. Now that Hold is quitting school, he will get his own cut. I once heard Ward tell him that barring any problems, he will be a prospect for a couple of years before quickly rising in rank. Ultimately, he will become the vice president before taking over Ward’s position as president.

  Ward is always secretly talking to Hold about the stuff he’s working on for the MC to be financially set when Hold is in charge. I eavesdrop sometimes, not always on purpose. He talks a lot about letters and numbers. Something about M-4’s, and AK-47’s, types of guns I guess, and another thing he calls the ATF. He gets really mad when he mentions that. And sometimes he talks about a safe house off of Route six. I’m smart enough to know that I shouldn’t know anything about that place and keep my mouth tightly shut.

  I don’t know anything about Mikey. He seems okay but as we have gotten older, Hold keeps his friends separate from me. It kind of hurts my feelings, because he must be embarrassed about me for some reason.

  “Is this your new piece of ass?” Mikey turns to look at me and I watch his eyes widen.

  Within seconds, Mikey’s shirt is bunched up in Hold’s hands and he is lifting his skinny butt off the ground.

  “Shit, Hold,” he says, nervously reaching for the grip that Hold has on him. “I didn’t know it was her. Man, she grew up.”

  “Watch your mouth, Mikey,” Hold says, releasing him.

  Mikey quit school when he and Hold were, like, in the tenth grade, so he hasn’t seen me since I was in middle school. That was about the time when I wasn’t allowed to be around any of the MC guys, unless they were in my grade at school. I go to school and literally come straight home every day since I have lived with Hold’s family. It’s not that they make me, but my one comfort is my art. I only go out with Hold; otherwise I sit in my room and draw.

  “Are you coming to the cookout tonight at the garage?” Mikey walks over to get back on his motorcycle.

  Hold glances weirdly over at me, before shaking his head to Mikey. “Nah, I’ll probably just watch a movie or something.”

  “When you get that cut, you’ll be expected to be there, brother,” Mikey says, then looks directly at me before looking back to Hold. “Enjoy your free time while you still can.” He tilts his motorcycle helmet on, roaring the bike to life at the same time Hold starts his up.

  The idiots both rev their engines loudly, the motor vibrations shaking the ground beneath us, and the pop-pop unmistakably the sound of a Harley-Davidson. Mikey nods before riding away. I drag my feet toward Hold’s hand that offers me my helmet. I knew this was coming. I figured it was going to happen last year and was, in fact, surprised when it didn’t. When he passed all of his classes, I hoped he would see it through and graduate this year. I thought wrong.

  I slide the helmet on, buttoning the chin strap, and swing my leg over the back. Once I am sitting directly behind Hold, I wrap my slender arms around his trim waist. So many girls would die to be in this very same position, but not me. Hold is like a brother and definitely my one and only friend. I have lived with him and his parents for almost four years now, since they took me in. Sage, his mom, treats me great, but there is something that doesn’t feel right between us. She is not home most of the time, so it’s not a big deal anyway. Evidently, she runs the office at the garage and stays busy with club business. Ward is nice to me, but, thankfully, I don’t see him much.

  We zip down the street on his Harley-Davidson 1200 Sportster that Ward bought him for his sixteenth birthday. I place my chin on his shoulder and watch the world rush by. For me, riding on the back of a motorcycle is as natural as walking is for most people. I like the adrenaline that pumps through my body as it vibrates underneath me. The wind whips renegade hair that escapes from my helmet. Just the thought of not being encased between the walls of a vehicle is freeing. God, I love being on the back of Hold’s motorcycle.

  My mind goes back to Hold quitting high school. The problem is twofold. I really want out of Harmony, Florida. It’s not your typical touristy beach spot. No, Harmony is a small declining coastal town located on the Gulf of Mexico. We do have a main street but it consists of only a few sorry stores that yet manage to stay open for business, including Edna’s Flowers, Sarah’s Seaside Treasures, Beanie’s Pawn Shop, Big Papa’s Subs, and finally Hard Ink—plus, more empty rundown storefronts than anyone cares to count. The Harmony PD is at the end of the street, and Mom & Pop’s Supermarket sits two streets over along with the Shack, and across from it is our only gas station whose storefront sign dangles crookedly from its roof, knocked half down by the last hurricane. Even the palm trees that line the sidewalks look dreary in this pathetic town. Dawson’s Garage sits on the outskirts all by itself and past that is nothing but marshy swamp and alligators for miles. We are a long distance from any large chain stores, over an hour’s drive from the nearest Wally World.

  It has been my dream since I was little to leave this place in the dust. Education is the key to success and I am trying my best to achieve this goal. Even in ninth grade, I’m taking all advanced-placement college courses. I have been drawing since I was little and the school counselor thinks I can get some type of academic or art scholarship.

  The other issue with Hold quitting is how alone I will be.

  You are so selfish, Hels. You know how miserable the boy is.

  At school there are three separate divisions: the “richie rich” kids, the poor ones, and the future Hell’s Highwaymen Motorcycle Club spawn, better known as the MC’ers. If you’re a rich kid, you don’t mess with the MC’ers because they’re more than likely also in the poor category and your parents smartly warned you to keep your distance. The poor kids don’t even look at us because they know trouble when they see it and that sums up Dawson’s crew. And, well, the MC’ers, all five of us left in high school, don’t talk to me becaus
e they fear Ward Dawson like they fear Satan. God forbid that I do some ungodly thing like stay out and party with them and Ward finds out. They would get blamed.

  So now I’m pretty much cut off from the entire world. My one confidant is deserting me—how unfair. I need a friend, and since he is it, he needs to stay. Tonight is Friday. I have all weekend to try and convince him to come back. Surely there is something I can do to persuade him.

  After taking all back dirt roads home, we finally arrive at Hold’s house. I hop off the motorcycle, wrenching my helmet off, and head straight inside on a mission. The screen door shuts behind me, when I hear someone.

  “Hold? Hels? Are you guys home?” Sage calls out.

  I follow her voice into the kitchen. “We are,” I answer, smiling at her. “Do you know what Hold did today?” I sit down on one of the bar stools, combing my fingers through my long, wayward blonde locks.

  “Baby girl, you knew this was coming. Holden is old enough to make his own decisions and he is only taking care of business, just like his father. I know you’re unhappy about it, Hels, but you have to look at the big picture,” she says, walking over to stand in front of me. Sage is very beautiful for her age. Hold gets his blue eyes from her, but in his I see kindness where Sage’s shrewd ones seem to always gauge me. “I take my position very serious as Ward’s old lady. This town looks at me like a dirty biker whore, but I’m the goddamn glue that holds this entire operation together and I plan for my son to have it all one day. That is why it’s so important that you understand your place. Let’s pretend that you’re Hold’s old lady…”

  “Which I am not,” I say, interrupting her. I place my folded arms against the laminate countertop in front of me.

  “Okay, which you are not… now.”

  “Or never will be.” The top of her heart tattoo located on her fleshy breast draws my attention. That had to hurt. At the sound of her clicking her tongue, I glance back up.

  “Doll, never say never,” she says, patting my cheek. “But if you were Hold’s or anyone else’s old lady, it would be your responsibility to support him no matter what. We bury deep our own feelings and expectations to support theirs a hundred and ten percent. We exist only for their happiness. You truly get what I’m sayin’?”