by Pratt, Lulu
Suddenly, she took off, hand still wrapped in mine, pulling me through the glittering halls of mirrors and dead Frenchmen, through crowds of fawning men and women thumping to a beat I could no longer hear over the beat of my own heart. The only noises I did catch were exclamations of ‘hey!’ and ‘watch where you’re going!’ but I didn’t stop to apologize. I was running through the night with a beautiful woman. Fuck politeness.
Despite the throngs of people, she moved at an impressive clip, neatly parting the waves like the bow of a ship. Well, that might be a generous description. Her arms flailed, and she didn’t exactly move in a straight line, but she got the job done. In no time, the lights switched from wailing neon to a dull midnight blue, and I realized we were outside, panting on the curb, as a line of people still waiting to get through the door looked skeptically on.
Somehow the street looked different from when I was here only fifteen minutes earlier.
She let go of my hand then stepped in close to my chest, so close I wondered if she could hear my thoughts over the minuscule distance between us. I felt exposed — wonderfully, wildly exposed.
“Lead the way,” she said, and I snapped out of it, ready to take whatever orders she gave me. I jerked my head to the right, indicating that she should follow me, then paused.
“You gonna be okay without your shoes?” I asked. “Maybe you should put them on.” We were in the middle of a busy nightlife area where broken beer bottles littered the street, and even the occasional needle.
“Pfft, I’m fine,” she replied, waving off my comment.
I stood firm. “If you want to come with me, you’ll have to put shoes on. I can’t let you get hurt on my watch.”
She lolled her head back, then tilted forward and held the shoes up higher in the air, until they were directly in my eye line. “Do you know much these things hurt, dude? They’re awful. Like, the worst. Whoever invented them clearly hated the people who were going to wear them.”
I considered this for a moment, then replied, “Well then, I suppose this is the only solution.”
In a blink of an eye, I’d moved a step to her, cupped my forearms under her knees and armpit, and swung her off the ground into my grasp. She shrieked, but I held tight.
“What was that for?” she cried, incensed.
I shrugged. “You didn’t wanna put on shoes, so now we’ve compromised. M’kay?”
She huffed a little, her shoulders rising and falling — the movement caused her body to press against my shirt — but gave in. “Fine fine fine,” she responded, then added with a smile, “but don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
That would be easier said than done. Who wouldn’t be pleased to have a girl like this in their arms, the city swirling around them? I’m only human.
But aloud, I said, “I’ll do my best.”
She relaxed into my arms, and taking that as a signal, I began to stride to the shop. I covered the hundred steps in moments, as though time was fast-forwarding between the good bits. She had put her arms around me. I could feel her fingers at the nape of my neck. Consciously or otherwise, she was stroking my hair, letting its silky ends trail between her hands. I swallowed, and hoped faintly that she couldn’t feel the swallow reverberate through the cords in my neck.
“We’re here,” I announced. “In a perfect world, I’d carry you over the threshold, but I do have to get my keys, so—”
I set her down gently on the ground, certain that there were no unseemly sharp objects outside my door, then moved to the outer lock as I rummaged through my jeans to find the keys.
“Wow,” she murmured.
I craned my neck over my shoulder to see what she was looking at, and discovered that she’d taken a few quiet steps back and was surveilling my shop. I was quite proud of the place. We’d overlapped a bunch of intricately carved black matte tiles, such that it looked like the store front itself had a tattoo, like the walls were alive with design. The largest piece of black tile curled in the shape of a rose, unfolding to reveal the door.
“You like it?” I asked mildly.
She giggled. “Are you kidding? It’s incredible.”
“Thanks,” I said. In the same breath, I located my keys, sliding them out of my back pocket and into the lock. I opened the door, and turning to her, said, “You can come in.”
She moved through the frame, her hips brushing against mine. A bead of sweat ran down my neck, where only moments ago her hands had been. As she passed inside, I crossed the threshold too, closing the door behind me and flicking on the lights.
“Wow,” she repeated.
“Good wow or bad wow?” I asked lightheartedly, though in truth, I was invested in the reply.
“Come ooon, you know I mean good wow! It’s awesome.”
While the outside of the shop is a bit modern, a touch artistic, the inside is all good ol’ fashioned biker. Think walls covered in mockup tattoos, a tile floor that’s clean but worn down from many steps, only the most absolutely crucial gear. The outside was for the prospective customer. The inside was for me.
She set her shoes down near the wall, and proceeded to walk around. The sight of someone barefoot on my sterile floors made me cringe, but I forced the thought away by promising myself I’d give them an extra good scrubbing the following morning.
She took a seat on one of the tattoo chairs, putting her arms behind her head as though she were outside in Hawaii, sipping a Mai Tai and chilling in a lounge chair, the sun beating down hot on her skin.
I pulled a stool up alongside her, and asked, “You comfortable?”
“This is so, so much better than that stupid club. So, yeah.”
“Why were you there in the first place?”
She shifted in the chair so that her eyes could find mine. “My friend’s bachelorette party. Which was fine, I guess.”
So she had come with friends. Oh well. I assumed she had a phone. One way or another, I’d get her home safely.
“Just fine?” I pressed.
“Yeah.” Her eyes darted away, clearly embarrassed. “I’m the only one of my friends not in a serious relationship, so… I just got a little too deep into my feelings. Which I guess happens, but it wasn’t like me.”
I took this in. It made sense, technically speaking, that she wasn’t in a relationship — a girl who was dating someone probably wouldn’t have come back to a tattoo parlor with a stranger in the waning hours of the evening. Nevertheless, the news felt like a cold compress on my hot forehead, giving me absolute relief I hadn’t even known I needed.
“Why not?”
“Why not what?” she asked, snapping out of some deep thought.
“Why aren’t you in a relationship?” Sure, it was a personal question, but fuck it, we were getting personal tonight.
She sighed, and leaned back deeper into the chair, as though she hoped it would swallow her whole. “Bad luck, I guess.”
As she leaned back, I leaned forward, and in a low voice, replied, “You mean bad luck for all the guys who you left.”
At last a smile took over her face, and she gave in to my compliment with a little laugh. “All right,” she said. “You’re smooth.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you playing me?” she said abruptly. “Are you gonna, I dunno, post about this on your Instagram story or Snapchat it?”
I lowered my head with a laugh, letting my eyes fall on the floor, then lifted them back up. In as cool a voice as I could muster, I replied, “No. No, I’m not.”
She whispered, “Good.”
I can’t recall everything that transpired after that, mostly because we talked for ever and ever, covering what seemed to be an encyclopedia’s worth of topics. Maybe it only lasted for a few minutes. Maybe hours. I never checked a clock. The thought didn’t even occur to me. It was a blur because she made the memories hazy around the edges.
Other things were said, things that I definitely remember, but that are too precious to share — at least right n
ow. Perhaps I’ll tell you some other time.
At some point, she sat up in the chair, arching her back and angling her body to mine. My brain lit up with this signaling change in her posture. She wanted to kiss me. The feeling was mutual.
Our mouths were coming closer, and I was just about to push her away, knowing that she was at least somewhat drunk and I couldn’t do this, not if I wanted a real chance with her — which I did — when she halted mid-movement.
I could smell her breath, or rather, I couldn’t smell the alcohol. She wasn’t as drunk as she had been. I froze, not wanting this moment to slip through my fingers.
“I want…” she murmured.
“Yes?” A coldness broke over me.
“I want…” she murmured. My groin ached, and I knew it would take everything in me to say no to this.
“I want… a tattoo.”
I moved back abruptly. “Uh, what?’
She nodded, hesitantly at first and then with more certainty. “Yeah. A tattoo.”
I arched my eyebrows, confused. “Why?”
She shrugged, but she looked at me dead in the eye. “Just cuz.”
Huh? She didn’t strike me as a girl who had any ink — a tattoo artist always has a sixth sense for these things — and I couldn’t imagine why she’d want to get one now. Impulsive drunkenness? Seemed unlikely, but I suppose I could’ve misjudged her.
She answered my thoughts as though she’d been reading them like a chapter book. “I haven’t been spontaneous in my life. Like, ever. I’ve never done something just because. And I feel like I’m missing out. I’m twenty-seven. I don’t wanna miss out on anything else.”
“Okay, let’s say I agreed to give you a tattoo—” which I am most definitely not agreeing to, I added mentally, “what would you get it of?”
Her dark eyes lasered in on mine. “You.”
I was back to confused. “Like, my face?” First off, hell no. Second, a newbie trying to get serious ink like that for their first time would pass out. And I couldn’t have a drunk girl passing out on my floor in the middle of the night. That would look less than good, besides being a serious safety hazard.
“No,” she replied, interrupting my list. “Like something that… that reminds me of you. Of this night. Of how I’m sad now, but don’t want to be again. And of how you did all this for me, took care of me, and how, how… how I really like you.”
Well, shit. I liked her too, more than I cared to admit. I hadn’t believed in — did I want to use the word? Yes — I hadn’t believed in love at first sight, but then I’d seen her swaying alone in that hallway and my entire perspective had shifted, had expanded to fit this girl in it.
“What’s your name?” I asked suddenly, realizing I’d never gotten it.
“Cybil.”
“You’re a hell of a woman, Cybil.”
She smiled. “You too.”
“I’m a hell of a woman?”
“Sure, why not.” She paused. “What’s your name?”
“Cash.”
“Cash…” she repeated, the letters tripping over her tongue. “Cash.”
I rolled my eyes and grinned. “All right. I’ll tell you what, Cybil. I’m gonna make an exception to the ‘thou shalt not tattoo drunkards’ rule, just for you.”
This is, technically, illegal, as alcohol works as a blood thinner. I’ve received plenty of tattoos while drunk, often at the hands of other drunk people. But I was willing to ignore the letter of the law. A very beautiful woman asks you to get close to her body and leave your mark — well, you don’t say no. Plus, she seemed sober enough. We’d been talking for ever, like I said. I’d be sure to make it discreet and tasteful.
“And it can be anything I want?” I asked.
“Anything,” she confirmed. “Anything at all.”
“Well, okay then. If it can be anything, then it’s going to be a surprise.”
She squinted at me, perhaps rethinking her decision, but then nodded. “Deal.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it small. You won’t feel a thing.”
Cybil appeared to consider this, then replied, “What’s the least painful spot? I don’t want to make a fool out of myself and start blubbering.”
“Your ass,” I said. I meant it, sort of, as a joke — of course she wouldn’t let me tattoo her ass, but technically speaking, it was the least sensitive area to put a needle in.
“Sounds good,” she replied automatically.
My throat dried up. “What?”
“You heard me. Tattoo my ass, handsome.”
Okay, I wasn’t going to make it very far in terms of putting up resistance if she started calling me things like ‘handsome.’
“You’re sure?” I asked, my voice wavering.
“Hell yeah. Surprise me.”
So we were doing this. All right. I couldn’t back out now. A deal is, after all, a deal. My stomach was in knots, and I reflected with some gratitude on the fact that I’d only had one drink several hours ago.
“Okay, lie down on your stomach,” I ordered her as I began to gather my instruments. She rolled over, until she was flat on her front, her butt sticking in the air. Her dress was already beginning to ride up, slowly moving to the promise of her cheeks.
“And now, um,” I faltered, tripping over the words. “Now, please lift your dress up past… past…”
“My ass?” she finished. “No problem.”
She wriggled her hands out from her sides and quickly pulled her dress up, revealing a teal thong that covered almost nothing. My fingers shook. Would I be able to do this? Her light brown skin was smooth and flawless. Her ass, like the rest of her body, was a study in what the human backside ought to be. Round, high, firm, the ass of a woman who did as many squats as necessary, who drank green juices for fun, who could twerk from dusk ‘til dawn. An ass with promise.
An ass with promise? Did I really just think that? Oh man, I was losing my cool, and we couldn’t have that. Women didn’t faze me. I fazed them. I reminded myself that I’d been in the military, that I ran my own business. Who was this girl to stroll into my place and assert such dominance? I needed to get tough, and fast.
“All right,” I said, my voice now firm. “My instruments are all warmed up. You ready?”
She laughed with abandon. “Mmm, what kind of instruments?”
I so, so badly wanted to take the bait — so I did. Sorry, I’m not a damn saint. “Hot ones. Hard ones.”
“Are they gonna hurt when they go inside me?”
My cock was now properly erect underneath the denim of my pants. I replied, “They’ll give you a rush of adrenaline and pleasure.”
“That sounds nice,” she responded. Cybil crossed her arms on the headrest and laid her face down atop them. “I’m ready.”
I grabbed a disinfecting wipe, tore it from its package, and tenderly lowered the wipe down to her bare skin. The wipe left a snail trail of fluid across her ass, and I fleetingly imagined that the fluid was my semen. Argh, stop! my inner voice protested, probably at its wit’s end. But I was a man possessed.
I disposed of the wipe, and as I was getting the ink and needle ready, Cybil said, “Maybe you should warm me up a little for the needle.”
My hands paused their work. “How so?”
Her voice, muffled, came out from the head cushion. “A slap on the ass would probably do the trick.”
Why, God, must you tempt me? Oh, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I lowered the needle back onto the work station table and stood up, surveying her ass for the perfect spot. With no more hesitation, I raised my open hand and slapped Cybil across her right ass cheek, not hard enough to leave more than a hint of red.
“Harder,” she said immediately. “I want to be really ready for the needle.”
I sighed with sexual frustration, but was happy to oblige. I raised my hand once more, and this time when I landed it, I put a little extra strength behind the slap. Her ass jiggled beneath
my palm, and a noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan came from the direction of her mouth.
“That’s better,” she replied. “Much better.”
I sat back down in the stool, emotionally exhausted by my attraction to her. These feelings were so foreign, and so overwhelming.
As I took the needle back into my hand, it occurred to me that I didn’t have any plans for the actual tattoo. Of course I was going to freehand it anyways, but I should at least have some notion before starting the undertaking. She’d said it ought to be ‘my mark.’ But what was my mark? The military trains you out of individuality. What made me unique?
I decided, after some brief thought, to go simple, classic. That was, after all, my mark, something old-fashioned, to the point, unfussy.
“All right,” I said at last. “I’m going to start.”
And with that, I set about tattooing my name onto the bare ass of a gorgeous mystery woman.
Chapter 4
Cybil
BEFORE THE bachelorette party the previous night, my friends and I had agreed to do have a late lunch the following day, on the grounds that we’d all need a bit of the hair of the dog and a chance to recap our various exploits. That last part, I suspect, was more aimed at me than anyone else. As involved women, none of my buds were likely to get up to anything particularly salacious, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get a kick out of my stories.
Now, with the fresh ink on my ass, the lunch had suddenly become of the utmost importance as I’d need all my friends on deck to help me solve the case of the unknown Cash.
I couldn’t be bothered to put on different clothes. We were all more of an athleisure group, anyways. Besides, unlike OnePart, our spot — Bijou Bar — was, despite its name, a homey, a hole-in-the-wall frequented only by neighborhood residents. As an added bonus, it was within walking distance of my house. Convenient, given that I suspected I was still technically too intoxicated to drive.
