Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  I can’t allow that to happen.

  “You have to realize a few things,” I say, putting just a hint of an edge in my voice to let her know I heard and did not appreciate her comment.

  “At that point, the day of my twenty-ninth birthday, I had kissed exactly one girl in my life. It was years before and it was nothing memorable.”

  There is plenty more I can add to the story, but its relevance is of no import. As such, I plow straight ahead before she can ask any questions and bog me down.

  “My virginity, well, you can feel free to speculate on that.”

  Her features remain even as she stares at me, not relenting at all to my slight attempt for levity.

  “And Rae,” I begin, my voice falling away as a smile comes to my face, “there’s just something - I don’t know - hypnotic about her. Rolling up to Pauley’s Parlor is almost like a sailor floating past the Isle of Siren. Even though you know you’ll probably end up smashed on the rocks, you just have to get a closer peek.”

  This earns me an arch of her eyebrow, but nothing more.

  “And to be clear,” I say, remembering back to that afternoon, the way she held my entire body at rapt attention, the way every major anatomical system I had seemed to shut down when she was nearby. “If she had asked me to remove my arm to let Pauley tattoo it, I probably would have.”

  The admission brings a heightened look of disgust, one corner of her mouth curling up into a snarl. She shakes her head from side to side and looks as if she wants to hurl some insult my way, but no words cross her lips.

  Not that it’s hard to ascertain what she is thinking.

  Dropping my face towards my left shoulder, I bite the sleeve of my jumpsuit and pull it back. The bright orange fabric peels up over five inches of tattoos, everything mixed into a cornucopia of shapes and colors.

  I’m sure somewhere on the other side of the glass, Brantley - if he hasn’t long since lost interest - is laughing at me trying to move with my hands cuffed down. I am tempted to look over and glare at the mirror again, but decide against it.

  I’ve already learned it does no good.

  “Right at the top there, the tribal design,” I say, pointing with my chin.

  Sitting high on my shoulder, spread clear across my deltoids, is a symmetrical symbol. Using solid black lines, it starts with just a few tendrils on either end, gaining thickness and extra seams as it moves forward.

  In the center is a crisscrossed network, fingers of black laced together.

  Pearson leans forward a couple of inches in her seat, still careful not to break the artificial barrier imposed between us. I’m sure she’s seen the video of the incident, knows exactly what the design looks like and how long it took to apply, though she stares at it for several moments. I can still see her eyes tracing over the outline of it as she leans back.

  “I still can’t believe...” she mutters.

  “Neither could I,” I say, flicking my shoulder forward to let the sleeve fall back into place. “One minute, I was standing there telling Pauley I wasn’t really sure about this. The next, I was laying shirtless in the front chair.”

  The scene still feels so vivid to me, though nearly three years have passed. That day was a rite of passage for me in so many ways, the first tattoo I ever received being just one small part of it.

  “It wasn’t until the needle pierced my skin that I fully realized what was going on.”

  I can see her eyes tighten in a bit of a wince, imagining a needle entering the skin and depositing ink there, moving at nearly eighty revolutions per minute.

  “Believe it or not,” I offer, seizing on her expression, “I hated needles.”

  The chain taps against the metal restraint on the table as I raise both elbows, motioning towards the designs encasing my arms.

  “I know it might be hard to believe, but I still do.”

  Her gaze flicks down to the bright colors enveloping every inch of flesh from collarbone to wrist bone on both arms.

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

  After almost seven hours together, I can tell she is starting to become disenchanted with this entire thing. I don’t yet get the impression that she is losing interest, quite the opposite in fact. Her cool exterior is beginning to melt away. She is being drawn into the story, starting to feel and react the same way I once had.

  That was the ultimate goal when I first brought her here, though I can admit it was a lofty one.

  “No, it’s true,” I say, “you can even call Pauley and fact check me on this.”

  Her hands slide to the side and she makes a notation on her computer, her gaze still aimed my direction.

  “So you and Pauley stayed in touch?” she asks.

  My eyebrows rise on my forehead, a touch of genuine surprise at the question. After the events of that afternoon, we saw a great deal of each other over the ensuing months.

  “More than that,” I say, “he did all of this work, the only one that I ever let put ink on me.”

  Her head backs up an inch in surprise as she raises a finger and twirls it in a circular motion beside her face.

  “So, none of those?”

  “In here?” I ask, finishing the thought. “Definitely not. The last tattoo I ever got was a week before I came here.”

  One last time, she scans my exposed arms before sliding the computer back into place. The initial burst of shock has passed, the poised reporter settling back in.

  “What made you choose that design?” she asks, returning to the story at hand.

  “After Rae got done, Quasi and I spent a good hour scouring the walls for a design. We agreed that someone like James Buchanan would never have a colorful tattoo, that it needed to be solid black.”

  A smirk tugs at my features as I glance down, every color imaginable represented on my skin.

  “So much for that.”

  I can hear her make a similar noise across from me, though her face never rises to meet mine.

  “When we were in high school - and this will be a shock I’m sure - we were both big professional wrestling fans. This one reminded us of one our favorites back then, so we went with it.”

  There is a short but clear break in the typing, the crown of her head twisting just a bit. It was the reaction I had expected, but it does nothing to change the veracity of the statement.

  Once Rae was done with me, all reason was completely out of play. Getting a tattoo because a professional wrestler once had something similar made perfect sense to me at the time.

  “Did it hurt?” she asks, another inquiry I wasn’t expecting, seemingly more curiosity than necessity.

  “Like hell,” I reply. “I spent four solid hours white knuckling the edge of the table. I gripped that thing so tight that Pauley kept telling me to relax or the edges would be uneven.”

  A few more moments of typing pass before Pearson pauses, raising her gaze to meet mine.

  “Ever regret it?”

  Finally, she is getting the point, to stay locked into the story instead of wanting to jump ahead. I hide the feeling of pride I have within, though it isn’t easy.

  “At that moment, yes,” I say. “A few hours later and every minute since? Not even a little bit.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Saturday, March 31st, 2012

  6:18 pm

  The sound of the tattoo gun buzzing in my ear has long since subsided, though I still can’t bring myself to look at my shoulder. Instead, I keep my cheek pressed into the black leather of the chair back, ignoring the sweat streaming down my face.

  “Alright, here’s what’s going to happen,” Pauley says beside me.

  His voice has gone from California surfer to professional at work. The sound of tape being extended out and snipped clean can be heard.

  “You’re going to want to keep this covered for the first twenty-four hours. It’ll be hard not to want to peel this off and show your friends, but them’s the rules.”

  The only frie
nd I have that I can imagine even being curious about the tattoo just filmed the entire thing. Aside from Quasi, the only person I see with any regularity outside of work is my mother.

  Keeping it covered in front of her isn’t just a guideline, it’s a self-imposed mandate.

  “After that, be sure to keep it clean and out of direct sunlight until it heals.”

  The best I can manage is a nod, my body feeling like it’s just run a marathon after holding my breath for the better part of four hours.

  “How long will that take?” Quasi asks.

  I can sense he is close by, but still don’t look over.

  Not until I feel the final piece of tape attached and Pauley presses the bandage down over my shoulder do I glance over, letting out a slight exhale.

  No more than two feet from my face is the camera, beside it the smiling visage of Pauley.

  “Just depends,” Pauley says, looking to the camera. “Could be a week or two, could be as many as six if he doesn’t take care of it.”

  My entire left arm is numb at the moment, but I can imagine that will be replaced soon enough by complete pain. If keeping it clean will help speed me through that part of the process, I will have the most immaculate tattoo ever received.

  “Welcome back,” Pauley says, reaching out and tapping my thigh with the back of his hand. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Every last second of it was terrifying, a mixture of discomfort and anxiety that had me wanting to vomit a hundred different times.

  “No,” I say, forcing a smile, “just didn’t know what to expect.”

  “I’ve been there,” he replies, nodding. “The first one I got I was half lit, so that helped. The next couple had me crapping my pants, though.”

  I’m not sure if he’s serious or just trying to make me feel better, knowing this will soon be seen by thousands.

  “Yeah?”

  “Definitely, but it wasn’t long and I was going to work on myself.”

  He smiles again as if this is the same trajectory I will be on, though there is no way I will ever sit through this again. I have done it once and we have got the footage we need.

  Nothing more.

  “How does it look?” I ask, glancing between them.

  “Primo,” Pauley says, offering me a thumbs up.

  Quasi moves the camera enough for me to see his face, a smile in place.

  “Really good. Pauley does great work.”

  I’ve known Quasi long enough to know he isn’t one for idle praise. If it was bad, or even okay, he wouldn’t be afraid to temper his assessment. His unabashed approval gives me hope.

  If I’m going to be branded with something for life, I want it to look good.

  “How about you? What did you think?” Pauley asks, looking up past me towards the back of the shop.

  My heart seizes in my chest as the cadence of Rae’s heels come closer, her scent arriving before she does.

  “Beautiful,” she says, circling around my head and coming to sit on Pauley’s knee.

  As she moves, my head goes in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc, following her movement.

  “I even took a picture of it and sent it to a friend of mine. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Rae could have just told me she was preparing a litter of kittens for dinner and I wouldn’t have minded. I nod again without speaking, fearful of what might come out.

  A devilish smile crosses her face as she glances to me and then the camera and says, “She also thinks you’re very cute. Said she would like to come down here and meet you if you can stay awhile.”

  After the ordeal I’ve been through, I’m not even sure what time it is. I know I’ve donated a large amount of blood and sweat to Pauley’s Parlor, having attempted to replenish both with black ink.

  More than anything, I just want to get out of here. I want to find some food and then head to bed.

  “I think we’ve got some time, right Quas?” I ask.

  “We’ve got all night,” he responds without pause.

  Chapter Forty

  “You want some more, Chaz?”

  Somehow her voice sounds even more tempting than Rae’s, needling its way into my brain and taking hold. Without realizing it, my head rocks up and down, my hands extending in front of me, waiting for more of the magical elixir to arrive.

  “That’s my boy,” Jonda says, using a plastic ladle to scoop some form of red punch into a cup and bringing it over to me.

  “Thank you,” I manage, the words coming out slurred through a haze of alcohol and saliva.

  “You’re very welcome,” she coos, putting one red fingertip beneath my hands and lifting them towards my mouth. I make no effort to stop her as the cup reaches my face, slurping down the contents without pause.

  An hour ago, whatever was in the drink burned my throat the entire way down. It tasted like a cross between Hawaiian Punch and battery acid, setting my skin to crawl. After seven glasses though, all exposed nerve endings have been rubbed away, leaving only a clear chute from my mouth to my stomach.

  A thin tendril of the drink runs down the side of my face and drips onto my t-shirt as I finish the cup, Jonda clapping in delight as she plucks it away and tosses it to the side.

  It is gone no more than a second before she leans in and replaces it, pressing her lips to mine. My eyes go wide for a moment as my view is blocked by a plume of dark brown hair. Somewhere nearby, I can hear a long shrill whistle erupt.

  For a moment, I think this must be some mistake, that she is going to pull back and slap me, but she doesn’t. Instead, she keeps going, thrusting her tongue against mine, a small moan escaping her.

  The snickering in the background only grows as we continue for another five minutes before she abruptly stops, pulling back from me. Both short of breath, we sit staring at each other, panting.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  An hour ago, I had thought Rae was perfection in female form.

  That was before her friend Jonda arrived.

  Standing a full four inches taller than me, she has thick dark hair that hangs in flowing curls around her head. Dark eyes that flash each time she looks at me. A throaty voice that fills me with exhilaration each time she speaks.

  Dressed in a purple sheath dress with just enough red bra showing, she is everything I have ever envisioned while lying by myself alone at night.

  Now here she is, seated on my lap, pinning me down to the same chair Pauley gave me my tattoo on. The last eight hours are a complete blur, though all I can ascertain for sure is that I do not want them to end.

  “What’s wrong?” I repeat.

  Her lipstick is smeared across the bottom of her face as she looks at me, her upper body rocking forward and back as she pants. Without moving, she shifts her gaze up to the others in the room, then back down to me.

  “Let’s find someplace a little more private.”

  I don’t have to pretend to hide the shock on my face. It explodes from every pore of me, my entire body going rigid.

  “Are you serious?” I whisper, lowering my voice to look back the length of the room.

  Halfway down, Rae and Pauley are interlocked in their own passionate throes. A couple of other people they invited sit in conversation. A stereo in the corner pushes out classic rock music, the bass causing the top of the punchbowl to ripple.

  I can’t see Quasi, but trust he is somewhere nearby.

  For a moment, a look of sadness crosses her features, her face falling flat.

  “You don’t want to?”

  “Oh, dear God, yes,” I spit out as fast as I can, rising a few inches in my chair.

  A flirtatious giggle passes from her lips as she rises, grabbing a handful of my shirt and pulling me to my feet. Behind her, I can see Quasi nodding in approval, his camera held out in front of him the entire time.

  Deep inside, I know what he is doing is probably wrong, though the combination of alcohol and hormones roiling through me inhibit me from actually saying
anything.

  Taking my hand and draping it over her shoulder, Jonda leads me towards the back of the room. As we pass Pauley and Rae, Pauley raises his hand for me, a clear sign of approval. Without slowing down, I swat him five as we go, our palms coming together in a noisy collision of skin-on-skin.

  A playful laugh rolls from Jonda as she glances over at me, shaking her head in mock scolding.

  We are locked in that pose together, side by side staring at one another, as we pass through the black curtain and into the back.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Friday, January 21st, 2015

  5:17 pm

  I see both hands gripping either side of her head, the crown of it dipped so far forward she must be staring straight down at her lap. Not once does she bother to look up at me, or even say a word.

  She doesn’t have to.

  This was a major turning point in the story. Pearson had originally thought it was only because I allowed myself to be persuaded into getting a tattoo, not realizing it was much, much worse than that.

  “I just can’t...” she begins, her words trailing away.

  A handful of retorts come to mind, but I let them pass. Remaining low in my chair, I sit in silence and stare at the back of her computer, waiting for her to articulate exactly what it is she wants to say.

  “I mean, you realize...” she starts anew, again drifting away to nothing.

  “I told you I would not lie,” I say, bypassing her half-questions and cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “For everything else you must think of me right now, you must concede at least that much.”

  The hands pull away from her hair, all ten fingers curled towards her scalp. They hover an inch above her head for a moment, her hidden eyes no doubt relaying pure loathing.

  “And you think that makes this any better?” she asks.

  This is why I worked so hard to develop some small semblance of rapport earlier in the day. I knew that from this point forward, it would be difficult for her to sit in the same room with me, finding most of what I tell her repugnant.