by MV Ellis
I flushed the toilet, even though I hadn’t used it.
“Sorry, I’m good to go now.” I tucked the small slip of paper in the change pocket of my jeans, then washed my hands despite not needing to—he’d caught me out that way before, when he’d insisted on sniffing my hands after I’d claimed to have been using the bathroom.
I slunk back into the living area of my small apartment, wiping my hands on the back of my pants for an extra level of authenticity. It was exhausting having to work around Tommy’s insane behavior and dark, erratic moods, but it was what I needed to do to survive. Even still, no matter how hard I tried—and boy, did I ever try—it was impossible not to upset or anger him. He was irrational, and his triggers were many and unpredictable. Each day, from the moment my eyes opened—often before—and I woke from what would more often than not have been a broken, fitful sleep, I spent every minute, every second, trying to avoid riling Tommy.
It was a gargantuan and ultimately impossible task, and every day was a silent countdown until the inevitable happened. It might be ten minutes into the day, or ten hours. It could be something I didn’t do or everything I did. The fact was my mere presence in the world seemed to be enough to set him off.
One time I’d earned his wrath by breathing too loudly. Another time it was blinking too much. Preempting him was wrong. If I failed to anticipate his moods, actions, or needs, I was wrong. Moving was wrong, but if I stood still, I was wrong. I couldn’t win. How could I, when Tommy’s entire mission in life was to make himself feel better by making me feel worse?
He was pathological and relentless in his pursuit of ways to tear me down. No aspect of my life escaped his scrutiny. He attacked my looks, my body shape, my intellect, my height, my hair, my job, my apartment, every thought that ran through my mind, my taste, my cooking. Although it was all designed to hurt me, the truth was I’d learned to tune out the vast majority of it a long time ago.
My self-esteem was already non-existent, so though the words weren’t nice, they didn’t hurt me as much as I was sure he thought they would. How could he further erode what he’d already completely worn away? Was there a level a person could stoop to after they hit rock bottom? I didn’t know, but I knew that, as debased as I felt, it seemed like I couldn’t get any lower.
Tommy looked at me as though I was something that had washed up in a blocked toilet.
“Let’s go. I want to see this specific guy, and if you make us miss him, there will be hell to pay.” That wasn’t even a threat. There was always hell to pay. I nodded, having learned the hard way that it was better to say nothing than risk saying the wrong thing. Unless he asked a question, in which case, even though he had zero genuine interest in the response, you’d better believe he’d flip his shit if one wasn’t forthcoming on demand.
“And I know you’re not going to try to do anything stupid like take off or any shit like that, because I have Buddy, and I’m just looking for an excuse to use him.”
Buddy was Tommy’s gun. One of Tommy’s guns. Despite being on parole, he was never without it—except on his weekly visits to his PO, of course. Pathetically, the hunk of metal was actually the closest thing he had to an actual buddy.
He lifted his T-shirt and motioned to the bulge in the waistband of his jeans. Not that I needed showing. I knew where that gun was at all times; if I was going to get us—Noah and me—out of the mess I’d gotten us into, I needed to know.
He was clueless about the number of times a day I ran drills in my mind, planning how I’d grab the unregistered Glock and put a bullet right between his eyes while he begged for mercy. If he’d known, he’d have shot me years ago.
I nodded again, mustering a small tight smile that I hoped was reassuring. He stared back at me with a vacant expression on his face before barking further orders.
“Quit dawdling and let’s fucking go. I’m not getting any younger over here. Don’t make me have to tell you again. Grab your shit and let’s hustle!”
I snapped back into action, doing what he told me, snatching up my belongings from the nearby sofa and shrugging on my leather jacket as I walked out the front door and headed down the stairs to the car.
We rode in silence, me in the passenger seat of his beat-up Impreza, him driving as though the world owed it to him not to kill him, even if he drove like a total a-hole. Road rage didn’t even cover it. If he ever crashed into someone, he’d go to jail for reckless endangerment for sure. Not that he cared. He seemed to think he was above the law. Above abiding by the norms that governed the rest of us. Traffic rules meant nothing to him; he jumped lines, dodged fares, picked fights—basically just did whatever the fuck he wanted.
From what I could tell, negativity—anger, to be specific—was the lifeblood that coursed through his veins and kept his heart pumping. He seemed to court and create tense situations—driving like a turd, for example, then yelling, honking, and flipping people the bird if they reacted to his antics. He’d then use that reaction as a “reason” to target that driver for more of his abuse. Not that I needed any more evidence, but it was clear to me that he was losing the plot more every day.
I looked out the window, watching the world go by as Tommy zigged and zagged through the morning traffic, weaving enough to give me whiplash. I wasn’t sure where we were going, but I thought he’d said something about tattoos during his mumblings and rantings. I hoped that wasn’t the plan, but a sick feeling of dread settled in my stomach anyway. I didn’t dare question him, knowing he’d take offense at being asked to explain himself. Besides, it wouldn’t change the outcome, so I didn’t want to rock the boat.
We pulled up to the sidewalk outside a row of achingly hip stores in Brooklyn. My mind boggled about what business Tommy could have there. It was Hipsterville on growth hormones—the ones that produced chickens the size of the average cow. Tommy would stick out like a dildo at a wedding at any of those places. More to the point, I couldn’t imagine what he would want in any of them.
There was a cafe that screamed vegan matcha algae latte, and the kind of gift store that sold regular, though attractive, items for prices that made me laugh out loud. Who was walking around in $180 socks, I would never know. There was a florist that seemed to create everything from hessian and bark, and a barbershop whose window proclaimed a full menu of steeply priced beard maintenance services. WTAF? Last but not least, there was a place called SK:eTCH, which I realized, much to my dismay, was a tattoo joint. Fuck.
Tommy left the car in a no-standing zone, because he totally had money to burn to release it when it got impounded—not—and strode toward the door of the doublewide shop front. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. He pushed the door open, turning to give me a “You’d better come here right now or else” kind of look, and I shot into action, hurrying behind him. I made it through the door just before it closed, narrowly avoiding having it slam in my face.
As we walked farther into the room, I took in my surroundings. Like the other stores on the strip, it was a hipster’s paradise—all industrial, architectural features and classic designer furniture. There was a reception desk to one side, behind which sat one of the most stunning women I had ever seen.
It was all I could do to keep my mouth from gaping. She was small, but her presence seemed to take up a large space in the spartan room. Her purple braids might have had something to do with that, but it was mostly her aura or general vibe that made such a big impact.
She looked up from her computer and smiled.
“Hi there. Welcome to SK:eTCH. How can I help you?”
“We want to see Spider.” Tommy’s voice was brusque as ever, and I winced, embarrassed at his lack of finesse. No hello, nor please or thank you. He was a fucking caveman. And what the hell was he was talking about, “we”? We didn’t want anything. He had some kind of crazy plan in his warped brain, which I was clearly only going to be privy to when it unfolded in front of me.
The purple pixie’s smile wavered as her gaze flicked back and f
orth between the two of us. She recovered herself, quickly sliding her smile back into place, but I could tell it wasn’t genuine this time like the first one had been.
“Okay, sure.” She tapped away at her keyboard.
“Do you have an appointment, or can I tell him what it’s regarding?” She frowned down at her screen.
“No appointment. I want to see him now. We’re getting matching work.”
Another fake smile from the receptionist. “Sure. Take a seat, and I’ll go see if he’s free.”
She motioned to the replica designer chairs, but Tommy didn’t move a muscle. Again I was embarrassed. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of his hoggish behavior in private, but it was another to witness him carrying on like a savage in the world at large. Even worse to know what other people must think of him, and of me for being with him, allowing him to treat me the way he did. I knew people judged me, but the weight of their judgment was nothing compared to the weight of his hand, the gun in his pocket, or my disappointment in myself.
I’d take a stranger’s criticism over any of those, but I felt trapped and powerless to put an end to a situation so reminiscent of my parents’. A situation I knew couldn’t and shouldn’t be sustained. A situation I always promised myself I’d never put a child through. A situation I should have seen coming but didn’t. Should have put an end to sooner but hadn’t. A situation I knew I wasn’t responsible for, yet somehow always felt to blame.
5
Spider
I was so immersed in my work and my thoughts that I didn’t hear Kota come up behind me, so when she tapped my shoulder, I damn near shat my pants.
“Motherfucker! Kota, Jesus! Why the hell can’t you knock on a goddamn door for once?”
“It’s open. Always is.”
“Yeah, I don’t enjoy being shut into this windowless, airless closet. It feels like a fucking tomb. But as I’ve said no less than twelve billion times, it’s open, not off its hinges. Why can’t you bring yourself to knock on it to announce your presence, or even just holler so I know you’re there?”
She blinked slowly, methodically popping her gum as she chewed, just waiting for me to finish, not actually listening to what I was saying. I ran out of steam knowing the whole conversation was the definition of futile. I’d tried, as had Zed before me, but time and time again, she’d simply refused to do what we asked. I loved her, but she made the average mule seem flexible and accommodating. On cue, she spoke again.
“So, there’s a couple in reception who want matching work, and they’re asking for you by name. You don’t have any bookings for the next few hours, but I thought I’d check before taking theirs, just in case you had other plans.”
Something about her facial expression and her voice was a little out of whack.
“K, are you okay? Is there something else?” She shrugged but didn’t seem herself. I’d gotten to know her pretty well over the years and could tell when something was up.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She dropped her voice before continuing. “But something doesn’t seem right with these two. I can’t put my finger on it, but that’s why I came out here instead of calling through. They seem a little off-kilter, him more so. I wanted you to come check them out.”
I followed Kota out into the front of the store, stopping in my tracks as I took in the scene in front of me. She was right—the energy was all wrong. Like so wrong it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as an unexplainable sense of unease flowed over me. WTF? I told myself to play it cool, even though my instincts were screaming otherwise.
As I approached the couple, the guy stepped forward.
“Hi. Kota tells me you guys want to get some work?”
“Yeah, we want matching pieces. Here.” He motioned to his chest above his heart.
I rolled my eyes internally. Not only did he give off a weird vibe, just as Kota had said, but the dude was about as original as a dolphin tramp stamp. I cast a discreet glance across at the woman. She caught my eye briefly before shifting her gaze to the floor.
What was that about?
“Okay, so did you have a design in mind, or did you want to spend some time sketching something out and then book in for an appointment?”
“No. I already know what we’re having, and I want it done now.”
Hmm.
I chanced another look at the woman. She kept her eyes cast downward, and although I didn’t dwell on her for long, I couldn’t help but notice the sweep of her thick eyelashes as they fluttered on her cheeks. She was gorgeous. Like heart-stoppingly attractive.
The fact was, he was too.
Dudes didn’t float my boat, but if they did, he’d have had my blood pumping. I smirked inwardly at the thought. He also had an impressive set of lashes and high cheekbones covered in golden brown skin, though not as dark as hers. His thick, wavy, ink-black hair was tied in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, not dissimilar to mine, whereas hers fell in impressive waves to her shoulders.
I noted how, apart from the difference in skin tone, they looked so alike that they could pass for siblings. With the vibes I was getting from them—him particularly—I was almost certain that they weren’t, but stranger things had happened. Especially in a tattoo studio.
I took in his lean and sinewy limbs and the stern set of his almost too-thin lips—his one slight physical flaw, from what I could tell. He looked mean as a cut snake and twice as crazy.
“Okay, well….” I made a big show of looking at my watch and frowning as though calculating the time I had free. “I might be able to fit you in, if it’s nothing too large or complicated. What did you have in mind?”
“It’s simple.” I’ll be the judge of that, bozo. I bit my tongue, refraining from saying the words aloud. “It’s a heart and eternity symbol linked like this.” He dug in his back pocket and pulled out his phone, angling the screen toward me.
I vomited a little in my mouth. The cliché was just too much for me.
I looked down at the screen with feigned interest, as though I hadn’t drawn nine billion tattoos exactly like it in my time. These were the kinds of clients who made me question my life choices.
“Okay. That should be no problem.”
“That’s not all. I want words too, as part of the eternity symbol.”
Of course you do, because you haven’t ticked off enough clichés yet.
“Okay, no problem. What do you want them to say?”
“Hers needs to say ‘what’s mine is his.’ Mine will say ‘what’s mine is mine.’”
Huh? Why did I feel like he was branding her and have the urge to take him out?
“Okaaay.” I drew the word out, wanting him to know how weird I thought that was.
He looked at me as though he couldn’t care less what I thought.
I stared him down. I wasn’t entirely sure why, it just kind of felt like the right thing to do, though in the end, I was the one to break our weird standoff, and I kind of hated myself for it.
“You’ll be wanting a cursive script, I presume?” Because that would be the most imagination-less option.
He blinked back at me as though the lights were on, but no fucker was home.
“Handwriting.”
Finally he was with me. Not the sharpest pencil in the pot.
“Yeah, course.” He had the guts to sound as though I was the less-than-smart one. I refrained from balling my fists—he seemed like the type of guy not only to notice but to take it as a challenge or threat—although I really fucking wanted to, and more besides.
“All right. Well, I can fit you in. You just need to select the exact writing style you want and plot out the size of the pieces, and then we can get to work. Come through to my room so we can put it together, and I’ll let you know the price. Which one of you is going first?”
“She is.” He jerked his head toward the woman. She looked anywhere but at me, still refusing to make eye contact.
“Okay, great. Follow me
.”
As we walked into my room, I realized she hadn’t said a word since I’d entered the reception area. I wanted to fix that.
“Sorry, where are my manners? My name’s Spider. You are?” I thrust my hand toward the guy, waiting while he looked at it as though it might be about to grow teeth and bite him before answering.
“Tommy. And Emi.” He jerked his head aggressively toward her.
“Hi, Tommy. And Emi.” I extended my hand to her, noting her trepidation as she reached out to shake it briefly, though not so brief that I didn’t feel it quiver in my grasp. Her palm was warm and smooth, and I wanted to hold on to it for longer, but I knew I couldn’t without being weird and maybe causing Neanderthal man to lose his ever-loving shit.
“Okay, so if you’re going first, why don’t you have a seat in the treatment chair.” I pointed to the seat opposite mine and looked at Emi, then swung my gaze to Tommy. “And you can sit there.” Just as I knew he would, he looked pissed off when he saw how far away from the action the second chair was. Equally predictably, he pulled it closer to the treatment area before throwing himself into it. Each movement he made seemed to be a statement. Or even a challenge. I pretended not to notice.
“Okay, we can pin down the final details and then start.”
We spent half an hour doing exactly that, picking out the font, deciding on the scale of the pieces, and tracing out each one. They were quick and simple to complete. When I quoted the price, I saw the guy wince, but he said nothing, just nodding as though the cost wasn’t an issue. He wasn’t a good actor, and I was of half a mind to call Kota in to take payment before starting the work, in case he had any weird ideas about bailing without settling up.
The only reason I decided not to was because I thought it would add a whole other level of awkwardness to what was already a tense situation. Though the fact was if Tommy wasn’t there, I would have done anything Emi wanted for free just to buy some time with her.
