by JA Huss
I just blink at her.
“Like, what symbol do you use for inspiration?”
More blinking.
“For instance,” she says, understanding that I’m just a dude who doesn’t give much thought to symbols, “I relate to… well, it’s stupid to say beer, but that’s exactly right. It’s my life. It reminds of family, and good times, and of course, the business. I don’t make all the labels anymore but that’s what I did when I was a kid. I made labels. Came up with clever names. Because each beer has a history. Each beer we’ve come up with has memories attached to it. And yeah, Bucked Up was invented before I was even born, but I was there when it rose to fame. I remember my dad’s face when he won that first international award. So if I were going to get more tattoos, I’d use beer as my inspiration.”
“You’d get beer bottles?” I ask. “Or labels?” I try to picture her like Larry over there, only instead carnival people, she’s got six-packs of beer on her arms.
“No, dummy.” She laughs. “Words are my thing. I’d get our beer names done up in the same calligraphy as it is on the label. But no pictures. Just words.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“Maybe if I was really clever,” she adds, looking up at the ceiling, like this idea just popped into her head, “I’d take the beer names and make them into a poem. Then write that all down my back. And all the regular words would be in one font and all the beer names would be in their original font.” She smiles and sits back, apparently satisfied with her future tattoo plan. “Yeah. That’s what I’d do.”
“Well, I don’t think I want words.”
“Of course not. That’s my symbol.” She smiles at me. “You just need to find your roots. The one thing that can describe you in a picture. And then go from there. Like my dad, he had an Old West theme. A whole herd of mustangs on his back. Six-shooters on his upper arms. And of course, the infamous bucking bronco as his main front piece.”
“He was all bucked up, huh?”
She nods. Tilting her head a little like she’s remembering him. All his tattoos. All their time together when she was young.
“So,” I say. “Not to be pushy, but what happened to your mom?”
“She’s dead to me.”
“Dead… to you?” I ask. “Or really dead?”
“It’s all the same to me. My dad got a woman pregnant. She never told him about the baby, just disappeared, and then one day he found a four-year-old on his doorstep.”
“He did not!” I bellow.
“I swear to God! She brought me to the brewery, dropped me off in the lobby, told the hostess I was his kid, and left me there. She never came back. I never saw her again. It was just the two of us after that.”
“So you know her name though.”
“Yeah. I looked her up when I was fifteen. She was dead by then.”
“Wow,” I say. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
Oaklee shrugs. “Don’t feel sorry for me, that’s for sure. I got as good a childhood as any kid could ask for. And my dad might’ve been a beer-making biker on the outside, but he was an astute businessman. He saw the craft beer trend before anyone else and took Bronco Brews to the next level. When he died I inherited a five-hundred-million-dollar portfolio.”
I whistle. You know that whistle people do when they’re amazed at something? That’s what I do.
“Jesus,” I say. “That’s a lot of money. Is that why you decided to renovate your building? You just have so much money you don’t know what to do with it?”
“Sorta. But also, he’d always wanted to fix the building up. Just didn’t have the time or inclination to deal with it. So I figured I’d do it. We’d already planned it all out before he died. So really, all I did was see it through to the end. And you know what’s funny?”
“No, but I can’t wait to hear it.”
“All I did was increase my net worth when it was done. It’s like… money makes money.”
I hold up my beer to do a cheers, and say, “No truer words have ever been said.”
She laughs, holding up hers to clink against mine. “But anyway, we’re off topic. If you’re going to get a tattoo, you need a plan before you start. Otherwise you might regret it later.”
“Right. A symbol.” I think real hard but I don’t know. “I have no symbol,” I finally admit. “I have nothing like you do. Not really. I mean, my childhood was filled with fucked-up parents, drugs and violence. Which isn’t the kind of shit you want to memorialize on your body in ink.”
“Surely there was something. What did you think about as a teenager?”
I ponder that for a little bit. Then say, “Chaos. That’s the only thing I can think of. Just… chaos.”
“O-kay,” she says. “Well, how would you describe your life now?”
I sigh. Because it’s sad that I have no symbol. “Just… making money, I guess.”
Oaklee makes a face. Scrunching up her nose in the process. Which I find adorable. “You want to be a TV star. That’s something.”
“Yeah, but no. I want the show. I want the mountain lifestyle. I want the house and the land, and maybe some horses. I want…”
“You want the peace,” she finishes.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Yeah. Life was chaos growing up and it still is, just in a different way. So I guess I just want the peace. I want to drop out, ya know? Be away from the hustle and relax.”
“And a TV show will give you that?”
I shrug. “I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like it will. Like if I could just sell all the properties I own down here I could move up into the mountains, sell houses to other people like me—people who need to drop out every now and then and can afford to do that—and I’d be happy.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Chaos. I kinda like that.”
Which makes me guffaw. “What’s to like about chaos?”
“Well, some people get handed chaos and shut down. Like your parents. I don’t know anything about them, but typically people fall into a life like that because they can’t find a way out. The chaos overtakes them. But others thrive on it. It makes them stronger. Makes them rise up. Makes them better than they were before. And you’re one of those people, Lawton. You see chaos as a challenge.”
I suddenly feel happy. It takes me a few seconds to pull that feeling into a coherent thought, but when I do, I say, “Like you. You’re chaos, Oaklee Ryan. This whole game we’re playing is chaos. But that’s what I like most about you. The challenge.”
She looks down, blushing. Her long blonde hair falls over her eyes, but I can still see them peeking up at me from behind the thin curtain. And she says, “Well then. What are we waiting for?”
We don’t finish our jackalope dogs or our pints of Bucked Up. Just stand up and walk out. Her hands gripping my upper arm like she’s my girlfriend.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - OAKLEE
We dropped our packages off with the hostess at Bronco Brews and the whole way back over to Shrike Bikes I feel guilty for bringing up the tattoo idea. I mean, if the guy wanted tattoos, he would’ve had them already.
But on the other hand, Lawton Ayers isn’t a man who’d agree to something just to go along. He’s the kind of guy who has an opinion. He’s the kind of guy who knows what he wants. So he’s not the kind of guy who’d mark his body with ink just to make a girl he hardly knows happy.
That rationale makes me feel fine about this.
But the guilt still lingers in the back of my mind.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say.
We’re already approaching the front door to Shrike and my weak attempt to talk him out of the whole idea doesn’t even make him pause. He just opens the door, stands aside, and says, “We’re doing this.”
So we go inside, make our way to the back where the tattoo shop is and stand under the neon pink sign that says Sick Girlz Ink. The buzzing sound from the machine in back fills my ears as I ding the little bell that lets the artists know someone
is at the counter waiting.
Vivi Vaughn peeks her head around the corner of a wall. “Be right—hey!” she says, changing her tone mid-sentence. “Oaklee! Long time, bitch!”
Vivian Lee Vaughn. How to describe her? Pink hair done up in Fifties victory rolls. Tall, curvy, big tits, and pouty lips. She is someone you can’t help but look at. Add in her full-sleeve tattoos—all hot-pink-and-black skulls and red hearts, filled in with a healthy dose of pale-pink stars—and she’s got Tattoo magazine cover model written all over her.
“Vivi!” I say. “I have a friend who needs some work.”
“I’m just about done, sweets. Be out in a sec!” she calls back.
“So…” Law turns to face me. “Don’t tattoo shops usually have artwork on the walls? There’s nothing here to get ideas.”
“Oh, she’s all custom. You tell her what you want, she draws it out on the spot, then she works her magic. You wanted an artist? She’s the best in Denver. Her family owns the iconic Sick Boyz Ink up in Fort Collins, so she and her sisters come by it naturally.”
“Well, would you look at that?” Law laughs. “I’ve got two real-life examples of women being chips off the old man’s block.”
I laugh too, because I’ve never thought about it that way. But it’s true. Viv and I are two bitches at the top of their game in a world given to us by our fathers.
“But she has a scrapbook of her work over here,” I say, walking over to a coffee table and sitting down on an overstuffed pink-leather couch. “Wanna see some of it?”
He does, because he joins me, and then we sit there, the book in our laps between us, and flip through.
“Jesus,” Law says. “You weren’t kidding. Everyone in here is a living, breathing masterpiece.”
He’s right. Everyone in the book has a well-planned, color-coordinated work of art on their bodies.
“She makes me want more than one.” He laughs. “How’d you ever walk away with only that back piece?”
I shrug. “It’s all I wanted. But yeah, it’s addictive. Especially when Vivi or her sisters do them. You just want to come back as soon as you can and get more to keep it going.”
He flips through the book, stopping to look at a few. One is a Dark Knight back piece done up in blues and blacks. The next is Iron Man done up in deep red and gray. And the third is a Sex Pistols chest piece with a huge anarchy symbol superimposed over a girl with a tall mohawk.
He lingers on that one for several minutes.
“Fancy yourself a Sex Pistols tattoo, Law?”
“No, not exactly. But—”
“OK,” Vivi says, leading a woman out to the counter to pay. “Be with you folks in a sec. Just gotta button up this gig first.”
“No problem,” I say, turning back to Law. “What were you gonna say?”
“Well, chaos, right? I’m looking to control chaos. So the anarchy symbol is a good start. That’s the patch on the back of the jacket I gave you.” Then he points to a few framed comic books on the wall. “But I really like that too.”
“Anarchist superhero theme. Didn’t see that coming.” I laugh. He puts the book down and we stand up to get a closer look at the art on the wall. “Is this a real comic?” I ask. “I’ve never heard of Anarchy Found.”
“Yeah, but it’s very limited-edition stuff. Only three issues and it was mostly an art piece.”
“So you’re familiar with these anarchists?”
“I’ve heard about them back when I was in college. Read bootleg copies online but never seen one in person.”
“Hmmm,” I say. “Well, that sounds a little bit like roots if you ask me.”
“Hey, guys,” Viv says, walking over to us. “Sorry for the wait. What can I do for you, Oaklee?”
So I tell her. I tell her all about my new boyfriend Lawton Ayers and what he’s looking for. He jumps in when appropriate, trying to explain his vision, but having trouble.
“OK,” Viv says, cocking one blonde eyebrow at him. “So you like comic books, and anarchists, and the colors blue and red, and punk rock.”
Lawton makes a face. “Is that what I said?”
“That’s what I heard,” Viv replies.
“I don’t think that’s what I mean. I want something cool. Something that kinda personifies where I came from, but not who I am now. Something that chronicles that journey.”
Viv chews her lip. Eyes drifting up towards the ceiling as she thinks.
“Oh!” I say. “I know.” Both heads turn to look at me. “Hold on.” I grab the book and start flipping though photographs. “Like this, but”—I flip a few more pages until I find another photo—“with this too.”
Vivi looks at me. Then at Law. “This what you want?”
Law takes the book from my hand. Looks at the photo. Flips the pages back to the first one. Then repeats that process a few more times until he starts smiling. “Yes, but…” Flipping pages again. “But with this too.” He points to another photograph.
Vivi eyes him for a second, then says, “You’re naked now. No ink at all. And you’re telling me you want this?”
Law nods.
I try to picture how intricate that piece would be and can’t.
“What you’re asking for is more than a bicep. It’s gotta flow over to the chest and finish up on the opposite arm. Probably involve both shoulder blades on your back too. This is a commitment. You’re gonna need to come back a whole bunch of times over the next year to get this kind of work. Like… you and I are gonna be real good friends by the time I’m done.”
He nods again. “I get it.”
But I don’t. It was just… just supposed to be one. I didn’t want to change him that much. I mean…
But Law follows Vivi when she walks over to the counter, picks up a sketchpad, and starts drawing with colored pencils, like this is really happening.
When she’s done, she holds it up and Law says. “Yes. Do it.”
Vivi looks at me and I don’t say anything, because I’m still kind of stunned that he’s going to take it this far.
So Vivi says, “OK. Follow me.”
So he follows her back behind the wall to get himself inked up.
For me.
And the guilt is back. So much guilt is flowing through me, I put a hand on his arm and say, “Are you sure?”
And he says, “Yeah.”
That’s it. Just… yeah.
But I don’t think he’d be here if I didn’t bring it up. I don’t think he’s ever given tattoos a second thought after his friend told him not to get them. And now he’s here making an insane commitment to turn his skin into artwork just to play my game.
My heart starts beating fast. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead and I get a little dizzy as the reality of what’s happening sinks in. Vivi leaves the room to go get something.
“Law,” I say. “Maybe you shouldn’t do this.”
“What?” He laughs, sitting down in the tattoo chair. “It was your idea!”
“I know,” I say. “It shouldn’t be my idea, it should be yours.”
He reaches over, places a hand on my cheek, and says, “It is my idea. I’ve always wanted one, it’s just… I was told to look professional, ya know. And that was Bric’s idea of who I was, not mine. And now my whole life is about to change. In a few days I’m gonna meet up with those Home TV people and after it’s all done, I’ll be a different guy. The guy I’ve always wanted to be. The guy I always thought I was. Maybe… maybe that’s my problem? Maybe I’m having an early mid-life crisis because I turned into who Bric wanted me to be, not the guy I wanted to be?”
“And this guy you envision yourself being… he has sleeves and a chest piece? Because that’s what this will be by the time you’re done.”
“Why not?” he says. “I mean, if I was happy being this guy I’d just keep doing what I’m doing. I’m tired of being this guy. It’s never felt right, ya know? It’s always felt fake. Like I forgot who I was and where I came from. And I feel like if I g
et this piece then there’s no way I’ll ever forget again.”
I smile at him. Tentatively. Almost convinced.
“And besides. We need to get that Hanna Harlow bitch and once she sees the new me, she’ll fall right into our trap.”
My smile falters. He wants to make me happy, which, for some reason, makes me sad instead.
“You’re gonna stay?” Law asks, pulling me out of my building panic. “Or go do something? She says it’ll take a few hours, at least. So don’t feel obligated to hold my hand.” Then he winks at me. “I can take it.”
I wheel an extra doctor’s stool up to the chair where he’s sitting. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m with you.”
Vivi returns and gets down to business. Going through all the motions of prepping his arm, then getting all her needles ready, loading one into her machine. She lines up all her inks and then puts on her headgear that directs a bright light down onto her canvas and begins.
Buzzing fills my ears. Lawton jokes, wincing as the needle carves out his design, but watching too. Fascinated with the changes he’s making to his body.
For me.
Jesus Christ, Oaklee. You’re so wrapped up in yourself. It takes some kind of ego to think this guy would endure pain, mark up his body, and pay a thousand dollars for a tattoo if he didn’t want it.
At least I tell myself that. The whole time Vivi is working her magic.
Because that’s all I can tell myself.
Because if I’m the only reason Lawton Ayers made this decision I won’t be able to live with myself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - LAWTON
Oaklee eventually leaves the rolling doctor’s stool and makes herself comfortable in an overstuffed chair in the corner. But she never takes her eyes off me. Her expression is a mixture of sadness and fear. But every time she sees me staring at her—it’s hard not to stare at her—she smiles at me. Like she’s putting on a brave face.
I know she’s worried about this Hanna situation. And she has every right to be because this shit is way more serious than either of us first realized.
I could write it off as some kind of egotistical paranoid delusion—the whole Hanna wants to be me thing. But that’s not what Hanna is doing. I think that’s pretty clear. She’s targeting Oaklee. For whatever reason, she wants to either steal her life or take her down.
