by Mells, J. C.
“That was so fulfilling,” I finally said as Zak negotiated his way through the traffic as we headed home. “Doing something so simple as stocking your kitchen pantry gives such a feeling of accomplishment. I’ve never had that before. I want more.”
“Please don’t tell me you want to do more grocery shopping. After what I just witnessed back there, you are far from ready for Smith’s yet.”
I laughed at him and fake-punched him lightly in the arm.
“No, silly, I mean I want to do something else normal. Like go to a baseball game, or to the movies… or maybe even get a job, or something.”
“Whoa there, Norma Rae. Put on the brakes and shut the front door. What do you mean, a job?”
“I mean getting up every day and having a purpose. Filling my time with a series of small, everyday accomplishments. Oh, and who’s Norma Rae?”
Zak gave another sigh. “Google her. Sally Field won an Oscar playing her. You never wanted to pursue acting like your father?”
“Are you kidding? I’m already a professional actor,” I laughed dryly. “I spent my entire life acting and playing the role of someone I really wasn’t. I certainly don’t want to do it as a career.”
“You know, I did a little stint as an actor back in my younger years. I have to say, I was quite the thespian, as it turned out.”
“Oh yeah? What were you in and who did you play?”
“My cousin Harry has a little photography studio back home and also does short ads and commercials and things like that. YouTube type stuff,” Zak said.
“Yes?”
“I filled in on a dog food commercial. I think I captured the role of a warm and caring dog owner to absolute perfection,” Zak smiled proudly.
“Gosh, I wish I had even half of your talents, Zak,” I said, trying to suppress a giggle.
“Well, what is it you want to do? What are you interested in? What are you good at?” We had stopped at traffic lights and Zak turned to face me as he asked his questions.
My face fell. “I’m not good at anything. As my stepmother delights in telling me often, I’m just an overweight lump of uselessness with no ambition to speak of. I barely made it through high school, and I didn’t even go to college. The last year has been a never-ending sea of partying with my stepsister or attending fundraisers with my stepmother.” Each one of them using me and the fact I was Brock Huntington’s daughter for their own, sort of similar, reasons.
“First of all,” Zak replied as he moved the car forward again, “you are most certainly not overweight. You may be heavier than an emaciated stickpin of a model, but being overweight is not one of your problems. Trust me on that, as I know.” Here he gestured down to his rotund physique squeezed in tight behind the steering wheel. “Secondly, you’re only twenty-years-old. If you want to go to college, then go to college. Maybe you’ll find an interest in something there? I’m going to assume that funding is not going to be a problem for you.”
“I’m a trust fund baby, Zak,” I said rolling my eyes at him jokingly. “I don’t actually need to work to survive, especially since I came into my money last year. It would be great if I did something with that money – something other than squander it on an excessively privileged lifestyle. The college idea is a good one. I might look into that. I don’t have the grades to get into anything prestigious, although my name might help me where that’s concerned. Maybe I’ll think about community college or something.”
“California Huntington going to community college. The earth just tilted on its axis at the thought,” Zak laughed.
“You know what I mean – like a regular college and not a fancy one like my father would expect.”
“You sure have an axe to grind with him, don’t you?”
“You have no idea, my friend.”
***
It wasn’t until I was sitting down to watch Ultimate Ninja Athlete later that night that I realized my phone had been dead for the last eighteen hours or so. I wasn’t used to having it over the last few months, so keeping it charged had been low on the priority list.
Once I plugged it in, I found there were at least a dozen messages and texts from Lake, as was to be expected. It felt quite satisfying deleting them without reading them.
There was also a message from my therapist to check in with me. She wanted to make sure I looked into ABA – Anorexics and Bulimics Anonymous – groups in my area. I guess my area was Las Vegas now. Did they even have ABA groups in Las Vegas? I’d look into it first thing tomorrow.
Earlier on in the evening, when I was looking for a blank CD so I could record Thatch in action, I discovered Eric’s not-so-secret stash of gay porn and homemade sex tapes. With no shame whatsoever, I watched a couple of them out of curiosity about the man who, so generously, lent me his house to stay in.
Needless to say, porn is porn, whether it’s girl on girl, guy on guy, or just normal straight out heterosexual fucking – it all gets me hot and bothered, just as it’s intended to.
By the time Thatch appeared on the T.V. screen, I was squirming in my seat, hornier than a brass band on Memorial Day.
Bernie had already given me the spoiler alert that Thatch had made it through this round, so I didn’t have that butterflies-in-your-stomach-edge-of-your-seat nervousness thing going on as I watched him traverse the complex course of obstacles.
Instead, I focused on the taut muscles in his arms as he clung to the cargo net, or the straining of his thighs as he jumped off the mini-trampoline, his hair falling messily across his brow as he paused between obstacles, and the heaving of his chest from all his exertions. Fuck me, he was hot. And damn, I wished he were here with me now to do just exactly that.
With one hand on the remote to replay Thatch’s run over and over again, and the other moving vigorously through the slippery wetness between my legs, I came – twice. California Huntington: depraved and wanton woman. I had nothing to be ashamed about.
As I lay there on the couch, flushed and panting, recovering from my little self-love session, the house phone started ringing. It could only be either Bernie or the neighbors; no one else knew I was here.
It was Zak.
“Okay, Tony and I just watched the show and if you don’t get your cute little tushie to that tattoo studio first thing tomorrow, we are dragging you there ourselves.”
“Don’t worry,” I answered with a smile. “I was just thinking the exact same thing myself.
{8}
Cali
“Sorry, Cali,” Jimmy’s brother whispered, as I felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against the side of my head.
I was unable to control my bladder as my entire body shook uncontrollably.
“No!” I heard Jimmy shout, followed by the sound of his heavy footsteps running down the stairs. “Don’t you fucking do it, Darren.”
I felt the brother, Darren, tense up and the gun was removed from my head as I heard the sound of bodies colliding together. Red Hat started shouting, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying over the loud noise the two brothers were making as they wrestled on the ground so close to me.
There was a loud gunshot and the sound of a body falling to the ground. The room went still and was immediately cloaked in silence, apart from the sound of heavy breathing – mine included.
“What have I done? What the fuck have I done?”
Darren’s sobbing voice was barely a whisper as I felt someone come up and start to unlock the chains binding my wrists and ankles. The blindfold was ripped from my face and I blinked, trying to focus. Even the low gaslight of the basement was more light than I’d seen in three days.
Jimmy’s head and concerned face came in to view. Behind him, I could see his brother sitting on the ground, back against the wall, head in his hands as he moaned softly to himself.
Red Hat, a pool of blood spreading slowly from his body, was lying on the floor next to him, I assumed dead.
Jimmy pulled me to my feet and just said one word to me.
“Run.”
I sat up straight in my bed, sweat-drenched and struggling to control my breath after the vivid dream.
I hadn’t had it in a while, but my therapist warned me it might never go away entirely. It was how I handled it that was more important.
I reached over and checked in my bedside-drawer for the kitchen knife I now kept there at all times. I would never want a gun in the house, but knowing I had a knife so close to me just gave me the slight sense of security I needed from time to time.
There would be no trip to the kitchen tonight.
Instead, I opted for a moonlight swim. My therapist had also encouraged me to exercise more while I’d been at the Center. I tried my hand at jogging and some of the machines they had in their gym. I didn’t really enjoy any of it too much. Swimming was a different matter. I found out I could do laps until my muscles screamed. I liked the screaming. It was the nearest thing to the aching back I was used to when I emptied my stomach contents.
I did a hundred laps followed by the hottest shower I could stand.
***
Despite my aching limbs from my late-night swimming session, I got up at a semi-reasonable hour the next day. I abstained from my usual morning naked swim to give my muscles a rest and forced down a bowl of oatmeal with blueberries.
Breakfast was hard for me. I was so used to skipping this meal and never had an appetite first thing in the morning – or whenever it was I started my day. They don’t say ‘breakfast is the most important meal of the day’ for nothing. It had just never been important to me until three months ago.
It took me over an hour to decide what to wear. I didn’t even open the bag that had been to the Recovery Center with me. All the stuff it held needed to be washed and I hadn’t negotiated the ins and outs of using a washing machine yet. Looking through the larger suitcase, Rose had packed a curious mix of casual, with a few designer-chic looks thrown in. I definitely didn’t want to show up at Reston Tattoos in a two thousand dollar outfit.
I finally decided on a Calvin Klein, white, baby-doll, spaghetti-strapped summer dress. It was flouncy and light and not figure hugging. It hid all my imperfections to a tee, and was also fresh and cool, and went perfectly with my wedged sandals. I liked the way the whole white ensemble contrasted with the black nail polish I always wore. Large black sunglasses and a shiny black, patent leather Gucci handbag finished out the look. Okay, so I wasn’t going all-out-ghetto. It still didn’t scream ‘rich bitch.’ It just sort of whispered it subtly. I hoped.
I left my hair down, as no matter what anyone else might say, there’s always a chance of back fat showing, especially around the strap areas. Long hair covered many imperfections.
Then, it was off to the races!
Or, whatever other term adequately described heading off into the exciting unknown.
Off to the Races is also the name of a Lana Del Rey song. Funny how that goes, isn’t it? I still couldn’t listen to her music without thinking about the night I met Thatch.
Following the instructions as given to me by my E. P. A., I ended up leaving my car at a Downtown Las Vegas parking garage and walking on foot to where the map on my phone informed me Reston Tattoos was located.
I turned a corner and saw it at the end of street, looking exactly as it had in the picture on their website. The sign looked new – or at least newly repainted – and the storefront did as well. There were two tattooed and leather-wearing biker types hanging out outside the shop smoking cigarettes.
They only glanced at me for a second before turning back to their conversation. I realized I was finally in an environment where no one would give a shit who the hell I was or what I’d done.
Except maybe Thatch Reston, unfortunately.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and stepped in through it.
And, right into chaos.
At the front of the shop, there was a small waiting area with a three-seater sofa and three chairs. These surrounded a coffee table that held several issues of various tattoo magazines. At the back of the long room, there were four tattooing stations – two of which contained people currently being worked on. Neither one of the artists was Thatch.
Dividing the space between the waiting area and the stations was a small receptionist check-in counter. There was no one there at the moment and the phone was ringing.
“Be with you in a second, hon,” the artist nearest to me called out over the loud ringing and other noise in the place, which included the six people currently waiting and the rock music playing in the background.
“For fuck’s sake, can you answer the motherfucking phone, Rufus? It’s your turn!” The man who had called out to me now shouted at the other artist at the back of the shop.
“Come on, Mo, you’re closer,” Rufus whined back at him over his shoulder.
“And it’s your fucking fault we don’t have someone to answer the damn thing,” was his response.
The man with the potty-mouth, Mo, was a dark-skinned short guy whose shaved head, neck, and arms were covered in tattoos.
The phone stopped ringing, and he gave a loud sigh of relief.
I looked around at the others in the waiting area. There were two girls, about my age, sitting giggling and texting together on the couch. Next to them a skinny man in his late thirties was reading a magazine.
The three chairs were occupied, too. A large, impatient-looking man with long hair and both arms already covered in artwork; a preppie-looking guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties; and, finally, a woman who could most easily be described using the word ‘stripper.’ She had over-processed and bleached-blonde hair, a leopard-print mini-skirt and the highest pair of fuck-me pumps I’d ever seen. Her enormous silicone breasts were struggling desperately to stay within the confines of her tiny tube top. She gave me an annoyed, red-lipsticked frown when she caught me looking at her. As there was nowhere to sit, I moved a little closer to the reception area.
The phone started ringing again a minute after it had stopped. I got the impression it had been ringing off the hook all day and the two people working right now had had enough of it.
“Rufus!” the shorter artist screamed.
“All right, Mohammed. Don’t get your jock strap all in a bunch. I’m going already,” the guy called Rufus shouted back.
Rufus, who I remembered Thatch mentioning, walked over to the counter, his client following behind him. The phone stopped ringing just before he got there and he let out a small curse under his breath.
“Don’t remove the wrap for at least four hours. If you can go longer, then that’s better,” he said to his client, who was getting out his wallet to pay. “Wash it very gently – no sponge or washcloth, just clean hands – and make sure to use a mild antibacterial soap.”
“Thanks, Ruf. Catch ya next month, okay?”
“Copy that, Johnny-boy. See ya then – and thanks for your patience with all this shit going on here today.”
“No worries, man. Bye.”
It wasn’t until ‘Johnny-boy’ walked past me to leave, that Rufus looked up to notice me standing there.”
Over six feet tall, he had dirty-blond hair, sun-kissed skin, and striking green eyes that sparkled in my direction. He had some intricate-looking black and grey artwork on his arms, and I wondered if it was Thatch’s work. My eyes moved up from his arms and back to his face and he gave me a lopsided smile. Two seconds in and I could already tell this guy was a player.
“Well, hello there, darling. What brings you to Reston’s today? If you tell me Thatch Reston, I may have to go shoot myself.”
“Yeah, and do us all a favor in the process,” Mo, the other artist laughed from behind him at his station.
Rufus rolled his eyes and then grinned at me expectantly.
“I’m sorry to tell you that I am actually here looking for Thatch,” I smiled back apologetically.
“Don’t tell me,” he grimaced, “you saw him on that damn T.V. show and just sto
pped by to say congrats?”
I got the impression that, due to Thatch’s success on Ultimate Ninja Athlete, he was getting some attention that probably he, and definitely his co-workers, were finding exasperating. It led me to wonder about the two giggling girls on the couch. The two tattoo-less giggling girls on the couch.
“Actually I met him a few months ago when he did a private tattoo for my friend Max. I’m in Vegas for a few weeks and I wanted to stop by.”
“A friend of Thatch’s, eh? Well, I can certainly understand why he was keeping you a secret, beautiful.” He gave me a wink and another cocky grin to go with it.
The phone started ringing again.
“Oh for the love of God…” he muttered as he turned from me to answer it.
“Reston’s Tattoos. No sorry, Thatch isn’t here right now. Can I take a message? He won’t be back until—”
The person on the other end hung up before he could finish.
“Goddammit. This phone is driving me crazy!” he exclaimed before turning his attention back to me. “Sorry about that. As you probably heard, Thatch isn’t here. He’s away training for the Finals and won’t be back until next week. Is there anything I can do for you…?”
“Cali,” I smiled at his flirting. “My name’s Cali.” My heart sank at the news that I had to wait another week to see Thatch, but it wasn’t this stressed-out guy’s fault.
“I’ve been waiting for over an hour now,” the large, angry-looking man in the waiting area interrupted sharply. “My appointment was for one-thirty.”
“Hey, so sorry man. Why don’t you head back to my station and I’ll be with you in a second.” Rufus rolled his eyes at me behind the guy’s back as he pushed past us to take his seat in the tattoo chair.
The phone started ringing again. Rufus threw his hands up in the air in defeat.
“Look, go calm your client down. I’ll get the phone if you like? I have a little time to kill.”
Rufus looked at me like I’d just rescued him from a burning building. “Mo and I would love you forever if you did, beautiful.”
