by Elle Jasper
“A little more,” Seth mumbled, and buried his face into his pillow. “Beat.”
I stared down at my sweet little brother, who’d never given me a minute’s trouble since Mom died, and couldn’t resist. “Yeah, whatever, brat,” I said, then leaned down and kissed the top of his head. Teenagers. I used to sleep like the dead myself. With a sigh, I left his room and jumped in the shower.
By the time I’d pulled on my favorite red-and-black plaid miniskirt (equipped with a really cool steel-ringed belt that was slung low over my hips, and a pair of red lacy boy shorts to wear beneath), clunky ankle-high black boots, and a destroyed black tank that had Inksomnia’s logo on the front in red, and tied my long hair in a high ponytail, I heard Nyx moving around downstairs, setting up shop. I fastened a black-corded choker with the cutest little black glass heart charm with a ruby in the center around my neck, hurried from the room, and jogged down the narrow steps. The moment I walked through the breezeway, Nyx turned and flashed me her infamous smile, enthusiastic and bright. Chaz was in his usual spot, on a large braided rug near the corner.
“Hey, Riley,” she said, and set down a box of Skin Candy ink that must have arrived while I was in the shower. “Today’s going to be a superb day!” She turned, marched over to the storefront window facing River Street, and yanked open the blinds. “Just look at it out there. Sunshine perfectly teeming with lots of happy people who are dying to embark on their first tattoo!” Turning, she glanced back at me expectantly, eyes innocently widened, hands on hips. “Don’t you think?”
I grinned. There wasn’t another soul in the world like Nyxinnia Foster. “I bet you dinner at Garibaldi’s we get at least one man or woman of the cloth in here today, claiming we’re doing the devil’s work.”
Nyx studied me hard, her perfectly arched brows pulled completely together, bunched in the center. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re on, Poe.”
If there was one thing in my life I could count on now, it was cheerful Nyx Foster always having a cup half full instead of half empty, and I truly loved that about her. We’d gone to SCAD together (that’s Savannah College of Art and Design) and had become fast friends the very first day of class. After I’d established Inksomnia, she was the first artist I sought. Like me, she definitely had her own style, her own mentality and outlook on life, and it also leaned toward what people in general would classify as alternative, or Goth—with a few Nyx twists. With straight auburn hair that she wore with bangs and—nine times out of ten—pigtails, porcelain skin that was nearly as white as mine, smoky eye makeup, and red lips, she definitely stood out in a crowd. To us, it was just an artistic expression of ourselves. Knowing today was the first Saturday of the month, and that River Street would be jam-packed by noon, she wore one of her favorite outfits (I thought she looked fantastic!): black shorts with suspenders, black-and-white ripped stockings that rose above her knees, a pair of black platform Mary Janes, and a red bowling shirt with black piping. On the back of the shirt was an embroidered spiderweb with a little spider in the center. It matched the one inked onto the back of her neck perfectly. Nyx was a sweetheart—one of the most caring, giving people I knew, but the one thing we didn’t have in common was background. While she was her own unique person and, like me, comfortable in her own skin, she’d never lived on the street, never been in trouble, never seen the inside of a police station, and had a fantastic, supportive family. She’d never even had a speeding ticket. I’d spent my teenage years as high as a kite, smoked like a freight train, got into one too many fights, skipped school, and ran with the badasses. That crowd happened to be into heavy metal and Goth clubs. Don’t get me wrong; just because someone’s Goth or punk doesn’t mean they’re dark, gloomy, or dangerous. I just happened to have hooked up with a bunch of losers who’d fancied their own personal take on the Goth look. And I’d run fast and hard, right along with them. Much to my regret, that is. Goth is not what you are. It’s who you are. The general public makes that mistake all the time. And for the record, I’m nothing like I was back then. Not the crazy, partying, careless teenager. I am scarred from it. Nothing I can’t handle, though.
You see, that’s what’s funny about Savannah. The publicized, touristy part—the Savannah you see in travel magazines? It’s idyllic and all historically gorgeous. When people think of Savannah, they think of the Old South, horse-drawn carriages, moss, an original colony with scenic squares, tall church spires, and, strangely enough, Gothic Revival architecture. Maybe even Paula Deen and Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. The part of Savannah they don’t see, and the part society is blind to? It’s there, in the recesses of the shadows. Dark. Dangerous. Hidden, unless you’re in. Hell, there are parts I’m probably not even privy to—especially now. And if you aren’t careful, you can be sucked right into the pit of despair. There’s always potential to fall into bad shit. I know. I’ve been there. I fell and wallowed in it. And sometimes, when you’re in, you stay in. Or you don’t leave alive. I escaped, but not without repercussions. Big ones.
We finished setting up the shop and cranked up the music, and by then my appointment had arrived, along with four of his buddies, all military. Rather, about to be military, and we get a lot of those guys and gals. Hunter Army Airfield was right here in Savannah, and Fort Stewart was close by in Hinesville. My client this morning was a young guy, nineteen, and he and his buddies were all leaving for Parris Island—the marines’ boot camp—in a week. They all sported buzz cuts and were pumped, big-time. God, they looked . . . too damn young. Just four years older than Seth. While the others browsed the art books and chatted with Nyx, my client, whose name was Zac, shyly walked up to me. Tall, a little lanky, but lean, with a pair of clear blue eyes, he flashed a hesitant smile. He was staring at my arms.
“That is some wicked cool artwork,” he said. “Can I see the rest of it?”
I lifted one brow and smiled. “You’re not as shy as you look.”
Zac’s face immediately turned as red as a ripe tomato. “Oh—no disrespect, ma’am. I’d heard about it and honestly, I just wanted to—”
I laughed and shook my head. “Take it easy there, Private. No need to get all flustered. I get that same question asked nearly every time my shop doors are opened. I’m always prepared.” I grinned. “Swimsuit top underneath, so don’t get too excited. Got it?”
Zac laughed. “Yes, ma’am.” His buddies were instantly at his side. Nyx stood behind them, a smirk on her face, swinging her hips in a little Nyx dance to the music. I wiggled my brows, and in one easy, practiced move I lifted my Inksomnia shirt over my head and turned around. Everybody always wanted to check out my dragons, and I admit—they were pretty kick-ass. Inked in emerald green, with random ruby scales and lined in ebony, the art started at my lower back and twisted up my spine. The dragons on my arms started at my biceps and wound down to my wrists, the very tip of each tail wrapping around my index fingers.
“Whoa,” Zac said with appreciation in his voice. “That is sick. How long did it take?”
“Did it hurt?” one of his buddies asked.
“Who did it?” another inquired.
“That,” Zac said, turning even redder, “is freaking hot.”
I smiled and shook my head at the questions I’d answered hundreds of times before, and just as I went to turn around, I saw this guy, standing at Inksomnia’s large storefront picture window, staring in, and I froze. I felt my breath catch in my throat, and my heart slammed against my ribs. No more than three seconds passed, yet it seemed as though we’d stood there for an hour. Although he wore a pair of dark shades, I felt as though he could see clear through me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
When I blinked, he was gone. Yeah, that fast. I thought to hurry over to the window, or even better, the door, and look for him, see which direction he went. But I didn’t. I have no idea why. Something kept me planted right where I was.
Hastily, I pulled my shirt back over my head and turned to the guys and shrugged. “Eh, hurt
a little, but not too bad. It took six sittings, at probably four hours each.” I grinned. “And the artist is standing behind you.”
They all turned and stared appreciatively at Nyx, who gave a blasé wave. “It was nothin’.”
“Awesome,” they all said at different times.
I looked at Zac. “You ready?” I asked. “Whatcha got for me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said again, making me feel totally ancient. But those were the manners of the South, born and bred, and once baked into your brain, they always and forever remained. From his back pocket he pulled a folded piece of white sketch paper and opened it up. He handed it to me, and I inspected it thoroughly. It was a hand-drawn sketch of a Celtic-inspired tribal lizard.
I nodded. “Nice.” It was, too. “Fantastic detailing. You draw this?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good work.” Inclining my head, I met his gaze. “Let me copy this and run a transfer off the computer, and then we’ll be ready to ink.”
“I’ll fire up the Widow!” said Nyx with excitement, and hurried to my station to start the generator (called a Black Widow). I had Inksomnia set up completely in the spacious front room, almost like a beauty shop—a sitting area with a sofa, two plush chairs, and a few ladder-backs. A square leather-topped coffee table with several albums filled with various art designs took up the corner of the storefront. Two inking stations were in the center, with a clear view from River Street so that passersby could look in and watch. The only thing hidden was the equipment room, situated in the back of the building near the steps that led up to my and Seth’s apartment. Upstairs was our kitchen; down a small hall was our living room; then, farther down, were two bathrooms and two spacious bedrooms. It was a great setup, I thought, and had a perfect view over the Savannah River. Preacher had helped me get it a few years before.
About two hours and ten minutes later, I finished Zac’s Celtic lizard, and he was totally thrilled with it. I admit—it looked smokin’ hot, inked over his right shoulder and shoulder blade, the head just peering over his collarbone. He and his buddies asked to take pictures with me, and of course I agreed. I was always baffled by how I was treated by most patrons as a celebrity; I was an artist who totally dug her job, nothing more. I didn’t even have a reality show, yet you’d have thought I did. Nyx said I was a legend in the tattooing industry; I merely loved my artwork. Zac promised to send me a copy of the photo, and they said good-bye. Somehow—and I don’t know whether it was because they were so young and full of life, or because I knew they’d eventually be thrown in the center of battle, their innocence gone forever—that good-bye felt sad. Typically, I wasn’t the mushy sort, but I was definitely in mush mode today.
It was almost five p.m. before I thought again about my brother.
The shop had been hopping since we opened, time had flown by, and I’d just finished a wicked cat skull on a guy’s rib cage, when the fact that Seth hadn’t even come into the shop all day suddenly hit me. I hurried upstairs and into Seth’s room; he hadn’t budged. Fear grabbed me by the throat, and for a second I thought he was dead. Old memories left a lot of scar tissue, and the way I’d found my mom? Emblazoned in my brain forever. I nearly tripped getting to the bed, and I grabbed Seth’s hand. It was still warm, and in the back of my head, I’d known it would be. I was just freaking out. “Seth?” I said, and shook him. No response. “Seth!”
I nearly stopped breathing as I waited for my baby brother to respond. I resisted the lack of air in my lungs, drew a huge breath, and followed it with a shout. “Seth!”
Part 3
CHANGES
Slowly, Seth’s heavy lids lifted, and confusion glazed over his green eyes as he tried to focus on me.“What?”
A breath of relief escaped me, along with the feeling that I was behaving like an overreacting mom. With the back of my hand I felt my brother’s cheeks, his forehead, and he just kept right on staring at me as though I’d grown a swirling horn from the center of my head. I searched his face. “Do you feel okay?”
Seth tried to rise but fell back against the sheets. “Yeah. Fine. Just . . . tired.”
I brushed the hair from his face. “Thanks to your fun run at Bonaventure, you’re probably coming down with something.” I wasn’t sure that was how you came down with anything, especially in the dog days of summer in the South, but Mom had always said it, and it sounded pretty good now. “Just stay in bed for now and rest. Do you want anything to drink? Eat?”
Seth’s eyes were already closing again. “No, thanks.” He turned onto his stomach. “You’re not sneakin’ smokes, are ya?” he mumbled into his pillow.
At that, I grinned. “No, Mommy. If you keep stressing me out, I just might. Now, get some sleep.” Worrying about my baby brother was something foreign to me; he’d never been sick, and as I’d said before, he’d never been in trouble. I suppose that made me a bit complacent. Now? I worried. And I didn’t like it. Seth, on the other hand, worried about me constantly. “All right. I’ll check on you in a little while.” I kissed the top of his head. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” Seth mumbled, and was fast asleep before I left the room.
Inksomnia stayed busy the rest of the day. I had appointments until seven p.m., and Nyx usually didn’t make appointments on Saturdays at all—she kept that day open for walk-ins, and they kept her Widow running hot all day long. The entire day, I couldn’t stop thinking about two things: my overly tired baby brother and that guy at the window. I don’t know—something about him struck me hard. All I could remember about the guy was a black T-shirt, dark brown hair that was kind of shaggy and swept to the side, and pale skin. He’d been too far away to see detail—except for a pair of perfect full lips. So why had he affected me so much? Secretly, I kept hoping he’d show back up; I was positive he would, and I bet I glanced at the storefront a gazillion times. He didn’t show, and it really wasn’t a surprise after all; although he’d certainly caught my attention, usually the guys who were attracted to me didn’t exactly look like him. Let’s face it. A guy had to be pretty confident and open-minded to be interested in a woman with a dragon tattooed up her back and both arms. Did I mention that I had a black angel wing inked at the corner of my left eye? That one was done in my angsty teen years—my first tat—and to be perfectly honest, I don’t even remember getting it. I’d been out partying, woke up the next afternoon, and bam—there it was, the delicate skin around it as red as a beet, and in complete contrast to my character, as I was anything but an angel. I must have been pretty wasted not to feel it. Seriously pathetic. But I’m stuck with it now, and I just go with the flow. Besides. If there was one thing I demanded in a guy, it was confidence. Fit that with open-minded, and that right there was probably the main reason I didn’t have a boyfriend. Two difficult traits to come already combined. Not that I was actively looking.
“What are you looking for?” Nyx asked. She peered at me over the back of an airman as she inked. She inclined her head toward the front window. “Did I miss something exciting?”
I shook my head. “Hardly.”
“Liar.”
I grinned, shook my head again, and continued with my work.
Nyx checked on Seth twice, and I ran upstairs just before my last client arrived to check on him myself. He was still hard sleeping. That was a lot of effing sleep, but I chalked it up to . . . whatever. Teenager-itis maybe? I ran across the street, grabbed a couple of funnel cakes, and headed back inside. Nyx and I ate them while they were still hot, the powdered sugar turning to delicious gooey glue. Nothing better.
It was just after seven p.m., and Nyx and I were both busy inking clients when, finally, Seth wandered into the shop. The moment he came in, Chaz’s head lifted from his paws and he growled. “Chaz, stop it!” I commanded. “What is wrong with you?” He’d never growled at Seth, or any of us, before.
“What’s up with him?” asked Seth, glaring at the dog. It looked like he’d showered—his hair was wet, a
nd he didn’t smell like he had earlier, thank God. But he still didn’t seem himself, even after all that rest.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe he knows you’re not feeling well.”
“Maybe,” he said, stepping close and inspecting my design. “Looks good, Sis.”
I wiped the specks of blood from my client’s back with gauze, gave Seth a quick glance, then continued with the needle. “Thanks,” I said, and concentrated on my work, the low hum of the Widow pulling me into the zone. “Preacher wants you to help him put up some newsprint, if you’re up to it.” I finished the section I was working on, wiped, then let off the pedal. “I didn’t tell him about last night yet. You know he’s gonna freak, so let me do it. I’ll be over there once I finish up here. I’m on my last client.”
Seth just nodded, then pushed his long bangs out of his face. “Okay. Yeah, I feel all right. I’ll see ya.” He pulled a pair of shades from his back pocket, slid them on his face, and walked up front. “Hey, Nyx,” he said.
“Hey, Little Bro,” she replied. “Nice specs.”
“Thanks.” Without a backward glance, Seth was out the door and headed up the sidewalk to Da Plat Eye. Nyx shot me a questioning look. It wasn’t like Seth to blow through so fast. He adored Nyx and never let a day go by without hugging her or picking on her. He was such a lovable guy. Today he did neither.
“He must really feel like crap,” Nyx said. “Poor little man.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, and continued with my work. By nine fifteen, I’d finished my last client, and Nyx was working on a last-minute walk-in. I was cleaning up my station when Gene (named after Gene Simmons, of course) alerted us to another customer. Gene was a big, stuffed, inky black raven, perched right above the entrance, and when someone came in or out, it cawed—loudly. Funniest damn thing I’d ever seen. Nyx had given it to me when I’d first opened Inksomnia. I looked over my shoulder in time to see a middle-aged woman with short hair, pressed khaki slacks, and a blue buttoned-up oxford step through the door. She smiled, laid a pamphlet on the coffee table, and hurried out. Nyx shot me a look, and I grinned as I walked to the front.
