Ink Slapped

by A. M. Jones

  “Yeah, I’m just surprised you’re interested. I don’t make a lot of money, so it’s not like I can pay you much.”

  I scan my crappy studio, scattered with several of my favorite guitars on their stands. I need money, but I don’t care to make any from this endeavor. “I have a day job that gets me by. Let's trade. I’ll pose if you take band pictures for me.”

  “That’s doable. If you’re sure?” she whispers, making me think she’s unsure herself.

  “I’m sure. We can meet for coffee in the morning.”

  She gives me a sound of disgust. “Morning?”

  I’m not much of a morning person myself. “Drinks then?” I ramble a time and place.

  “Sounds great.”

  As soon as we click off, I open the e-reader application on my phone and buy T.M. Dabney’s first book. What’s a model good for if they don’t know the part?

  I arrange a meeting at the Tin Roof, a few blocks from where jam. The band has an ongoing gig at Jimmy’s and I’d rather keep this venture separate for now. After I order a beer, she walks in. No one can miss her. She stops at the door, checks her posture, and gives her hair a little shake. A bag swings from her tattoo-covered arm. She’s the same, yet different.

  Everyone turns to stare at her, and like last weekend, she doesn’t notice right away. She spots me and seems to mentally prepare herself to join me. Eventually, her knee-high boots with a pink-and-blue flower print pattern drags her my way. Neon blue laces match her ripped fishnets. When she sits down across from me, her top pushes her tits at a nice angle. I swallow.

  She blinks behind her 50s-style glasses. Seeing her up close and personal, her face is heart-shaped with soft skin and bright red lips. Her dark hair has pale pink and blue highlights. “Your hair. I swear it was red before.” It was… she wore a similar tight top with a black-and-red print.

  I sit back and grin. “You coordinate your hair color with what you’re wearing.” I laugh. How strange. “How do you do that?”

  “What?” Again, she seems distracted and I sense the need to pull her into reality.

  “Your hair. How do you change the colors in it?” Surely, she doesn’t dye it over and over?

  “Oh. I use a technique called chalking to color the blond strands.” She shakes her hands as she eyes the draft beer. I swear something like pleasure slithers through her gaze when she spots a certain beer. “Sorry, I’m nervous. I need a beer.” She raises her arm to flag a waitress.

  “No need to be nervous.” I have her at a disadvantage, I know a lot more about her than she does about me. After spending half the night reading her book, I spent another couple of hours investigating her social media.

  She sends me a brilliant smile, and her teeth are so white, it’s almost blinding. “So, Eli. Tell me about your band.”

  I eye her with suspicion, but she seems interested. Is it possible someone is looking at me and wanting to know about the band without associating me with our ex-lead? “Come on, what’s the T.M. stand for?” I already know, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  She runs a hand down her arm, licks her lips, and shifts in her chair. “Taylor.” She holds her hand for me to shake. She grips before taking it away. I raise my brows willing her to go on. She sighs. “Mae. Spelled with an E and not a Y.” Her finger traces an E in the air.

  The waitress appears by the table, eyeing the unusual woman in front of me. Taylor doesn’t wait for the waitress to speak. “I’ll have the Bearwalker in the biggest glass you have.”

  Brown ale. A woman after my heart. The waitress glances at my nursed beer and leaves.

  “You have a taste for heavy beer,” I say.

  She waves in a small gesture. “I like beer. No more changing the subject. Tell me about the band. I don’t even know the name.”

  “The name leaves a lot to be desired, since our lead bailed on us.” I watch for signs of any recognition and fall short. I clear my throat. “We’re changing it after we finish some legal mumbo jumbo. We’re all happy just to be playing. As for any back story, we’ve been together for a few years, wrote more than a few songs…”

  “You hit a rough patch,” she states and a beer slams on the table in front of her. She watches the waitress walk toward the bar and downs several gulps. Condensation runs the length of the glass as she places it down. “I know all about rough patches.”

  “You don’t say?” I assume she would. Her tattoos and the way she carries herself, I’m sure can bring negative attention. Especially in the conservative south.

  She blinks. “Yes.”

  I rub my neck. Did I sound like an ass? Shit. When she doesn’t elaborate, I get back to the subject at hand, hoping to relieve some strain. “When are you going to dress me like a Viking and take pictures of me fondling a half-naked woman?”

  Her eyes widen for a split second before she bursts into laughter. The sound draws eyes our way, but she’s oblivious. “Oh, that would be torturous for you, I’m sure.”

  “It would be. I’m not a PDA kind of guy.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not romance. It’s apocalyptic. I can obscure your face if you don’t want it shown.” She pulls things out of her messenger bag and flips open a sketchbook. “This is my vision for the cover.”

  It’s a simple sketch of the pose and lighting. I realize with amazement the art drawings on her website are of her own making. She knows what she wants for the book cover. I study the weapons and blood, and of course, more dead bodies. “Where will you get dead bodies?”

  She laughs again. “I have stock on reserve.” She hands me a stack of books. Her books. “Like this.” I make a show of considering each one, like they haven’t been burned into my brain in the past twenty-four hours. “They’re demons who appear human.” Excitement shines in her eyes. She grips her beer glass, but it’s empty. Mine is, too.

  So, we get more.

  Two hours and several beers later, more people pile in the bar. She stops talking and leans away. “I must bore you.” She isn’t. Her passion makes me want to write my own demon story. The more she drinks, the more animated she becomes. Her hand gestures are comical.

  I’ve also studied her tattoos when she doesn’t notice because staring outright would be rude. Once I get past the fact they cover her, the artwork is stunning. Some kind of flower runs the length of her arms in different shades of color. Different tints of green weave in and out, making leaves and curly vine things. Then I notice the tattoos are stages of flower decomposition. They’re vibrant and alive near her shoulders, but by the time the tattoo reaches her wrist, the flowers have wilted and died, leaving behind withered leaves, dead vines, and branches. It’s… odd and makes me wonder why she chose to have them dying.

  I lean forward, place my elbows on the table, and meet her gaze. “I find you refreshing.”

  Her mouth pops open a little as if she’s not sure what to say. Biting her lip, her gaze darts around before she pushes the stack of books to me. “Those are yours.”

  “Don’t these cost you money?”

  “Yes, but I’m giving them to you.” She removes a cigarette from a pack and lights it, blowing smoke into the haziness of the bar. I’ve never seen a real live 1970s smoking ad before, punk rock edition. The ones where tobacco companies give smoking major sex appeal. She should be getting paid the bucks right now and she doesn’t even know it.

  Some emotion wiggles its way into me. Despite everything that’s happened lately, and as much as I shouldn’t, I’m looking forward to getting to know her better.

  “You should tell me to fuck off.” I'm a little disheartened by my warning. Not sure why I tell her so.

  She returns my stare, searching my face before her gaze lands on my guitar case. “Not a chance. I need you.”

  I sit back and twirl my beer on the table, trying to remember the last time someone said they needed me. Nothing comes to mind. “You need me?”

  She nods. “I’d like to write full time. This could be an opport
unity to market to a wider audience. Build my platform.”

  “At least you have goals.” I don’t even know what mine are anymore.

  The slight smile on her face beckons me to lean forward. “And maybe one day I’ll write something I feel good enough about to snag me an agent.”

  I remember the portfolio on her site, which is why I suggested we trade services, but now suspicion weighs on me again. “Why do you think I can help you?”

  I laugh when she gestures as if I have huge tits. She laughs, too. Although it’s a humorless, nervous laugh. “Your physical appearance might attract a broader female audience, as much as I hate to say it.”

  I scoot her books back to her, not wanting her to just give them to me. It’s not like I have any cash to pay for them. To lighten the mood, I announce, “Let’s get a shot of tequila.”

  She laughs again but looks ill. “Last time I had tequila, I danced on the bar with the chicks at Coyote Ugly. My bra still hangs on the clothes line across their ceiling.”

  With the top she has on now, I don’t think she’s even wearing one to lose. “Sounds like a great time.” I flag the waitress as Taylor takes another puff of her cigarette. She holds it with her arm tilted away from her body as a man with shaggy dark hair tugs the cigarette from her hand. She glances at him, open-mouthed.

  Stubbing the butt in the ashtray, he says, “Smoking doesn’t become you, T.” He kisses her cheek and glances at me. “You must be Eli.”

  I nod as he shakes my hand. “Eli, this is Adrian. Adrian, Eli.” She gestures to each of us and smiles at Adrian. “Won’t he make a great Jaxon?”

  “Yes, he certainly spends a lot of time at the gym.” His dryness isn’t lost on me. There’s always some dip-shit with the teeny-tiny man syndrome who thinks I can’t be genetically blessed. I stiffen over his comment because I take measures to stay in shape even though it’s nothing as he suggests. Although these past few months I’ve been lazy. I should get back on a regular regime.

  The obvious intimacy they share causes me to keep my mouth shut from saying something just as demeaning. Taylor’s blushing. Not an endearing blush either. It’s quite blotchy.

  “Cut it out, Adrian.” She mouths an apology but stays uneasy. Damn, it took three beers for her to relax. “He can be abrasive.”

  I shrug and get distracted by the brunette bouncing toward us. Now, I’d know her anywhere—the cover model on Taylor’s books.

  “Tay! You ready to par-TAY?” Taylor appears like she’ll crawl under the table any second. The brunette pauses, appraising me. “He’s still here?” The surprise is evident in her voice. Since she mentions it, I guess a business discussion rarely lasts hours and consist of beer and laughs. Or tequila.

  “Eli, this is Savannah. My other cover model.”

  “Yes, I got a good peek at you the other night when Taylor ditched me.” She rolls her eyes at Taylor and drags me out of my chair. “Might as well see how we look together.” I stop her hands from roaming my chest, feeling strange. “We could also check out our other chemistry.”

  “Savannah.” Taylor doesn’t hide her scorn.

  “Oh, that’s right. No fraternizing with the potential.” She waves her hand in the air.

  My brows rise as I meet the transparent eyes of Savannah. She’s very attractive, which I knew from the book covers. There’s a nice view down her blousy shirt. She isn’t wearing a bra and I suddenly need to adjust myself. This is bizarre, because my reaction might stem from the protagonist in Taylor’s novels, Zara. Or it could be because she resembles my band’s ex-lead singer. I swallow and step back, not allowing my mind to go there.

  “Uh, I have a gig,” I tell Taylor, who’s as uncomfortable as me.

  She only nods. “I’ll call you in a few days. Give you time to back out.”

  “I won’t,” I assure her, holding her gaze. I say my goodbyes and on my way out, I pay for both our tabs with my credit card without knowing the total. Maybe I should be careful about spending too much time with a woman who owns a pair of shit-kickers for every outfit.

  I’m sure the disappointment over Eli leaving my books behind is written all over my face. “Come on, T. Let’s pay and get out of here.” Adrian helps me stand, encircling my waist with his arm and places a kiss below my ear. “You know how much I love those fishnets. I’m not sure I want to go out now.”

  Before I can reply, the waitress appears, and Adrian turns his face from the crook of my neck. “He paid your tab,” she informs us and walks away.

  Savannah casts me a sharp glance. “Thoughtful of him.”

  Adrian scoffs. “I pay for both of you all the time. It’s nothing.”

  I ignore his indignant tone and watch the door, willing Eli to come back inside. The past few hours have been fun. Even though he stares and asks questions like I’m a science project, it’s a genuine curiosity, but he has a way of putting me at ease. The latter is a rare feature.

  He’s different from Jaxon, and since Jaxon is, in a way, an extension of my own personality, Eli’s different from me. Talkative, charming, and down to earth while Jaxon’s reserved, broody, and all about business.

  As with any kind of social interaction, I’m exhausted and want to go home. Alone. I feel the urge to create something and smoke as many cigarettes as I want, but I know Adrian has other plans. Maybe if I take him home now, the faster I can get rid of him.

  “I'll take a rain check tonight. I have a brilliant subplot going on in my head.”

  Adrian smiles like he won the lottery, and Savannah groans. “What? No! You said we’d hang tonight.”

  I said it because I thought I could kill two birds by hanging with her and rectifying for ditching her the other night. Her eyes simmer like hopeful pools of smooth hot fudge chocolate. They seem to expand and become more puppy-doggish the longer I contemplate. “Fine, one hour.”

  Savannah chats about her latest conquest while we navigate through hordes of tourists.

  Adrian gives me an eye roll and glances in a bar window. “Hey Savannah, there’s your newest one now.”

  She groans. Eli stands inside surrounded by a group of people. No, not people. Women.

  Adrian laughs. “Looks like you’ll have to take a number.”

  “Who can blame them? The man radiates sex. So naturally, I’d bump myself up the list, but Taylor won’t let me.” She crosses her arms with a faux-pout. I wouldn’t say he radiates sex—so simple, those words. He exudes tenacious masculinity that screams natural selection. So, it’s easy to think of sex when you look at him.

  “It would get awkward,” I say. I might not be able to keep the situation from happening. She’s unattached. He’s unattached.

  “She’s right, Savannah. Just wait until after the shoot. He was into you. He couldn’t take his eyes from down your shirt.” Adrian puts his hand on the small of my back. I try not to tense at his words, but I can tell I fail by the way his mouth tightens.

  After nabbing an Uber, we hit a small jazz club in The Gulch. A modern area of Nashville my twin siblings, Brenna and Camden, would love. The urban community towers with expensive condos and premium dining and retail—all energy and environmentally certified. In other words, it’s a gorgeous part of town. “I’ll grab the first round,” Adrian announces.

  I’m more than a little peeved they shot down my Flying Saucer suggestion, which is a bar with a massive beer selection and the patrons tend to be people who love craft beer as much as I do. I fit right in. “Margarita, please.” I scoot into a velvet-wrapped booth. When I’m situated, I notice they’re staring at me. “What?”

  “You sure?” The doubt in his voice is clear. I nod, and Savannah tells him she wants an extra-dirty martini.

  When he heads toward the crowded bar, Savannah turns on me. “Spill.”

  I smile. “He thought the job was for a romance novel.” We both laugh as piano music floats through the room. A woman in a slinky dress stands at the mic and sings in sync with a saxophone. “But otherwise, s
eems interested.” She raises her eyebrows, and I stumble over my next words, “In posing for the cover.”

  “It has to be weird, right? Seeing someone you made up in your head? I can’t imagine what it’s like.”

  I sit ramrod straight. She’s trying to fish in shark infested waters. “It’s not weird. Eli is his own person, and different from the character I made up.” I emphasize only to make sure she knows I can tell reality from fiction. Although, I keep to myself how much he surprised me with his observations or how much I want to...

  “Well, I can’t wait to get to know him,” Savannah says, cutting off my thoughts and reading my mind at the same time.

  My phone flashes with an incoming text. “You’ll like him. He’s a nice guy,” I tell her with a pounding heart, but the text is from Adrian.

  I’m staring at the sexiest woman in the bar.

  He winks, gazing right at me. I laugh as he grabs our drinks and heads this way.

  “I bet he’s got nothing on Adrian.” Savannah plays with a piece of her hair, biting her lip. I drop my phone when astonishment runs through me at her off-handed words. Fumbling in the booth, I grab it before it tumbles to the floor.

  Adrian scoots in beside me. “I hope you have insurance on that thing.”

  I nod and peer at Savannah. Eating an olive, she watches the table of collegiate guys next to us.

  Before I’m done with my second margarita, we’ve merged tables with them. As always, I’m on the outside looking in as Savannah and Adrian converse. This is when I do my best people watching.

  The guy talking to Savannah, Clyde, has his body turned toward her. His forearms rest on the table with his sleeves rolled a quarter of the way. I’m sure he has chinos and boat shoes on, and his constant knee bouncing indicates his nerves.

  He laughs at something Savannah says and covers his mouth with his hand—a habit to cover a crooked front tooth. Savannah gets more animated in her story and I focus on her words. “… wanted to pay me money to see me naked. I almost obliged him, but his blanket was tenting.” They both laugh. “I was surprised he could still get it up.”