Push

by Claire Wallis

  Fifteen minutes later, we are on the other side of the city, parking his car. I’m looking around trying to figure out where he has brought me, but all I see are storefronts and restaurants. When David opens my door and I climb out, I look across the street and I know immediately what we are doing. I look back at him and shake my head softly.

  “Is that where we’re going?” I say, pointing at the shop across the street.

  “Yep,” he says with a smile—a real smile. I can see David’s beautiful teeth, and I am instantly happy. I can feel a smile of my own spreading across my face. He’s excited about this. It isn’t what I thought we would be doing, but I like the idea of it.

  He takes my hand and we walk across the street together. When he opens the door, I look up at him and he is still smiling.

  I spend the next six hours topless and hunched over a table. The same man who put the phoenix on David’s back is now putting something on mine. His name is Jake. I don’t know how old he is, but his face is beat to hell. He’s one of those guys who could be a rough-looking twenty-five or a decent-looking fifty-five.

  The thing is, I have no idea what Jake is making on my back. When we walked in the door, it was clear that he and David had already discussed the whole thing. That they had already come up with a design. David said that he was here yesterday, looking over a few ideas and refining them until they were both happy with the result. He said they would show me the design if I wanted them to. In fact, they had planned on it. But I told them that I didn’t want to see it. They should just do it. They clearly know way more about tattoos than I do. I told them that as long as there were no names or faces on it, and I can easily keep it covered at work, I’m good with whatever it is. They both looked at me in disbelief, asking me repeatedly if I was sure. I don’t know why I am putting so much trust in David, but I am. It feels right.

  As Jake is working, David and I talk. He tells me more of the things that he did after he and Lucia split—and getting the phoenix on his back was the least-crazy of the bunch. Matt was right. David was all kinds of ape shit. Echoing both Matt and Saz, but in his own words, David tells me that he completely lost it when things ended with Lucia. She made such a mess of things. She turned his life into a chaotic mess, and he couldn’t handle it. But he is back on track now. Things are perfect, he says with a smile. I know he is trying to distract me from the pain, which actually isn’t nearly as bad as I thought. It hurts, yes, but no more than a deep brush burn. In a way, it pleases me knowing that David thinks I am strong enough to handle this. He wouldn’t have brought me here if he thought I wasn’t able to deal with the pain. And he sure as shit wouldn’t have chosen a design as extensive as this one for my first time.

  As the hours pass, I feel the needle slowly stretching from one side of my upper back to the other and then down my right side, just next to my spine. In the mirror in front of me I can see little tubs of colored ink sitting on a table next to Jake, and every few seconds, he dips the needle into one of them as he uses his other hand to wipe my back off with a paper towel. Other than a few cigarette breaks, Jake works steadily for hours. He is so focused.

  When he’s done, he tells me to sit up straight and asks David to come around and let him know what he thinks. I drop the towel that I was using to cover myself and cup my hands over my breasts. I watch David in the mirror as he walks around my side and looks at my skin. His scalp retracts and his mouth unlocks into a big-as-fuck smile. His eyes move to Jake’s, and then he nods. He and Jake’s palms clasp in a fierce, satisfied handshake.

  “Nice fucking work,” David says to him. “Unbelievable.” And with that one word I feel like the goddamned Mona Lisa. If it makes David this fucking happy, I don’t even care what’s back there.

  “You wanna see it?” David asks me, shining teeth and all. I quietly nod and try to keep from mimicking his smile until I actually see the tattoo. “Go to that set of mirrors over there.” He points to a small platform with three angled mirrors around it, just like you would see in a dressing room. I walk over and step up onto the platform. David and Jake are standing behind me, watching my face very carefully. I turn to the side.

  Oh. It’s beautiful. Really, really beautiful. Jake has played Mother Nature and graced my back with a tree branch sprinkled with a dozen or so soft pink flowers. The base of the branch is just to the right of my tailbone, and a handful of gnarled twigs twist up and out of it, extending across each of my shoulder blades and up on to the top of my left shoulder. The four petals creating each blossom are heart-shaped; like those of a dogwood. On the twig that extends over to my left side, there is a bird. A dark, thick bird. I smile knowingly, staring at the raven under my skin.

  “It’s beautiful, David. Just beautiful.” I want to say more, but I can’t find the right words. Instead, I pull him toward me and put my lips on his.

  The skin around the tattoo is red and puffy, and when I pull away from David, Jake spreads some kind of gel across my back. Then he covers it with a large bandage and hands me a page of instructions titled “Caring for Your New Tattoo.” He smiles and shrugs at David as he hands the paper to me—he’s fully aware that David already knows everything that’s printed on it. I take it anyway and put it in my purse.

  * * *

  I had a lot of trouble sleeping last night. I didn’t manage very well on my stomach and lying on my back was too uncomfortable. David took the bandage off first thing this morning and rubbed more lotion into my skin after we showered. He told me it will only be sensitive for another day or two, and then the skin will probably peel. I’m not too worried about it because I have no doubt he’ll see me through it.

  We decide not to go anywhere today so that I don’t have to wear a shirt. I’m sure David is enjoying watching me walk around in a loose tank top, and frankly, the thought of any other kind of fabric rubbing against my raw skin sets me on edge.

  We are camped out on the sofa watching one of his man-movies when my cell phone rings. He looks at me quizzically. It is the first time I have heard my phone ring since I’ve lived here. No one has my number except for David, Matt and a few of the people at work. I go to my room and grab my phone from the bedside table. I know the number.

  “Fuck,” I say, loud and sharp. “It’s my asshole brother.” Of course. He has my number because I called him on Tuesday night. Fuck me. Without thinking, I press the answer icon and put the phone to my ear. David walks into my bedroom.

  “Ricky,” I say into the phone. “What do you want?”

  “Hi to you too, Em,” he says. “I’m calling to let you know that Michael is in the ground. And that the police know who put him there.” Oh.

  “Really? Who?”

  “You aren’t going to believe it, but it was Evan,” he says. I laugh out loud into the phone.

  “Seriously?” I say. “Why would they think Evan did it? There is no way.” I look at David as I say it. He must understand what I am talking about because he is shaking his head.

  “Actually, they don’t think he did it...they know he did. Because he was spotted on a surveillance camera outside the parking garage, and when they brought him in to headquarters to question him about it, he confessed to it. He said he was angry at Michael for not fixing his financial problems.”

  “Jesus,” I say. “That’s fucking nuts.” Though they’ve never discussed it with me, I know that my brothers have had a grudge against Michael ever since my mom died. In her will, my mother left them her jewelry. She had a lot of it—Michael was always giving her gifts that sparkled—but what they ended up getting was far less than we all knew she had. My brothers suspected that Michael hid some of it from them. It was no surprise to me, but I think that’s when Ricky and Evan finally saw how slimy Michael was. The man they’d idolized for so many years was prepared to stab them in the back when it came to money. As far as I know, my brothers never took legal action, but maybe their anger has been simmering all these years. Maybe Evan’s grudge was bigger than I thought. Maybe, i
n the end, he hated Michael as much as I did. Maybe they both did.

  “He’s in jail, and I’m not bailing him out, that’s for damn sure,” Ricky says. “I thought you should know just in case he tries to get in touch with you somehow or if the cops call you about the whole thing.” Why would the cops call me?

  “Yeah. Thanks,” I say. It is the first time I’ve said “thanks” to Ricky in at least ten years. The word burns my tongue.

  After I hang up I stare at David in disbelief. When I repeat the entire conversation, he seems completely unruffled. I thought he might be upset that Ricky called me. And that I answered the phone.

  “How do you feel about all that?” he says.

  “I feel confused as fucking hell. This is so messed up. I thought Evan had cleaned himself up. I mean, he used to be a great kid. I know Michael is responsible for changing that, but, Jesus, I can’t believe that Evan would be capable of something like this. Michael must have really fucked him over.”

  I am quiet for a minute, and David starts rubbing my shoulders as I sit down on the edge of my bed.

  “It might make me seem like a bad person, but, in a way, I don’t really care about why it happened,” I continue. “The bottom line is that Michael is gone, and I can’t help feeling happy as shit about that. I do feel bad, though, that it came to this for Evan, you know? Shit must have been really bad for him.” I decide not to think about this anymore. I tell myself that I don’t care what happens to Evan. If he did this, he deserves whatever he gets. I’m not putting any more energy into thinking about it. None.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Lucia

  I am standing on this bridge listening to David’s fists smack against Robbie’s body. It isn’t even a fair fight. David is beyond pissed off, and he is beating the living daylights out of Robbie. I want to run away. But if I do, Robbie will never forgive me, and David will hunt me down. Robbie is on the ground now, and David is straddling him, punching his face over and over. It is a mashed-up, bloody mess. I hear Robbie’s breath gurgling and watch his hands move up to try to block David’s fists. My own hands are on David’s backpack, trying desperately to pull him away. I am screaming for him to cut it the fuck out, but it’s fruitless because he’s far stronger than I am. This is the first time I have ever seen David lose control.

  David found out about me and Robbie yesterday evening. I was supposed to meet David at his apartment before my photography class, but Robbie stopped me on my way up the stairs and invited me to come to his place first. He lives two floors below David.

  The trouble is that sex with Robbie is hard to resist. I’ve been fucking him for months now—for nearly as long as I have been seeing David. Robbie doesn’t want a relationship; he just wants to screw. But David, he wants more than sex. I think he wants love. I’ve tried to tell him that love is never going to come from me because I’m not interested in all the bullshit that goes with it. David never seems to hear me when I tell him that love is for pussies.

  Robbie and I were in his living room. He had me bent over the back of his couch when David opened the door. I must have been too loud. The look on David’s face was pretty damned crazy. I thought for a second that he was going to come in and beat us both to a bloody pulp right then and there. But instead, he shut the door and walked out of the building. It was a display of godlike self-control, the likes of which I’ve never seen before, even from him. When Robbie finished, we both went over to the window and saw that David’s car was gone. We knew that we were going to suffer for David’s humiliation. I just never thought Robbie would suffer quite like this.

  David and I met six months ago at one of my photography shows. He was building a display unit for someone who was exhibiting in the same gallery. My work is a bit unconventional, and I guess that’s what inspired David to approach me that day. I was securing one of the frames to the wall when he asked me what type of weapon was in the picture. I knew from his question that he didn’t know jack about guns. Who doesn’t recognize a Colt Python .357 Magnum when they see one? He asked me if it was a .38 Special, and I nearly laughed at him. We spent the rest of the evening looking at my pictures and talking about the guns and how I staged the shots. David said his favorite was the image of my antique blunderbuss pistol resting in a pile of colorful smart phones.

  When the show was finally set-up, David took me out for coffee, and I told him about how my entire childhood revolved around my father and his gun collection. My mother left us soon after I was born, and when I was nineteen, my father died because a semiautomatic rifle slam fired as his friend was loading the chamber and my dad was setting the target. It never should have happened. And now I have all of my father’s guns but not my father. He raised me to be respectful of his weapons and to appreciate their beauty. When I decided to become a photographer, I knew exactly what my subject would be.

  From the day we met, David was flirtatious and funny. When I wasn’t talking about my work, we were swapping stories about past jobs and our childhoods. David was the one who introduced me to Robbie a week or so after we met. Robbie likes guns, too, and David brought him to the show to see my work. Two weeks later, Robbie and I shared our first fuck in the bathroom of his apartment. He was having a party, and David and I were invited. One thing led to another, and while David was outside smoking a cigarette, Robbie was lifting me up on to his sink and sticking his dick into me. It became a game for us. We would find a time and a place for a quick screw, and then I would go back to being David’s sort-of girlfriend.

  I taught David how to shoot, and I even gave him his first gun. He taught me how to make my own picture frames and how to use a laser level to set up my shows. We were good together, yes, but it was clear that we were not good enough. Somehow it always seemed as if he was unsatisfied. As if he was always holding himself in. We were going through the motions of being together without ever truly connecting. But, like I said, love is for pussies. It was never going to happen.

  Robbie called me a few hours ago to tell me that David showed up at his apartment this morning. He used his maintenance key to let himself in, and then he proceeded to calmly wreak havoc on the apartment. David didn’t lay a hand on Robbie or even speak to him, but he did rip the kitchen cupboards off their hinges and smash some of the merchandise Robbie was stowing. Then he told Robbie that he had one day to clear out his shit and leave town because Carl was evicting him. Robbie’s been selling stolen electronics out of the apartment for the past seven months, and David’s known about it since he came to fix the water heater one day and saw a bunch of car stereos and at least a dozen laptops on the floor.

  David’s no dumbass. When he saw Robbie fucking me, he must have gone straight to Carl to tell him about Robbie’s little sales operation.

  After Robbie’s phone call, I texted David and told him that we needed to talk. He told me to meet him here, on this bridge, at eleven o’clock sharp. I was supposed to come alone, but after hearing about what David did this morning, there was no way I was coming here by myself. Robbie said he would come with me, but he agreed to stay out of sight unless there was a problem. And now, Robbie is on the ground in a pool of his own blood. He came running when he saw David grab my arms and pull them behind me. Robbie swung the first punch—it was the only one that he landed.

  Robbie is motionless now, and I look down at him, wondering if he is still alive. David is sitting on top of his body, and when he looks up at me, I can see the anger searing through him. It is unbelievable—I can feel how angry David is. I can feel the King of Control utterly losing his shit. Because of me.

  He stands and kicks Robbie’s side hard, and Robbie lets out a small cough. Then David is nose-to-nose with me, asking me in a quiet, malicious tone exactly how long I have been screwing Robbie. I tell him it doesn’t matter. It was just fucking. It didn’t mean anything. The look on David’s face tells me that I had better say what he wants to hear. That self-preservation is a must if I plan to walk away from this. Lies may be the only
thing that will save me.

  I tell David I love him—which I don’t. And that I am sorry—which I’m not. And that what happened with Robbie was just a one-time thing—which, clearly, it wasn’t. Lies, lies, lies. As I am spitting out the words I think he wants to hear, David smiles at me. I think my lies are working. I think I might actually walk away from this. But then David leans down and puts his face right up to mine. He asks me if I think he is a fucking idiot. He knows I don’t love him, and he knows I’m not sorry.

  I can feel the anger shooting through his body again. His hands grasp my shoulders tightly, and his breath deepens. His face is infused with fury, and this time it is aimed at me. I don’t move because I think that if I do, my body will wind up on the ground right next to Robbie’s. I’m going to have to find a way out of this. I wish I had one of my father’s guns.

  I quietly ask David what he wants me to say. “Don’t fucking say anything,” he whispers to me. “Just do what I tell you to do.” He takes his hands off my shoulders and tells me to turn around and look at what I made him do. Look at the bloody mess I turned Robbie into.

  When I turn around, I see Robbie lying on the ground behind me. His head rolls to the side, and he exhales another little blood-soaked cough. Then I hear David’s heavy breaths and his backpack sliding down off his body. I should run. I should leap over Robbie and run like hell. But I can’t. I can only look down and silently beg his now unconscious body to keep breathing.

  I squat down and touch Robbie’s face. It is hot and slick with blood. I look at his closed eyes and consider moving my palm over to his mouth, to confirm that he’s breathing. But David grabs hold of both my wrists and drags them behind me. The force of it knocks me forward, and my cheek pushes against Robbie’s chest. David’s knee is on my back, and he wraps something around my wrists, tying them together. When he pulls me back up to standing, I can feel the blood from Robbie’s shirt trickling down my face. I can taste it on my lips. It is the taste of my own guilt.