Struck out two nights in a row.
Another first.
My laughter draws her attention. Her back stiffens as she snatches up her shirt and quickly pulls it on, eyes guarded when she finally turns to face me. Her cheeks are flushed, sleep lines still marring them, her hair in utter disarray. Anxiously, as if she can read my mind, she quickly runs her hands through the locks, trying to tame them.
"Good morning," I say, propping myself up on my elbows when she doesn't speak. It’s definitely weird, waking up in my own room and seeing her here. "What are you doing?"
"I was, uh… well… you know, I was just…"
Brow furrowing, I sit straight up in bed when she slides on her shoes. "Are you leaving?"
"Yeah, I thought…"
"Are you late? Fuck, am I late?" I glance at the clock—only seven in the morning. No, not late. My gaze finds hers again, the answer in her flustered expression. Son of a bitch. "You were trying to sneak out on me, weren't you?"
"No," she says quickly. Too quickly. "I just thought…"
"You thought you'd slip out before I woke up, so you wouldn't have to face me, so you could avoid the awkward morning-after bullshit."
Avery stares at me, her body sagging after a moment. Busted. "Okay, I was."
I'm dumbfounded. That's my usual move… and she's using it on me?
"You gotta be much quieter to pull that off," I say, shaking my head. "You grab your clothes and change in another room, or even out in the hallway, so you don't wake anyone up while you're pulling yourself together. And you certainly don't talk while you get dressed. Hell, you try not to even breathe too loudly. But you… you sounded like you were doing a fucking rain dance with the way you were stomping around and chanting."
"Yeah, well, I've never done this before," she mutters, "so I didn't know."
"Well, now you know," I say, standing up, not bothering to put on any clothes. I head toward the bedroom door in my black boxers, stepping right past her. "You know, for the next time."
Yawning, still half-asleep, I stroll down the hallway toward the kitchen. Flicking on the light, I scour through the cabinets and start pulling stuff out. It only takes a minute before Avery appears in the doorway, fully dressed, all put together now and looking just as frazzled as she was moments ago.
"What are you doing?" she asks when I grab a pan and set it on the stove.
"Making breakfast," I reply, rubbing my stomach as it growls on cue. "You're welcome to stay, you know, or go. Choice is yours. I won't make it awkward for you."
"Too late," she mutters, hesitating before stepping into the tiny kitchen and taking a seat at the small table off to the side. "So you know how to cook?"
"Well… I can make pancakes," I offer. "I make them for the little miss whenever I have her."
"How often is that?"
"Every other weekend. Alternating holidays. Basic bullshit visitation schedule all fathers pretty much get."
"And the rest of the time she's with her mother?"
I nod as I start putting together the batter for the pancakes. "Or at school, or... you know... with her nanny."
"She has a nanny?"
"Yeah."
"But not one you hired?"
I shoot her a look of disbelief, almost offended by that question. Do I look like I can afford a nanny? Hell, even if I could, do I look like someone who would hire one? "You know, Aphrodite, for someone who tried to jet to avoid conversation, you sure have a lot to say this morning."
"Sorry, I was just trying to understand."
"It's okay," I say. "I'd love to have her more, but I take what I can get. Besides, she's probably better off elsewhere. I mean, what the fuck do I know about little girls?"
"You seemed to be doing good when I saw you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I live my life in a tattoo studio, you know? That's no place to raise a kid."
Nothing more is said about it as I make us breakfast, sitting down beside Avery at the bar with thick stacks of pancakes. I drown mine in maple syrup while she tops hers with just a tad of butter.
"I'm glad I didn't run out on you," Avery says after taking a small bite. "These pancakes are totally worth the morning-after humiliation."
I laugh. "They're better with stuff in the batter. Little Miss likes banana walnut."
Avery's mouth drops open. "Oh, that sounds good! What do I have to do to get some of those?"
"I don't know," I say. "Sleep with me, probably."
"I did." She blushes. "We did. Right?"
"Wrong… unless you mean the literal meaning of sleep, then yeah, we definitely slept. You were certainly snoring like a motherfucker, hogging my pillow."
Her eyes widen. "We didn't do more?"
"Nope."
"But we were… and you're, well… and I was…” She's speaking in tongues as she waves between us. “So I thought we…"
"Well, we didn't. Trust me, if we had, you'd know."
"How?"
"Because that's not something you'd ever forget."
She takes another bite of her pancakes. "Guess I tried to sneak out for nothing."
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Guess you did."
After I'm finished with breakfast, while Avery is still eating, I slip away to take a long, hot shower. I throw some clothes on, expecting her to depart without fanfare in my absence, but instead I find her still lurking in my living room. She's standing in front of my couch, her back to me as she surveys the lone work of art on the wall. My muscles grow taut, anxiety sweeping through me that I try to push back when she reaches out and swipes her fingers across the large canvas, examining it.
It feels like an intrusion.
Like an invasion.
"This is real," she whispers.
"It is."
She turns to me with surprise, raising an eyebrow. "Who painted it?"
“Nobody important,” I say. “Just some pretentious asshole that thought himself an actual artist once upon a time."
"He is an artist, whoever he is," she says. "It's gorgeous."
The genuine tone of her voice softens the anger that stirs inside of me. "Thank you."
She gapes at me. "You?"
I nod.
"Seriously, you painted this?"
"Yes. It's a Hatfield original."
"You're an artist?" She blurts out the question, backtracking quickly. "I mean, I knew you were an artist, that you did art, like with tattoos, but I didn't know you were this kind of artist."
I glance up at the painting, an abstract watercolor dominated by shades of yellow. "I was in my last year at Columbia when I painted it."
"Columbia?" she asks incredulously. "You graduated from one of the best art schools in the country?"
"Never said I graduated."
"You dropped out?"
"More like they kicked me out, but whatever... I would've dropped out eventually."
"Why would you do that?"
“Lexie."
Realization seems to dawn as her expression softens. "Oh."
"I was having a kid… I had to do something that would pay the bills. And as much as I loved art, I love my girl a hell of a lot more."
Avery smiles and glances back at the painting. "You're really good, though."
"Thanks."
"I mean it," she says. “Why’d they kick you out of school?"
“Long story,” I say. “I guess you could say they weren't fans of mine. They didn't appreciate my technique, so to speak."
She looks at me with confusion but shakes it off. It’s a good thing, too, because I’m not in the mood to explain.
“Well, their loss,” she says. “And I know you have tattooing and all, but you shouldn't give up on this art."
"I haven't given up," I say. "It gave up on me."
Standing in front of a canvas, I feel nothing, see nothing, sense nothing. Years ago it came easily, but now there's just nothing. Tattooing is an extension of the other person, a commissioned work, wherea
s when I'm painting? There’s only me.
And I’ve been drained dry.
I'm empty.
"I should really go," Avery says, glancing at her watch before timidly meeting my eyes. "I, uh… I mean…"
"It doesn't have to be awkward," I say as I motion toward the door. "Go, but just promise you'll be back for more pancakes."
"I will," she says, heading for the door and pausing there to look back at me. "Definitely the banana walnut next time."
I smile at her as she leaves.
After she's gone, I look back at the painting on my wall, my expression slowly falling. What the fuck am I doing? I invite her into my space, into my life, like there’s any room for her here. I know better than that. And here I am, talking to her about my art, like she could ever understand my struggle.
Messy.
I don't like it.
What's wrong with me?
"Think fast."
Those words hit me the second I step foot inside Wonderland. I glance over at Kevin, not having enough time to react before something strikes me right in the chest. I hear the distinct rattling as it hits the floor in front of me, the metal canister coming to a stop on the marble tile by my feet.
I stare down at it in silence.
A can of white spray paint... a cheap generic brand, the label decimated, making it unrecognizable.
Looking at it makes me cringe.
Wordlessly, I kick the canister, rolling it right back to him. It's way too early for this bullshit.
"Come on." He reaches down and picks it back up, shaking it toward me. The metal ball inside rattles against the sides as it stirs up the paint. The sound makes my hair stand on end. "Really?"
I ignore his question. His voice is light, almost joking, but it still feels a hell of a lot like an inquisition to me. My gaze flickers from him to the wall in the shop's lobby, eyes moving along the white mass he spray-painted. I'm not entirely sure what the hell it's supposed to be. Kevin's a great artist, yeah, but he's more technical, which means he sucks at free-handing graffiti. "You should probably leave that to the professionals."
He laughs, turning back to his project. "I just tried. You refused."
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair and start walking away, heading toward my workstation, as I mutter, "I'm retired. I don't do that shit anymore."
"Yeah, well, you ought to," he calls out, overhearing me. "Besides, no artist ever really retires. I mean, sometimes they go crazy as shit and cut their ears off and give them to prostitutes, but that doesn't stop them from painting, you know?"
I don't humor that with a response.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m just a step away from that, just one breakdown away from chopping my own dick off and slapping somebody with it. The only thing stopping me is that I happen to like my dick. It gives me some of the only pleasure I get out of this life I’ve been given. But tortured artist? Yeah, I feel that. I feel it and live it every single day. The need to create runs deep within me, but it's terrifying, the thought of not being able to perform.
I'm impotent.
A fucking impotent artist.
My dick has never betrayed me that way.
I'm distracted all day, hearing the sounds from the lobby, the rattling of canisters, the hissing sound the spray paint makes, loud enough that it overshadows the humming of my tattoo machine, audible over even the music, no matter how loud I crank the volume. The front door of the shop is propped open all afternoon, fans running for ventilation, but I can still smell the distinct fumes even holed up in my workspace. It makes my nose twitch, and I try to breathe through my mouth, but it makes little difference.
I'm an addict watching somebody else take a hit.
When I'm finished with my last client, I clean up quickly and make a beeline for the door, but Kevin intercepts me. He stands in front of the exit, halfway inside, halfway out, while casually puffing on a cigarette. He stares at me, making no move to get out of the way.
I pause a few feet from him. "You get off on torturing me, don't you?"
He laughs, a puff of smoke flying from his mouth and nose as he does. "I wouldn't call it torture."
"What would you call it then?"
"Making you reach your maximum potential," he says. "That's all I've ever tried to do, ever since the day you showed up here in your little orange vest to pressure wash the front of my building."
"You tortured me that day, too."
"Again, wouldn't call it that."
I shake my head, looking away from him as he takes a puff of his cigarette. He's annoying the piss out of me and he knows it, and no matter what he says, I know he enjoys it. I glance behind me, surveying the fresh graffiti in the lobby. It's a mass of color, like a rainbow spewed all over the walls, but I still don't know what the hell the white thing dead center is supposed to be. "Nice mural."
"It is, isn't it?" Kevin puts out his cigarette and tosses it in the trash before strolling back into the lobby, brushing past me. "Might be better if somebody would've helped me with it."
I don't stick around to continue the conversation. I'm in no mood for it. I'm so wound tight that the last thing I want at the moment is to have to interact with more people, so I bypass the bar, lowering my head as I make my way straight home. I walk slowly, in no hurry, breathing in the fresh air and taking a moment to let it clear my head.
The neighborhood gets worse the closer I get. Graffiti marks every flat surface, but not the kind that anyone could consider art. Monikers and gang signs scribbled in cheap spray paint, layer over layer of it, making everything indiscernible, like a mass of shapes that can't really mean a thing to anyone anymore. Sirens cut through the air and blue lights flash in the night sky, people shouting, others running, as loud music rattles from houses and cars backfire.
Or maybe it's gunshots.
It's New York.
Who really fucking knows?
As much as I love the city, I hate living in this neighborhood, but it won't be much longer. Soon enough I'll be able to afford to get the hell out of this place, maybe even get a townhouse like the one where the pretty little Lark lives. Little Miss will like it, having a bigger place, but for now she's still mostly oblivious.
She doesn't really know her father's a loser.
Even though her mother's not shy about telling everyone who will listen.
"Daddy."
My attention's focused on the tattoo before me: small red bows on the back of a pair of gorgeously sun-kissed, slim upper thighs. The design is just starting to come together when the word echoes through the room from the doorway, momentarily distracting me. "Uh, hold on."
"Daddy."
I only barely hear her over the hum of the tattoo machine, her small voice drowned out by the old Paula Abdul Cold Hearted Snake tune. I vaguely cut my eyes that way before looking back at my work. "One second."
"Daddy!"
She shouts that time, raising her screeching voice, demanding my attention. I don't flinch, unaffected by her outburst, but the girl on the table startles at the sound, nearly making me fuck up.
Pulling the needle away, I sit back and look over at my daughter. She stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, an angry scowl on her face.
"Yes, Lexie?"
"Is it my turn now?"
I shake my head. "Not yet."
"Soon?"
"Later."
"When later?"
I stare at her, not sure what answer will satisfy the girl. She isn't used to me being so busy whenever she's around. Usually I pick her up after work on Fridays and take the weekend off, but her mother unexpectedly dropped her off earlier this afternoon instead.
Without warning.
Not that I'm complaining.
I'll take all the time I can get with my girl.
But some fucking warning would've been nice.
Because Lexie isn't good at sharing my time. She wants my undivided attention and has no qualms being vocal about that whenever she feels even remote
ly ignored.
"Just... later," I say again. "Let me finish my work first, okay?"
I turn right back to my client without awaiting her response, barely having time to add a bit of red shading to the tattoo, when Lexie shrieks again.
"Daddy!"
Swiftly, I reach over and switch off the tattoo machine, the buzzing instantly dying. I force a smile for the pretty brunette lying on my table. Brenda? Belinda? "You mind if we take a break, sweetheart?"
"Not at all," she says, jumping up. "I've being dying for a smoke."
You and me both, lady.
Once she's gone, I pat the tattoo table. "Sit."
Lexie hesitates before dramatically stomping over and climbing up on it. She sits still, a pout on her lips as she glares at me. I wheel my stool as close as possible, staring at her.
Man, she looks pissed.
"Talk to me, Little Miss. What's bothering you?"
"I'm bored," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "There's nothing to do here! I tried to play and Ellie yelled at me and Kevin said no running but I wasn't running, I swear! I was just walking, but it was fast walking, because I was playing! But then Ellie said no playing, 'cause tattoo shops aren't playgrounds, but we can't go to the playground, and I don't know what else to do!"
I stare at her as she rattles it off quickly before pausing to take a deep breath that sounds like a growl. I take that as my cue to chime in. "You want something to do, correct?"
"Yes!"
I glance around, grabbing my sharpies. "Draw a picture."
“On what?"
“On whatever you want."
Lexie doesn't look thrilled with my suggestion, but she doesn't argue, jumping down from the table and taking a seat in the folding chair off to the side. My client returns, retaking the spot on the table, as I set back to work on her tattoos.
Lexie remains quiet, drawing away, but every now and then I hear her dramatically huffing whenever the client starts flirting with me. I know I should admonish her, should put that attitude in check, but I just can't be mad.
We rarely get time together and fuck... I'd much rather spend it with her, too.
I finish in under an hour, discounting the session for the trouble Lexie caused. After the woman is gone, I look at the clock. Almost seven. I have another appointment at eight, a simple touch-up on an old back tattoo, but I know Lexie won't last through it without throwing another fit.
The Mad Tatter Page 5
