The Mad Tatter

by J. M. Darhower

  "If it helps, I'll get you something to loosen you up."

  "Like drugs?"

  "I meant a drink, but if you want something harder, I'm sure a few people have—"

  "Of course not," she hisses, cutting me off. "I just… I didn't know."

  Shaking my head, I grab her hand and tug her into the crowd. She doesn't resist, letting me lead her to the other side of the room, to a makeshift bar along the wall. Some of the models stand behind it, pouring shots. It's none of the fancy shit—no mixed drinks, or martinis, or fucking cosmopolitans. No cotton candy whatever-the-fuck-it-is. It's straight up liquor, whatever cheap shit is on hand, or bottled water.

  After all, it's free, and beggars can't be choosers. Drink it or don't.

  I jump past those waiting for drinks, stepping right behind the bar and weaving past the workers to grab a bottle of vodka, pouring two double shots. I slide one to Avery, clinking my shot glass with hers before throwing it back. The liquor scorches my throat, the burn settling deep into my chest, warming me from the inside. I hear Avery cough as she swallows hers, having to try three times before she gets it all down.

  "Oh God," she gasps, "that tastes like rubbing alcohol."

  "Might've been," I joke, setting my shot glass down on the bar. "Want another?"

  "No, I'm good," she says, turning away from me to scan the crowd. "Never drinking that crap again."

  I can tell the alcohol is already having an effect on her, her posture relaxing, her head subtly bobbing to the beat of the music.

  "Come on," I say. "Dance with me now."

  "I didn't realize you danced."

  "I don't," I say. "But someone wise once told me that for the right woman, you've gotta be willing to do anything."

  Her cheeks redden at my words as she concedes, nodding. She pushes away from the bar, letting me lead her through the crowd. We stop dead center of the dance floor, bodies surrounding us, light flashing above us, her skin glowing under the blacklights as I pull her back to me, my hands on her hips.

  "Close your eyes," I whisper in her ear. "Feel it."

  The song is catchy, vibrating the room. Avery starts out slow, subtly swaying to the beat. I can't dance, so damn uncoordinated I can hardly pass a sobriety test when stone cold sober. But I couldn't care less. I move to the rhythm, blending into the darkness like I don't even exist, a chill running down my spine as Avery presses herself against me, grinding against my cock.

  The music shifts, songs blending together, the beat persistently frenzied. Avery loosens up more and more as everyone around us reacts to the melody, losing themselves in the song like they've caught the Holy Ghost of Dubstep. Praise motherfucking Skrillex. They flail around, moving wildly, flipping and spinning, doing splits in the middle of the crowd.

  Her movements become more exaggerated, all pretense, all hesitation, all modesty going out the window, as she relaxes and just feels the music. It doesn't take long before she's joining the others, throwing her hands in the air and bouncing on her tiptoes, turning and dipping, jumping around to the beat, a mixture of ballet and whatever the fuck this kind of dancing is.

  It's art.

  Her art.

  She was made for this shit.

  The smile on her face is bright enough to light the darkest room, to warm the coldest soul.

  I practically feel my heart growing three sizes just watching her.

  All night long, until the wee hours of the morning, I lose myself in her as she loses herself in the music. Nothing exists to her except for the melody—I'm not sure she even notices when I slip away to get a drink, or confer with Kevin, or converse with Ellie—but it doesn't matter. I don't mind a bit.

  My girl's first love is dancing.

  And I love her for it.

  Fuck, I love her.

  It's a stark reality, like a slap in the face, slamming me right on my ass. She got under my skin, beat her way through my chest, and snuck right into my heart before I could even think to object to it.

  It's messy.

  So messy.

  "You're fucked," Kevin says, leaning back against the bar as he sips a bottle of water. I stand beside him, drinking straight from the cheap ass bottle of vodka, my eyes glued to her still out on the dance floor. Despite the darkness, I know which one is Avery… my mark is all over her. It will wash off tomorrow, but tonight it's there.

  "I know," I reply, because I do. I know. I'm fucked.

  Kevin laughs, punching me on the arm. "Never thought it would happen, Hatter. Never thought I'd see the day."

  Still laughing, he walks away. I take another swig from the bottle of vodka before discarding it on the bar and making my way back out onto the dance floor.

  Avery is a sweaty, paint-covered mess by the time the party starts winding down, her body soaked, her hair all over the place. The crowd has thinned, the alcohol drying up, as night outside slowly moves toward daylight.

  She turns to me, eyes bright and wild. I've seen her happy before, but this is like someone seeing sunshine for the first time. How the fuck have I ever survived the darkness before?

  Maybe it's bullshit, I don't know, but they say van Gough used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would bring some happiness inside of him. They claim he was mad, that it was proof he'd gone crazy, but I don't believe it.

  I think, if he did it, it was just desperation.

  Because looking at her, I know she's my yellow. She's the happiness inside of me.

  It's not crazy to want to eat that up, to capture that feeling forever.

  "Wow," she breathes, her voice strained. "Now this is a party."

  "Better than all those birthday parties?"

  She wraps her arms around me, beaming as she stares into my eyes, her fingers running through the hair at the nape of my neck. "I don't think they even deserve to be called parties now."

  I laugh lightly. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

  "I am," she says, her voice genuine. "I feel like I'm in an entirely different world when I'm with you, a world I never knew existed before… like I never knew it could be this way, that I could be this way."

  "That's why they call it Wonderland, Aphrodite."

  Her smile brightens. "It's more than that, though… it's you."

  "Can I see more of your art?"

  I glance down at where Avery lays on the living room floor of my apartment, right in front of the couch where I sit. Her long hair is loose, splayed out on the carpet, her knees up, arms spread wide. One is wrapped around my leg, her fingers absently toying with the bottom of my jeans, grazing my ankle, while the other clutches a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka.

  Paint still covers her from the party. She lost more clothes along the way. Fuck if I know what happened to them. There one second and gone the next. She's wearing a pair of black panties and her sports bra. I see less on women walking the streets some Saturday nights, but somehow, with her, it looks damn indecent. I almost want to cover her up, but the other part of me isn't having that shit.

  "My art?" I ask. "What art?"

  She uses her head to nod in my direction. "Your art."

  Confused, I glance behind me, freezing when I realize she's motioning toward the painting on the wall above the couch. I sometimes forget the damn thing is still there until it's pointed out to me.

  "Ah." I turn back around, taking a sip of my beer. "I have no more for you to see."

  "Why not?"

  I shrug, hoping she'll drop the subject as I delay answering, taking my sweet time drinking the rest of my beer, but when I set the empty can down on the end table and glance at her, I see she's still waiting for an answer. "You ever have something frustrate you so much that you just wanted to rip it to pieces, throw it on a pile, and kill it with fire?"

  "Bridgette."

  I let out a laugh at her response. "I'm serious."

  "No," she says after a moment of silence, like she was legitimately considering it. "Can't say I have."

  "Well, I have, and
that's exactly what I did. I destroyed it all, every bit of it, save for that piece of shit." I wave toward the watercolor behind my head. "That's all that's left."

  "You really destroyed it all?" she asks, propping herself up on her elbows to better look at me. "Why would you do that?"

  I shake my head. "You wouldn't understand."

  "Try me."

  I want to. I wish I knew how. I wish I could find the words to explain how it made me feel, to see those pieces of who I was supposed to be, the reminders of the man I could've been, knowing I'd never live up to that fantasy. It was like playing house, knowing you'd never be worthy of a home… smiling when you really want nothing more than to cry. It's the feeling of waking up in the morning and getting out of bed, when all you want to do is crawl back into the motherfucker and drift away.

  Looking at it made me feel like my parents were right about me, that the person I've become isn't worthy of the air I constantly breathe.

  "It was like staring my worst fear right in the face," I say quietly. "And I wasn't a strong enough man to endure that day after day."

  "But you kept that one."

  That isn't a question, but I hear the curiosity in her voice, like she wants to know but she's afraid to pry for an answer. Looking back at the painting once more, my eyes scan it in the relative darkness.

  "I painted it the day my daughter was born," I tell her. "I painted it about her… painted it for her. I couldn't bring myself to destroy it. I already worry I'm destroying her."

  She rolls her eyes. "You are not."

  "You don't underst—"

  "No, I do," she says loudly, her words slurring a bit as she cuts me off. "I know what it's like to wish your parents could accept you for who you are. That's all kids really want. And, you know, sometimes they want chocolate in their pancakes and dinosaurs drawn on their arms, and you know, why not? I didn't get that at first, because my parents didn't raise me that way. They said no a lot, because they thought they knew what was best for me, and maybe they did… maybe they do… but sometimes it just feels good to be able to say yes. And maybe you aren't perfect, but you make her happy—which, for the record, is the total opposite of destroying her."

  I'm not sure what to say, or how I'm supposed to feel about what she's saying. It twists me up inside and it's not something I want to deal with tonight… or ever. I'm twisted enough about my feelings for her. So instead of responding, I stand up and grab my empty beer can, taking a step to walk away.

  She quickly clutches onto my leg, though, pinning me in place.

  I try to take another step, and another, dragging her a bit across the floor, but stop and look down as she drunkenly laughs, not letting go. She tries to pull herself together, but she can't help it, another laugh coming out as she tugs on my leg, almost making me lose my balance. "Don't leave!"

  "I'm just going to get another beer," I say, shaking my empty toward her.

  "No, you're trying to avoid this conversation," she says, finally letting go of my leg to sit up, but she isn't finished. "You do that, you know… whenever I bring this kind of stuff up." She wags a finger at me. "I'm on to you."

  I stare at her, watching as she brings the bottle of vodka to her lips and takes a swig, making a face and spewing half of it back out on herself, like she didn't realize what the hell she was even drinking. Shaking my head, I reach down and grab the bottle from her, putting it aside, before taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. She stumbles, laughing even more, and wraps her arms around my neck before I can move away. She smells like sweat and liquor, with the hint of something else…

  Paint.

  It's intoxicating.

  "I want you to draw me like one of your French girls," she whispers playfully, her lips just a touch away from mine.

  I laugh, my hands settling on her hips. "I've already painted you… twice."

  "You painted on me," she says. "And I saw it then, you know. I saw it tonight and I saw it last time."

  "Saw what?"

  "You. Your passion. You looked so alive, like there was a spark in you, a spark you got from doing art."

  "You're imagining things."

  "No, I'm not," she says. "I know what I saw. There was no mistaking it. You looked like a man in love, Reece."

  That word makes my heart do those things I didn't think my heart was capable of doing again. Love. You could say that I love art. I definitely love my daughter. If you catch me on an off day, I might even declare my love for a much needed cigarette. I've often thought I loved pussy, and sometimes beer makes me feel like I love it, too, but loving a woman? Fuck that. Never thought it would happen.

  But it did.

  When I wasn't paying attention, it snuck up on me.

  I went from slipping out of bedrooms in the middle of the night to inviting her right into mine, and I can't even pinpoint when it happened or why. It started with wanting to draw on her skin but now... now she's starting to become everything.

  "Maybe I am," I whisper, leaning down, lightly kissing her mouth, tasting the vodka lingering on her lips.

  "Maybe you are what?" she murmurs.

  In love, I think.

  She kisses me back, her fingers running through my hair.

  She doesn't press me for an answer.

  I think she's already forgotten she had a question in the first place.

  Buzzing fills the back room of the shop, mixing with the sound of some new local indie band. Once again, like every other day, I don't get to choose the music.

  This time, Kevin does.

  It hums from his iPhone, docked into a speaker, streaming live from some underground show in the city. It's a Saturday, and I technically have the day off. I should be with Lexie, I was supposed to be with Lexie, but she's home sick for the weekend.

  Or supposedly sick.

  Rebecca called me, cancelling my weekend due to her not feeling well. I argued, saying I'm just as equipped as her to take care of a sick kid, but her argument about my selfishness eventually made me concede.

  What kind of father drags their sick kid out so late at night?

  What kind of man does that make you, Rhys?

  Why are you always thinking of yourself and not her?

  Why can't you just let her stay home and sleep?

  Needless to say, I'm irritated as shit, and bored to boot without my daughter for the weekend. Downtime is unheard of for me. And to top it off, I've hardly seen Avery all week. After our stint out dancing at the party to celebrate Wonderland, she has only shown up once, too busy working on her choreography to visit with me.

  She said she finally figured it out, that she knew what she wanted to do for the production.

  I understand, of course... when inspiration strikes, you run with it... but fuck if part of me doesn't hate it anyway. I've gotten used to having her around.

  Sighing, I close my eyes, feeling the vibration spread through my chest. Numbness long ago crept in, dulling the tiny cat-scratch pain to mere irritating jabs. I've felt worse. Hell, Lexie inflicts worse trying to wake me up in the mornings. Thankfully, Kevin has a light hand, so I barely feel the needle most places.

  After a moment, the humming dies down as Kevin switches off the tattoo machine. "Have a look, man."

  I open my eyes and glance down at my chest, surveying the cartoon T-Rex. It completely clashes with the rest of my tattoos, but it makes me smile. I had Kevin trace it off the wall in my workspace. Lexie drew it. "Looks great."

  "You don't want to check it out in the mirror?"

  "Do I need to?"

  "Of course not."

  I stand up and grab my shirt as Kevin jokingly spouts off facts about aftercare, treating me like any other client. He has done the majority of my tattoos, starting with my very first one the day the shop opened.

  I was the first client in his chair.

  He gave me my start in this business, taking a chance on a little roughneck delinquent. He could've made my life hell, but instead he appreciated me for
who I was. He gave me the respect I hadn't given him.

  I had no idea what this building was going to be when I first saw it, the place still vacant, the only thing written outside being the lone word Wonderland. It called to me, though, sparking inspiration.

  In the middle of the night, I vandalized the place.

  When the sun rose the next morning, he showed up at his shop to find the outside covered in a Through the Looking Glass mural and me right beside it, in handcuffs.

  I got busted.

  I took too long.

  I got lost in the art and forgot my surroundings until the cops showed up.

  I help myself to a bandage from Kevin's supplies and cover the fresh wound. I sling my shirt over my shoulder, not bothering to put it on.

  Kevin was the only one to not press charges against me. His only request was that I clean the graffiti off. So I did, as my first assignment for community service. I removed my own art.

  Ever since then, he's been trying to get me to put it back up.

  "So how much do I owe you?" I ask.

  "You know better than that shit, Hatter. Your money's no good with me."

  Hatter. He's also the only one who still calls me that name. Hatter, the Mad Tatter. I roll my eyes every time he says that shit.

  I turn to walk out, stalling when I see Ellie lurking in the doorway, holding the appointment book. "Kev, your next client called to ask if we could push their session back an hour. You have a gap in your schedule later so I worked it in."

  "Cool with me," Kevin says, shrugging.

  Ellie's gaze turns to me. "We've got a walk-in."

  "So?" Reece asked. "Why are you telling me?"

  "Figured you might want to do it."

  I shake my head. "I'm not working today."

  "I can do it," Kevin chimes in, shrugging as he starts sanitizing his station. "I got an hour to burn."

  Good, I think. I slip past Ellie and stroll toward the lobby, seeing a group of girls gathered around the hanging display, shifting through the pre-drawn tattoos. They huddle together, whispering, giggling. I look away from them and start for my room, figuring I can knock out some paperwork while I'm here, when one of their voices cuts through, louder. "Oh, there's the one I got!"