by Stahl, Shey
“Fuck…now I’m thinking about that dance.” Dylan shifted, his hips lifting slightly as he leaned forward slumping against the steering wheel. After a moment, he leaned back and put his arm back around me. “Distract me…do you want to take photos for a living?”
I kind of laughed, but kept focused. “I’ve thought about it and yes, my scholarship was for photography. You knew that though, didn’t you?”
“That’s impressive and yes, I may have heard that around school.” He said twirling a piece of my hair between his fingers. He used to do this when we were younger, a habit, one I loved.
“So you think about pursing the scholarship then?” You could feel the tension rising in Dylan, he didn’t make a movement or a sound until I answered. I knew my answer would dictate his mood.
“I’m not going,” I said clicking the arrow on the camera to scroll through more pictures, each one reminding me of why I wasn’t going. This trip, these photos, this was me. A university, a planned life, that wasn’t me. “I do think about pursing photography, maybe selling some photos online or something to make a living.”
“Why does it matter if you make a living?” He was genuinely curious when he asked that.
“Well eventually I need to make my own money, think of the future.” My finger paused over the arrow button again and I twisted to look up at Dylan. He met my glance but only for a moment. “What’s our plan anyway?”
“We were going to Birmingham, remember?” His smile was only on one side, the reality that this wouldn’t last forever kept it for being a full smile, or at least that’s what I thought.
“Eventually we will have to…you know…settle on something.”
“I know.” And that’s all he said before he asked, “So if you could, you’d just take photos?”
“Yeah, I would like that but it’s probably just a pipe dream. There’s so many gifted photographers out there that’s it’s hard to get into a field like that.”
“But you got a scholarship.” He pointed out, laughing, but not a sincere laugh. It’s one that said, are you crazy? “That’s something right there. If you love something, money shouldn’t be the deciding factor.”
“So you’re saying that if you love something, you should do it for free?”
“I already do.”
He had a very good point.
Brushing the side of his face against my hair, his nose ran along my ear. “It’s not about making money brown eyes. It’s about giving your heart.”
“What about you then? Your trust fund won’t last forever,” I countered, scrolling through photos again and chuckling at the one from last night that I took when Dylan had fallen asleep. He noticed and rolled his eyes.
“Fuck my trust fund.” His glare was obvious though I didn’t look. “To me, it wouldn’t matter how I made my money as long as I was doing something I loved. Money means nothing. It doesn’t buy you happiness though most try, it only complicates shit that didn’t need to be complicated in the first place.”
This time I looked up at him setting the camera on the seat beside me, he had all of my attention now and I know I had his, most of it anyway. “Is that why you won’t take up Sam on the offer?”
“You mean with that record label he offered up when he has no business doing so?”
“Yeah, I guess. Why?”
“Because,” Dylan let out a huff as if I should have known. “That’s not me.”
“So what would you do to make money?”
“I want to make music, I do. It’s a passion of mine.” He paused for a moment as he passed a car in the left lane and then moved back to the right lane on the highway. “I’d probably get a job somewhere singing in a bar for just enough money to have a place to stay and eat. I need to feel alive and do something I love.”
“What about now…right now?”
“I’m right where I want to be.” He gave me a smile and kissed my neck with a low chuckle. “A good deal.”
There was that deal again.
Trying to change subjects, I reached for his iPod and switched playlists. Dylan let me do whatever when it came to music. That was nice because back home, whether it be with Eric or Mercedes, I never controlled the music. The thought of those two made me think about what was going on back home and what people were saying. I imagined Facebook was crawling with all kinds of nasty and ridiculous rumors and theories. I bet it was already said that I was having Dylan’s love child or something.
“Do you have Facebook or Twitter?” I asked. My gaze was mostly on the iPod but I did glance up to see his reaction.
Dylan gave me a sideways glance. “Do I look like someone who would have that shit?”
“Point taken.” I nodded finding another playlist on his iPod. This one was marked: Liars.
Later that afternoon, on our last leg of our five-hour drive, we went through what I like to refer to as our nineties-tease-me-phase. I have to explain how that started though.
A joint.
It was slightly entertaining to me that here I was, a few weeks ago, living the perfect life and now here I was, drinking, smoking joints and on the run.
I had never smoked pot before and well, I wanted to. Naturally, Dylan had some and I wasn’t surprised by that at all. He wasn’t exactly okay with me doing it, said I was too innocent to get wrapped up in it but I had to remind him this was pot and not cocaine. He didn’t find any humor in that statement but he allowed it.
We smoked it and then headed to Memphis. It was illegal but that was half the fun. I learned quickly that if I wanted to get into trouble, Dylan was the perfect partner.
Dylan showed me that he had mad rap skills and I showed him I could throw down some Salt N’ Pepa when needed. I learned that Beastie Boys, Dylan’s rap idols, had sick rhythm and that Brass Monkey was his favorite song of theirs, if he had to choose just one.
We rapped to No Diggity like nobody’s business and nearly wrecked the car during our road-talent-show when he played U Can’t Touch This.
“I’m not sure what’s more entertaining to me right now,” I laughed. “The fact that you have all these songs on your iPod or that I know all of them.”
Dylan laughed. His eyes carefree and lost in the moment. “Definitely that you know them.”
Dylan could sing every line and didn’t miss a beat including spanking my ass when I flipped around in the seat to do the booty shaking bounce at one point.
During this two-hour driver of so-you-think-you-got-talent-car-tour, we worked up quite the case of the giggles and munchies. That led us to Taco Bell in Tulsa and then we carried out our moves to the parking lot when Tongue Tied came on.
Looking at us, you would have thought we were a bunch of stoners when we were just two kids finding friendship and enjoying ourselves. For the first time in a while, Dylan was relaxed and completely himself. I loved it and honestly, fell a little deeper that I was seeing that side of him.
I got lost in a fit of giggles and Dylan looked over at me, taking a pull from his cigarette. “You’re so fucking pretty when you smile like that.”
Silence fell over us. Dylan’s eyes scanned over mine and the tips of his fingers ran over my cheek and then winked. I gave another round of giggles feeling the high still.
We were standing in the parking lot leaned against his car, the heat from the hood burning the skin on the backs of my thighs as I sat there bouncing around to the music. Dylan finished his fourth soft taco and tossed the empty wrapper in the bag beside me.
“Teach me those moves from that pep rally shit,” he said, smiling, when the song Fight Music came on. Deciding he was still hungry, he went for his fifth Taco. I watched him unwrap it and take the first bit.
“First of all,” I jumped down after taking a drink of our Mountain Dew we were sharing, “it wasn’t to this song, it was to a mixture Landon made that was with My Name Is, Fight Music, Lose Yourself, and Shake That.” I gave Dylan a look. “He was going through a Slim Shady phase.”
Dy
lan choked on his laughter, his hand covering his mouth. “You got Landon to make that shit?”
“No, I didn’t.” Dylan’s eyes were on mine, curious and you literally see the realization in his eyes. “Mercedes can be very persuasive.”
“Still,” he gave a nod, his expression changed as if he was trying to hide an emotion, his hands moved to my hips after turning the song up. “Teach me that shit.” His head dipped, his mouth against my neck. “I dreamed of you doing that for me, only me.”
I taught him my moves after that. His own private showing. I guess I would have to say I taught him and about ten Taco Bell employees who saw us. It wasn’t private at all but neither of us cared.
He taught me some too.
He was surprisingly a fast learner. I knew that. I experienced that. I loved that.
Watching us, I half expected us to start rapping and break dancing while pouring out our 40 ounce to lost hommies. We were out of control.
Dylan wasn’t what I expected most days. While he ranged from a series of emotions, there was this full of life boy that emerged from that from time to time and laughed, loved and lived with everything he had and was goofy.
It was the same kid that loved nineties rap, fast cars, obsessed with Taco Bell, tattoos, cigarettes and had a temper like a hurricane. Usually predictable, but be ready for a force of nature because if finally pushed over the edge, when he reached shore, you had better hope that you boarded the fucking windows up.
As we sat there in the parking lot, Dylan nodded to a tattoo shop across the street amongst a strip mall.
“Bucket list?”
Scanning the row of buildings, I looked for what he was referring to and settled my eyes on a billboard for tattoos and body piercings.
My eyes lit up at the possibility of getting something to remember our trip by, our memory, and one only we knew the meaning to.
Dylan smiled and gave a nod. “Let’s go.”
It turned out to be just up the street, an old concrete row of buildings, with the tattoo shop on the end. Glass windows curved into a glass door with spray painted windows that looked like graffiti. Dylan appeared comfortable. His steps were sure pushing open the door. I followed, my heart in my throat at what I was about to do.
“What are you guys here for?” A girl not much older than me asked, her nails and lips black.
“Tattoos,” Dylan said never making eye contact with her as he scanned the walls of art and body piercings. I did the same in awe that I, Bailey Gray, a girl that just weeks ago was living the life that everyone else wanted. Now look at me, picking out tattoos.
The girl went through all the options and said we had to pay half now and the rest when we were done. Dylan tugged out his wallet from his back pocket and handed his ID and credit card over to the dark haired girl behind the counter. She smiled, her eyes shifting to mine. Hesitantly, I handed over my ID.
Examining both carefully, she typed some information into the computer in front of her and then motioned down the hall.
“What are you gonna get, brown eyes?” he whispered walking beside me; his eyes on his feet with his hands in his pockets, his shoulder bumped mine. “Tinkerbelle?”
“No,” I shrieked offended that he would think I would get a fairy tattooed on me. Then I smiled. “I was thinking a butterfly,” I teased.
He laughed, his shoulders shaking but never looked at me. “Original.”
I wasn’t thinking butterfly, and when he said original, I realized what he meant. A butterfly would be expected of me.
A taller man walked in and sat down in a metal stool, eyeing my appearance. I did the same wondering if I was gonna get blood poisoning from this. “What’ll it be?”
I must have stared at him and his art splashed over him for at least five minutes before pointing to his right bicep. He smiled and asked where I wanted it.
The entire experience was frightening as hell and I think I spent the majority of it with my eyes closed and biting my fist. I may have passed out too. It burned, it stung and I was sure he was peeling my skin off layer-by-layer and then adding burning acid to it.
When he was finished, he slapped me on the ass, hard I might add, ran his hand down his jaw, winked and said. “Some of my best work darlin’,”
I couldn’t look. Wanted to, but couldn’t. Removing myself from the table, I still didn’t look, even when the inked up man with black eyeliner offered the mirror.
Dylan met me in the hallway, his eyes casted on his cell phone in his right hand. When he heard my flip-flops against the painted concrete floor, he looked up briefly and nodded to the exit sign.
As we walked to the counter again, Dylan smiled adjusting his shirt over the bandage they put on his stomach. “What’d you get?” I asked him, adjusting my own clothes over my hip.
“Tinkerbelle,” Dylan teased but he seemed tense, maybe it hurt. I knew I was a little tense. It hurt like hell.
We rounded the corner and stood at the counter, neither of us speaking.
“Was it everything you hoped for?” The girl behind the counter asked, looking at Dylan.
Keeping his stare low, Dylan spoke and I knew by his tone when the shift in his mood occurred. “It was fine but you might wanna tell your staff to keep their fucking hands to themselves.”
He saw the guy spank my ass.
“Stan doesn’t mean anything by it, I’m sure of it,” she said swiping Dylan’s credit card.
“He’s lucky I didn’t break his fucking arm.” Dylan shook his head but didn’t look away, his smirk, cold, and it made me want to smack him, sort of. He was being an asshole and he knew it but it was reassuring that he was looking out for me.
Neither of us said anything walking to the car until we got inside. I looked over at him when he started the car. “What did you get?”
The corners of his mouth twisted into a shy grin that I found adorable. Before lifting his shirt, slowly, his smirk turned to a grin.
There, along the right side of his ribs was a scorpion. Though he liked to deny it, all of Dylan’s tattoo’s had meaning. “What does it mean?” I looked closer, my head practically in his lap.
“They can mean a lot of things.” His hand moved to drop his shirt hiding it from my view as he started the car. “Mystery, power, aggression, healing and protection.”
Mine seemed stupid now.
I knew he wanted to ask but he didn’t. Maybe he thought it was private, maybe he didn’t.
It took him about ten minutes and he finally caved when we passed a sign. “What did you get brown eyes?”
I felt incredibly embarrassed to admit it and the words rushed out. “A sun.”
“A sun?”
“Yep.” My hands folded in my lap. I watched the passing billboards as opposed to his stare. I could feel it almost as I felt the burning from my new branding.
“Can I see it?”
Taking a deep breath, I shook my head no. It wasn’t that I found it pathetic or anything, I just felt that compared to something Dylan would get, it was meaningless. Dylan communicated a lot about himself through tattoos. I was trying to do the same but felt like I failed when I saw something as strong as a scorpion on him.
Dylan didn’t like my no and jerked the car over to the side of the road, gravel pinging the sides of the car. Cars honked as they drove by at his lack of care for anyone around us. Before I had time to react, I was flat on my back with him hovering over me. “Show me,” he demanded parting my legs with his hips, one hand resting on the back of the seat, the other beside my hair.
My eyes motioned south to my right side, his followed and he moved the hand that was beside my head to the Beastie Boys t-shirt I stole from him this morning. Slowly, his fingers grazing my skin as he did it, he lifted my shirt up to my ribs.
Closing my eyes, I imagined what it looked like but couldn’t place it.
“Have you looked at this?” Dylan asked seeming to know my hesitation.
“No.” My arms flopped over my f
ace. “I was scared.”
He was quiet, his fingers lightly traced over my hipbone right below the stinging. Between my arms I could see his arm flex as he held himself above me. “It fits you perfectly.”
My curiosity got the best of me. Holding myself up on my elbows, I looked. The tattoo was exactly what I wanted. It was a sun with flowing edges, three larger stars and four smaller ones within the clouded edges. “The guy said it means burning passion,” I said. My lashes lowered feeling shy when I looked up at Dylan.
The car rocked when a freight truck went by, Dylan’s hand slipped from the back of the seat and he landed on top of me. Forehead to forehead now, he kissed me sweetly speaking against my lips. “It can mean whatever you want it to. Some artists will tell you it means heat and fire, passion, all elements associated with dedication, truth and light.” He pulled propping himself up on his hands. “If you believe it to mean something, that’s all that matters.”
We ended up finding a hotel after that and then a place to eat dinner. Dylan wanted to eat at the Crazy Chow House so we did, we ate too much and then went shopping at a nearby grocery store.
Walking around aimlessly, we tossed random shit in the cart, razors, toothbrushes, eye drops, condoms…yep, condoms.
Dylan smiled when I grabbed them. Yes, I did that. “You planning on getting lucky brown eyes?” His arm draped casually over my shoulders as I pushed the cart down toward the chips. Dylan reached out when he spotted Cheetos and put two bags in the cart since they were two for five.
“I was hoping that eventually you’ll take my virginity,” I said that just about the time two teenage boys came down that very same aisle.
Their wide-open mouths didn’t last long when Dylan stepped toward them, glaring. “Get lost.”
They didn’t wait around.
Turning back to the cart, I reached for some microwave popcorn and continued walking as if nothing happened.
