Bad Habits Box Set

by Staci Hart

“Yeah, I get it. It’s fine. I’ll keep paying rent here, Lily can keep paying rent there, and we’ll figure it out when we have to.”

  He nodded. “All right. Rose will come around. Maybe in more ways than one.”

  I raised a brow. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  West smirked. “Oh, ye of little faith. Lily and I have a theory.”

  “Oh?” I took a bite, amused.

  “Yup. The only thing in between you two is the two of you.” He looked proud of himself.

  “Well, I’m glad you have the answer,” I said flatly. “Should be easy to solve.”

  “I’m just saying that maybe this will be good for the two of you, bunking together. But maybe you can find a way to get through the other side and into something new.”

  I wished it were true, wished it wholeheartedly. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  He made a face. “You’re not the only people in the world to ever break up.”

  I nodded and spooned some oatmeal into my mouth, pausing for a moment. “That’s true. But I burned the bridge with her. She doesn’t want to forgive me.”

  His dark brow arched. “And you know because you’ve asked?”

  “I asked after I brought Veronica to the bar, yeah.” I set down my spoon and sat back in my chair. “Look, here’s the thing. I get where she’s coming from. Being with her was like …” I looked away at nothing in particular. “It was like seeing in color for the first time after a lifetime of black and white. It was too much, too big, so I broke up with her because I was scared of how I felt. And after everything with Veronica … well, there was no going back. She doesn’t want to forgive me. She tolerates me at best.”

  West wiped his hand on the towel with a disapproving look on his face. “So, what, you’re just giving up?”

  “I’m just being realistic.”

  “Rose can be worn down. Lily does it all the time.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. But the same physics don’t apply to me and Rose as they do Lily and Rose.”

  He hung the towel up and took a seat at the table again. “I’m not suggesting you go full white knight and try to get her back, but maybe you can at least to find a way to remind her why she didn’t used to merely tolerate you.”

  “If I agree, will you drop it?” I took a last bite of my breakfast and pushed away from the table.

  He smirked. “Probably not. It’s leg day today. Meet you at the gym after work?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Rose to talk about our sleeping arrangements, so I might have to skip it,” I said as I washed out my bowl and set it on the rack.

  He pointed at me. “Don’t puss out. You’ll end up with chicken legs.”

  “Who needs a trainer when I have you?”

  “Exactly. Good luck with Rose, man.”

  I chuckled. “Thanks. I’m gonna need it.”

  I walked through the apartment and into my room, feeling … displaced would be a good word, I guess. It was my home, the only place I’d ever called my own, but I felt foreign there lately. Lily had moved in all but officially, and as much as I loved the two of them, and as happy as I was for them, I felt like a voyeur most days. As if I were intruding, even though they never put that out or treated me as an inconvenience. It just all of a sudden felt like their space. And that underscored my loneliness.

  I’d been alone my whole life, but I’d never been lonely, not until I found love in my friends. Because once you have something, you can lose it. It almost makes you wonder if it’s easier to be alone.

  Solitude had always been a part of who I was, and it was a place where I found comfort. When I was a kid, I spent hours alone sketching, painting, learning mediums. Just me and my headphones. I was used to isolation, used the time alone to recharge. Find my center.

  I made my way into my room, which was more of an art studio than bedroom. A rubber mat covered almost all of the hardwood, and my easel stood close to the window with an unfinished charcoal piece waiting for me. Canvases stood stacked against every free inch of wall space, some blank, mostly not, and my bed and dresser stood against the only wall not otherwise occupied.

  I pulled open a drawer, rummaging around for jeans, then headed to the tiny closet, which was only big enough to hang a few shirts, deciding on my short-sleeved houndstooth button-down, thinking about Rose.

  But then again, I was always thinking about Rose.

  How do you move on when she’s the only thing that feels right? I’d been looking for the answer for seven long months, since we’d gone our separate ways.

  Except we didn’t go our separate ways.

  Rose was everywhere. Habits. Down the hall. Every day, always. She lived in my thoughts, in my heart, present in nearly every moment of my life. She was my ghost, haunting me, and I couldn’t escape. I didn’t know if I even wanted to.

  It was my penance.

  I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, jaw set as I combed my hair back. My face was just about the only part of my body not covered in ink, and I saw the hardness in my brow, in my eyes. As if the tattoos were my warning label. Damaged goods. Beware. Turn back now. I saw them as a reminder of all I’d been through, though I knew it was in part to keep people away. They told you what you’d get, if you dared take the chance. And most people weren’t willing to take the chance.

  Maybe West was right. Maybe Rose and I could find a way through, even though I’d conceded to exist in the state of purgatory we found ourselves in. Maybe there was a way out. Maybe this was a chance.

  A flicker of hope ran through me.

  If I got the chance, I wouldn’t waste it.

  3

  FLESH AND INK

  Patrick

  SUMMER IN NEW YORK WAS in full effect, though it was early enough that we weren’t to the unbearable humidity that made most New Yorkers flee to Long Island at the first opportunity. I smiled as I approached Tonic, the tattoo parlor where I’d worked for almost ten years. The sign over the door was black and white filigree, like an old apothecary label, and I pulled open the heavy black door, greeted by the sounds of Nirvana playing on the overhead speakers.

  I jerked a chin at Shep, standing behind the counter as I walked across the planked floors and to my booth near the front of the shop.

  Tonic was one of the top shops in Manhattan, in business since the late 90s. The talent that Joel and his younger brother Shep had acquired was noteworthy enough to have won a host of awards, and we were all booked out weeks in advance.

  I counted it as absolute luck that Joel had taken a chance on a skinny, quiet, eighteen-year-old junkie. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was looking for more, looking for something real, and I found it when I walked into Tonic. If you can imagine a father figure, a big brother, and a best friend, all rolled up into one, that was Joel. No telling where I’d have ended up, if it weren’t for him.

  I set down my bag and took a seat on my red leather stool, grabbing a pair of black rubber gloves to start setting up. I rolled over to the antique cabinet where my supplies were kept to gather ink cups, ink, and needles, using the sketch I’d done — a cobalt photo-realistic butterfly framed by a set of complex geometric lines — as a guide for sizes. I glanced in the speckled old mirror next to my cabinet to see Shep air drumming “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and I shook my head, smiling.

  Our booths lined one side of the shop, each separated by low walls, keeping the shop open. The walls were either black or covered in velvet damask wallpaper all the way up to the brick and exposed piping, and each booth was decorated per the personality of the artist who filled the space, though all with a macabre, Victorian feel. Mine featured an oil painting of a skull I’d done, taxidermy crows, the speckled rococo mirror, and a series of smaller acrylic paintings I’d done of Victorian girls in corsets, all in elaborate, oval frames.

  Joel walked up from the back and leaned on my wall, smiling. He was thirty-eight, though if I didn’t know better, I’d peg him much closer to my age, a
decade younger than he was. His beard was thick and dark, hair long on the top, shaved on the sides, and he was covered neck to heel in tattoos, with bright eyes and a comforting smile.

  He smirked at me, which was the expression he wore most of the time. “How’s it going, Tricky?”

  I smiled. “Can’t complain.” I fed my machine’s cord through a plastic cord bag and hooked the end on my tray. “How about you? Did you go to that show last night?”

  “Paper Fools, yeah.” He threaded his fingers together, jumbling the letters tattooed there to say TSHHAIT rather than THIS and THAT like they usually did. “Dean always sends me passes when they’re in town. Perks of being his tattoo artist.”

  “Perks are never bad.” I picked up my grip and inspected my needles.

  “Well, not these kinds, anyway. Yeah, the show was great. Shep and Ramona came too, and Ramona brought some chick to set me up with. Tara, I think. No … Tina.” He still didn’t look sure of himself.

  “You bang her?”

  Joel snorted. “Of course I did. I’m alive, aren’t I?” He eyed me, still smirking. “So, what are you doing Thursday night?”

  I gave him a flat look. “I don’t have any plans.”

  “Great. We’ll go to Habits for your birthday, ‘cause you know I didn’t forget.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” I said as I bent the needle I’d use for the line work and fed it through the grip.

  “Perfect. Glad you agree that it’s a good plan. See? Now, that didn’t hurt, did it?”

  “Only my soul, Joel. Only my soul.”

  He laughed, and it was a big, comforting sound, full of amusement at my discomfort. “Invite West and everybody, and make sure Rose is off so she can hang out with you.” He waggled his brows.

  I grabbed a couple of rubber bands and wrapped them around my machine before covering it in plastic. “You’re just as bad as West and Lily, you know that? Bunch of shitty matchmakers you are.”

  “You still sneaking in to sleep over there?”

  I sighed as I set down my machine and started filling the plastic ink cups. “Yeah, but the jig is up. She busted me this morning.”

  He sucked in a breath through his teeth dramatically. “She put you out?”

  “Not yet. She wanted the day to think about it, so we’ll see tonight. I mean, it’s not like I don’t have somewhere to go. Like my own place.”

  “You can always crash with me, if you need a place to stay,” he said, suddenly a little more serious.

  “I know. Thanks, man. But you’ve done enough for me over the years.”

  “Psh, letting you surf my couch for a couple of years isn’t exactly worth sainthood.”

  I met his eyes. “No, but saving me from myself is.”

  He shrugged, looking away. “You would have done the same. Anyway, here’s to hoping Rosie sees the light and lets you stay. God know the two of you just need to lock yourselves in a room until you make up.” His brows raised. “Hey, new birthday plans.”

  I laughed.

  The bell over the door rang, and Penny, Ramona, and Veronica walked in, laughing. Another thing our parlor was known for — the three hot chicks who pierced and tattooed there. All three of them had been featured in tattoo magazines and calendars. They were roommates and best friends — Penny, whose hair was shamrock green this month, Ramona, tall and blond, and Veronica, the raven of the three.

  “Morning, ladies,” Shep called from behind the register.

  “Hey, Shep,” they answered in unison, then broke out laughing.

  The girls dispersed, Penny making her way back to her piercing booth as Ramona strutted over to Shep.

  He leaned down and tapped his cheek. “Knock me one right here, gorgeous.”

  She smiled wide and obliged. When she turned, she hung a hand on her hip. “Hey, Joel, are you gonna call Tricia after last night?”

  His face lit up like a light bulb, and he snapped his fingers. “Tricia. That was it. And no, probably not.”

  She rolled her eyes. “This is why we can’t have nice things, Joel.”

  He shrugged.

  Veronica walked past us and into the booth behind mine, and Joel and I watched her like a couple of cats. She was gorgeous — pitch black hair pulled back in a twist that looked straight out of an old movie, green eyes always lined and winged. Her pretty little nose was pierced with thin gold rings, twice in one nostril and her septum, with another in the center of her bottom lip, right at the swell. She had sleeved arms and smaller tattoos behind her ear, along her collarbone, down her thighs, visible through her ripped up tights she wore under her shorts.

  Like I said. Gorgeous. Somehow hard and soft, her body modded to make her look like walking art. Too bad I wasn’t even remotely interested in her. Even worse — I’d dragged her into the mess with Rose, knowing full well that I wasn’t really into her.

  Don’t look at me that way. I really thought I knew what I was doing.

  She smiled at us as she set her bag down. “What’s up, Tricky? Joel? You two are looking good.”

  Joel nodded at her. “Not looking so bad yourself, Ronnie.” He pushed off from the counter and stepped into the middle of the room. “Listen up, everybody,” he announced.

  Drew, Max, and Eli, the other artists, walked out from the back, and everyone turned their attention to Joel.

  “So, Tricky’s birthday is in a couple of days, and he told me the one thing he really wants is a party. One where everyone is there just for little old him. Preferably one where we all sing him Happy Birthday in public.”

  Everyone whooped and laughed, and I shook my head, smiling.

  “Let’s all go to Habits to celebrate. If you all embarrass him properly, I’ll buy lunch for the shop the next day. Deal?”

  Everyone chimed, “Deal.”

  He smiled at me like a bastard and walked to his station, which was right in front of mine, just inside the window so people could see him work from the street. Everyone dispersed again as a couple of clients walked in, making their way to Shep at the counter.

  Veronica was busy covering her tray in plastic wrap, but she glanced over at me as she worked. “So, Habits, huh?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Didn’t have much say?”

  “Do I ever?” We shared a look, and she chuckled.

  “Classic Joel.” She eyed me a little warily. “So, I’m guessing Rose will be there?”

  I nodded and rolled back to my desk, hanging my elbows on the surface. “Probably.”

  “Because I haven’t seen her since …”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, hoping it was the truth. “She’s cool.”

  She chuffed. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and she raised one right back.

  “What?” She reached for the paper towels and began to tear and fold pieces, stacking them in the corner of her tray. “I guess I can’t I blame her for being frosty to me when we met. You should have told me what was going on before you took me there that night.”

  Regret. There it was again, rising to the surface unbidden, with no warning. “Yeah, well, there are a lot of things I should have done.”

  Her face softened. “They say that’s how we learn. But what the fuck do ‘they’ know, anyway?”

  I chuckled.

  “So, what do you want for your birthday?” She slipped her machine cord through a plastic tube and hung it on the edge of her tray.

  I crossed my ankles with a sigh. “I guess ‘to be left alone’ is out.”

  “If Joel has anything to do with it, yeah.”

  I thought it over, and a simple answer dawned on me. “How about your favorite book?”

  She smiled as she gathered supplies and lined them up on her tray. “You’re a big reader? Who knew?”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t live with a Lit student for four years and not learn to love it.”

  She tsked and shook her head. “Tricky Evans, full of surprises.”


  The bell over the door rang, and I turned to find my first client walking in. I applied the stencil and laid her down in my chair, pressed my hands against her skin, machine in my hand as I drew and shaded the lines and dots, slow and steady. Needles and blood, raw flesh and ink, all to the steady buzz of the machine in my hand, making my mark in a way that would last as long as the body under my hand.

  4

  SAUSAGE STACK

  Rose

  TO SAY MY DAY WAS long would have been an understatement.

  I sat for hours in very uncomfortable clothes in a very stiff chair, which stood packed into a very quiet, very full room. My only armor against boredom was my book, except I couldn’t concentrate on the freaking book on account of Patrick.

  I tried not to think about his naked chest, or the swell of his lips as he asked me to stay, or his eyes that burned a hole in my resolve, just like they always did. But I was Rosie: Extinguisher of Flames. Particularly Patrick flames. I’d become a pro over the months. Ice Queen, extraordinare. Cool as fuck. What happened between us was water under the bridge. In the past. He asked me to stay, and I’d think about it logically.

  I could be logical and reasonable and leave all my feelings out of it. Probably.

  Then I remembered that his naked chest had been sleeping twenty feet away from me for a month, right there, right across the hall, which sent me from logical to totally-not-logical-ever-because-fuck-him.

  Of course, he wasn’t the only one to blame for the sneaky fuckery going on. Lily gave him permission without talking to me. She let my ex sleep in my apartment without my knowledge, which was creepy and shitty and not okay. I couldn’t figure out what would have convinced her to sanction that. I’d get to the bottom of it, but first, I’d make her sweat. I hadn’t messaged her, and I knew she knew I knew, and I also knew she knew I was pissed.

  Sometimes the best way to say what you feel is silence.

  I put my book away and replaced it with my notebook and pen. First I doodled a variety of images to depict my mood: a hand flipping the bird, a gun shooting a flag that said No, cartoon flames, and a brontosaurus with its head in a tub of popcorn. I glanced at the clock. It had been fifteen minutes.