Two Bad Groomsmen_An MFM Menage Romance

by Sierra Sparks

  Why would you even…

  I was just worried Eric.

  Come on Waryn. Let’s have a treat, yeah?

  We slept and had a good laugh. It was eccentric and awkward, the entire time being new and afresh to me. For two months ever since his diagnosis he had never laughed, neither had he cried. His face was devoid of any emotion to say the least.

  But that night, as I kissed him goodnight and rubbed his thick black hair, I believed he was turning around. Close to midnight, I woke up to the sound of gurgling and splashing of water. I kicked my bedding and door away in tandem, and ran to his room. The entire time I hoped it was a stray cat.

  It wasn’t.

  His limp body floated lightly in the dripping wetness that overflowed the glowing bathtub.

  The last thing I have in my possession that could make any sense of this all is a piece of paper, a letter to his final opponent; Tatum Driggs. The one instruction that I had received was to not open the piece of writing under any circumstance.

  Now, as I walk past the glass doors into his tattoo parlor, Sinful Scars, I have no idea what’s to follow or return. I expect to hate him, but this one last dying wish is all I can do for my Eric Blair, the family that I will never get to laugh and cry with again.

  Chapter 1 - Tatum

  The sun is quite an old friend after a long hour in the shadow, and yet a fiend to us all when the speck is too bright. Its spiking rays cleave through the cracks of my reception window and lean on the clean table filed with calling cards and medical advisory pamphlets. It is a beautiful morning I must say, and quite a musical one. My leather jacket feels tight already around my arms, and I heave it off and place it by the back of the brown desk. It’s opening time, and today is my shift.

  The braided labyrinth between the branches in my beard feels like a good scratch. I absolve the itch. I wonder how many clients we can get today. Since the onset of spring clients have been getting in hoping to get ripped enough and inked enough for that summer bod. I glee and scoff while brushing away at the memory of my youth that filled me with so much ego and hype. It was a good time back then when I could mention my name outside the walls of this shop.

  Now, it only pays to be anonymous to everyone. Everyone except my three buddies of course, and the fucking asshole that breath’s as Bull. Speaking of whom, they should be here in a while. Not Bull; I hate that guy. He has a simple history with my buddies and this town…

  Ron Turnbull, also known as Bull by all who look at him with contempt in their heart, is the town jerk. He feels he owns everyone, and everyone owes him. He’s the kinda uncle no one would ever want to sit next to at a funeral, in case he headed off and pissed on the casket. He owns the competition, but never minding him, Nix and Damon have this place now. No threats from that fat, old, lip—drooling, bald-bearing, vest-wearing pushover could take our guys back. History, luckily, stays where it belongs.

  The lights flicker easily and swathe the entire ‘OR’, as Nix likes to call it, a shaded blue. It makes it easier to work in the color for us. Maybe it gives us the feeling of being in an icy a place as heaven. We’ll never land on an answer on that one anyway.

  “Damn. Holland really cleaned up in here last night. I wonder how much spill got into the…” I mutter out loud as I re–check the beds that are stacked neatly by the message board. Fucking hell; he’s got some real OCD. I don’t even have to clean shit.

  Ding

  Ah, my first customer for the day. I wish Holly was in to fill in the vacant gap of receptionist, but her angst took her away and to the competition. I’ll have to do, I suppose.

  In my boots I stop when I turn the corner.

  She is nothing like what I would expect walking through my doors. An angel in smooth delight turns and smiles at me. The blue top she has on melds comfortably by the scruff of her jeans. She is not too tall, and not a short one either. Her nose is tiny and slightly red, but her skin looks like a canvas. The shoulder is bare, and her legs cling to the jeans she has on like a straw to a drowning man. Her aura, a ‘thing’ my mom taught me to look for in any passing soul, feels like a swift breeze at the top of the loftiest building, and it’s New Year’s Eve with fireworks ablaze. If life was a cartoon, she would have an effervescence of smoke billowing all along her curves and body, shimmering in the green–

  “Hey, you realize you’re staring right?” she starts non–offensively.

  “Umm, yeah… sorry. First customer morning jitters or what–not. How may I be of service to you?” I gently come back. My hands are wringing each other. It is an uncomfortable settling for me, with the tangent feeling that I have met with her before.

  “Would you like to sit down and browse through our selection of art?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  I usher her to the reception, where she gracefully pats her ass on the leather and flicks through the tattooed books. In a few seconds I realize how awkward it must be for me to stand there watching her every move; more like a bartender staring at his patrons with his hands not polishing a few glasses.

  “When you’ve decided on a design call out, okay? I’ll be in the back setting up.”

  “Okay.”

  My feet rush through the wooden panels on the floor, and I timidly hope she does not sense the tentative manner of my actions. She is a beautiful, truly intoxicating young woman with an air of curiosity and a just glance in the world of pain. I flip the closest bed to the end of the OR and wipe it clean. The surgical mask and extra pair of gloves are all on the ready. Just as I fix the chair and fill the ink up, she calls out.

  “Have you decided?” I pass through, pooping my head through the door. She is calm in the eyes but her body language speaks for itself. In a way, her legs are squeezed together; an elementary position for someone who’s about to endure a whole world of pain.

  She lifts the book up and, shaking a finger at the top of it, “This one. On my left shoulder.”

  “Ah, the swan. Great choice. Why don’t you follow me and we can get started?”

  The atmosphere is different. In this tiny and confined space, I can smell the tangled beauty that floats off her skin. It has to be chamomile and sage…or jasmine and a hint of cocoa…I can’t decide which is which. She is on the chair, snug and warm, her cleavage slightly bumping up from her chest. A hint of sweat lines the top curve of her bra. I imagine my ink going all over her sweet and soft-skinned body…I swallow hard and take my seat across her.

  “If it hurts too much, let me know okay?” I promise as I fit the gloves on. The snap of the rubber reminds me to be professional. I’ve done this before on many occasions and on worse places.

  “I know…thanks.”

  We begin. From the first prick her other arm is clenched tight in a ball and her eyes shut. I know how painful it can be. The tiger on my back and the doe on my chest didn’t come by easy. But this is her first time, and in my experience, I think she must be taking it well. This whole shindig, the power of the needle, my needle, on her skin…it’s mind–numbingly erotic. If only I could hold her skin beyond this moment of internal pain…

  “Excellent choice on the bird,” I start. Talking makes the clients ease into the session, and with the way her eyes are watering, we might both need this. “What made you choose it? If you don’t mind me asking of course…”

  “You know…ungh…the swan, it kinda stood out to me when…ungh… I was going through those books back there,” she cringes through. I pause for a while and look into her hazel eyes. She definitely has a hint of cocoa on her.

  “Really…how so?” I press the dry cotton pad on her skin after the needle. “We can stop if it’s too much.”

  “No,” she starts, pressing her pink lips together. “Keep going. I need to do this.” She clearly has some tough resilience hidden in that blonde bookish façade. Good…I like my women gritty. “Do you have any other tattoos, if I may ask?”

  “No…this is my first.” I was right to presume. My fingers keep working on he
r shoulder. The beak is smoothing out really nicely.

  “My brother…mmh…he used to fear the crap out of them before…when we used to play in the park as kids. When they ran after him from the lily ponds in those crisp afternoons, he would…ungh…run like a fast booger out a kid’s nose.”

  “Ha–ha …that’s a funny one,” she’s the first to make me laugh today. That’s always Nix’s job. Guess he beat her to it. “So how’s your brother these days. Friends with the swans I hope.”

  The lines on her face slightly shift, and she smiles. “I hope he is too. He passed away recently.”

  That clinches my butt a tad tighter. It makes me glad I didn’t make any random jokes about him either. “I’m sorry about that. Truly…losing a sibling must be really tough.”

  “Thank you.” For a first, her lips break into a simmering crease. “It’s actually okay. After our mom kept on taking us there and fed them, he came to really love them. The swans just remind me of him…so this is kind of a commemoration. Ungh!”

  “Sorry…” I think that tale took me away from my concentration for a bit. Not that my shaft didn’t deserve a medal for keeping a low profile the entire time, but the level of commitment she has for a simple memory…that’s something special. “We’re actually done! Take a look.”

  She grabs the mirror lightly and moves forward. Just as I expected, she loved the extra effects; a few clouds and a smirk at the edge of the swan’s beak. I work fast and really, really well.

  “I love it. So much. So…for the pain…”

  I help her off the chair and take off my gloves after bandaging the wound. She makes me feel like a flag pole standing by her petite and apple pie frame like this. Her eyes are alight with excitement and a certain spark of curiosity that tingle the nerve ends by the edge of my toes. It’s been a while since I had a girl who packs both heat and brains come in here for a simple art job. Her skin smells so good, and feels so soft to the lightest of touches.

  “You’ll need to let it settle for a week, okay? No oil or jelly on it after your baths…it’s still a wound that’ll need to heal with time. Wash it with warm water and let it breath after you take the bandage off five days later. This time next week you’ll be golden and spotting a bird on your skin.”

  She laughs and flicks her hair away…sexy to death.

  Her hand flies to the black clutch she had by her side from the moment she walked in, and gets out two envelopes – sealed, and hands them over to me. She says one more thank you and walks away from the bed carefully. Her wiggling ass gives me a certain sense of her age, and we’re not too far apart. The door dings open and she leaves. My fingers fly through the white pieces of paper. One of them is filled with a bit of cash. Very normal to be tipped for a good job…but the other envelope is tightly thin and has my name on it. It’s quizzical; we never exchanged pleasantries.

  She’s a fucking psycho…I think to myself while switching on the AC. It must have been an hour since that encounter, and most chicks stalk me and my whereabouts thinking of having a good time. The tattoos and the beard work the wrong kind of magic sometimes. And all the time, it lands on the worst kind of bitches who only see me and think dick.

  Fucking tiresome, I sigh. It’s one of those I have to throw away. But then…she was so collected and had a spark that I need to explore. Maybe…maybe crazy this time is relative.

  I get the seat warm again and my pocketknife out. It rips easily and I pull the thin paper out.

  The knife drops and clatters mildly on the paneling. My lips run tight, and my throat flows dry. From beyond the shadow of the veil, I realize who I’ve been talking to in the past hour.

  I run fast and steady. A few metal pieces of work fall to the floor, and I don’t care. The past can be a foolish thing, a tragic comedy to the uninitiated. In all my three decades of a life wrongly lived, I know this is my only chance…the one chance to try and make something good.

  The door latches strongly to the frame, not letting me through. I bang it open by my shoulder and run towards her, my blonde girl. Her back is solidly leaning at the side of a sweet Chevy, 1978, old and grey, clearly a rental. The sun glees from her skin and her eyes march up to mine. I walk to her; slowly taking my pace down a notch, step after step, till we are but one foot from each other.

  “I…I know who you are.”

  She smiles and cocks her head up. “You took the words right out of my mouth…Tatum.”

  Chapter 2 - Waryn

  The sting in my shoulder from the bulging wound is rough and incomparable. Yet, as he bangs his way through the doors and runs towards me, all the harbored hate and indifference I feigned to feel from before washes away and filter through. This meaty pound of a square-jawed man, with his eyes clear as toothpaste and soft as jelly, with his lumberjack beard headed low and brown, his baggy black jeans, his tightly wrapped boots round his ankle, the shady t-shirt he has on milling with drawings of ties and cartoon characters sniffing at a pot, and overcast tattoos from all corners of his body greasing the aptitude that is his musky aura, is Tatum Driggs, the last man my brother fought.

  He is so much sexier than I thought and saw him last all bloodied…like a piece of lickerish you’d just want to lick up and bite some more after dipping it in honey…

  The face he gives me in this afternoon heat is one of confusion and a mixed reaction under his skin. By now I know he’s read my late brother’s letter and deemed it fit to run to me like a calloused cat’s kittens. At least one of us knows what Eric had written before dumping himself into the tub and…

  Not now…Right now this man seems like he could use a talk. I know I do.

  “You’re Eric Blair’s sister…”

  “Yes. I am. And you are Tatum Driggs.”

  A sparrow flies between us, easing the icy stares we exchange in this midsummer’s flair.

  “Would you join me for a drink?” he asks. I share with him my sentiments through my quipped eyebrow. “I know it’s still early in the day. But I think we should talk. You did come all this way, right?” His right arm is behind his back, and his left palm by the cross of his heart. I can tell he feels the need, bursting like raw energy from a newborn star, to get whatever he’s read off his chest. In a way, I want to know too…but I am in doubt of whether this day will end in the sharing of a dead man’s tales.

  “If I agree, will you tell me what my brother wanted to tell you but couldn’t tell me?” I ask, defiantly leaning back on the hood. It’s getting hotter than my back can bear, and the moist feeling of sweat is undeniable at this point.

  “No. I can’t.” His tone is final. His face droops.

  “Okay.” It would be nice to have a few words with this toasty chunk of meatloaf this early in my day…and I am getting a tad thirsty. “Lead me to your well.”

  There were expectations before, but now I might just have to learn my lesson. The green lighting that evades the wooden carving on the wall flickers in an ebbing fashion. It is wide and silver in space, this bar, and the waft of cigarettes and cheap alcohol leave the ambience even more to imagination. It makes this feel more like a strip club than a bar. Not that I’m one to judge, but it’s early in the afternoon to be here.

  There are a few patrons resting quietly on their separate stools, and a few gruff men shooting some pool, and losing massively to the lady in tight leather pants and fierce black hair.

  We sit by a black booth in the corner, which is surprisingly empty and clean. I slide in just as Tatum waves at leather–lady with two fingers in the air just like the peace sign. She must be the bartender.

  As we wait, the men at the bar pick up a fight over the meager winnings. Tatum smiles and turns away. For a man his size, I may have judged too harshly on his thirst for blood. To be honest, ever since I received Eric’s suicide letter, all I wanted to do was harbor hate and plan on doing something to him to feel good, or at least feel that cosmic weight lifted off of my shoulders. But Eric knew. He specifically left me instructions on what to
do with my emotions, his money, and my life.

  “So…” he trails off, his fingers twirling round the center bowl. If it had peanuts this would be a very uncomfortable setting.

  “So…any idea what we’re going to have?”

  “Well, it’s not that I’m trying to get you drunk or anything. I just know this place better than any other – Ah, here they are.”

  The leather–lady gets closer to us and beams at Tatum, with two tall glasses of what I can only assume to be mimosas balanced on a tray in the palm of her hands. He must be a regular or a dumb fuck not to realize the simple flirts she’s throwing at him. I can see the scar on her cheek in the light as she yells at the rough patrons, and the simplicity of her middle–aged smile that resumes when she is a step away from our booth. She’s quite pretty, even with that slight scar, which I can probably assume happened on one of those nights in this hovel. Not that I’m judging, but being an almost six-foot tall woman with curves of steel and a leather-clamped ass is going to get anyone that fits that bull in trouble.

  “Thank you B. I bet the boys are having a go waiting for your ass to slide right in and stop it.” Tatum is smiling back. I was wrong. He does know she’s flirting with him.

  “Naw darlin’…these boys just need some eye candy from a fresh newbie like ya lady friend here,” she accentuated with a really cool southern drawl, all the while drawing nearer to my face and…I could swear I saw a wink a second back. “Doncha worry love, we gals gat to stick together, right? I gat you.”

  Thank you…?

  “Ha – ha…keep it simple B. We’re just here for your mimosas.” Tatum slightly warns. Just like with Eric, the warmth in the air around me always heightened when the testosterone got a little extra.

  “I’ll see ya after ya shift Tatum. Drinks on Holland this time.” She walks away, swinging quite the tight piece of ass our way, his way. “Say hi to the boys for me.”

  “I will B.”

  It is quiet once more, save for the heavy breathing and light sipping of the non–alcoholic drinks. I see him in a different light now.