Bad Ink

by Megan Hetherington

  He drums his fingers on the desk. “Okay, text me when you get to the first bar and I may join you.”

  “You got a better offer?” I stand and move back to my desk to finish closing the files I’ve been using today and disgruntled he didn’t share his text with me. He’s gotten secretive of late, and it makes me wonder whether he’s snagged a mysterious boyfriend.

  “I’m going to the gym.”

  I roll my eyes. “For Christ’s sake it’s Friday night. Nobody goes to the gym on a Friday night.”

  He touches the silver cross at his neck and looks to the ceiling. He hates it when I blaspheme, which, for some twisted reason, makes me do it more.

  “Sorry,” I apologize for the slip. “But come on, you seriously need to pull. I’ve not heard you talk about anyone in ages.”

  He sinks his chin into his neck. “How do you know what goes on in my private life?”

  My jaw slackens. “Elliot, you don’t shut up about your private life.”

  Although, when I think about it, it’s not what has happened that he frequently talks about, but more what he would like to happen. Which usually involves a copious amount of tattooed muscles and beards.

  “Is that it?” I wag a fingernail in desperate need of a new polish at him. “You’re trying to pull someone at the gym.”

  “No,” he fires out.

  “Yeah, right?” I plonk the last of my files on his desk and scoop up my briefcase. “I’m off. See you later, loser,” I joke.

  He kisses his teeth at me.

  I clip clop down the stairs and through to the parking lot, pulling my vibrating phone from my pants pocket and crossing my fingers it’s not Tessa pulling me back.

  A wicked smile pulls at my lips.

  “Hey Nate. How was Seattle?”

  “I can’t tell you, and if I did, I’d have to arrange for you to disappear.”

  I snort. “Give it up. Like anyone’s interested?”

  He laughs. “Anyway, what you up to tonight, sexy?”

  My hips wiggle a little more.

  “Out for a few drinks, and you?”

  “Got corporate tickets for an event in town, wondered if you wanted to come along? There’s a few of us going.”

  “Okay sounds interesting, but I’ve organized drinks with the girls tonight. I can’t duck out. Any chance we can hook up later, like usual?”

  “Yeah, sure. What if I text you the details and leave your ticket at the door? Let me know if you’re gonna make it, so I can look out for you. If not, I’ll let you know when I’m back at my place. Although it’ll likely be the early hours.”

  I’m practically skipping the last couple of yards. I put myself through heaps, sacrificing my youth to ensure Hope had everything she needs and now she’s passed the needy stage and I’m used to the way things are, I can afford to let my hair down. Now and then, at least. Earlier this year, Mom offered to have Hope every Friday night. That way it’s part of a routine which is good for everyone.

  I hop into my passed-it’s-best, Ford Focus, connect my phone to the not very user-friendly hands-free system I’ve set up in it and instruct a call to Mom.

  She picks up straight away. “Hi honey. Everything okay?”

  “Yes, just checking the pickup from school went okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fixing dinner and then we’re going to watch TV. Do you want us to hang on to Hope until Sunday? We’re planning to visit your Aunt Maude tomorrow and we can take her with us?”

  I swallow a lump materialized in my throat.

  “Yes, that would be fantastic. Thank you.”

  “You’ve been looking tired lately, and we thought you could do with a break.”

  Tears mist my eyes and I ease off the accelerator to compensate for my inability to see.

  “Thanks Mom.” It’s all I can say without my voice cracking.

  I’m strong, but the slightest hint of kindness and I can’t cope. Especially since I saw Isaac. It’s brought back too many memories of the struggle I’ve put myself through and the stupid wish I had for it to be perfect one day. The three of us together as a real family unit. And that’s not going to happen.

  It would have been better if he had never come back, stayed away forever and my dreams not be crushed. And as ever, the crust I’ve developed around my exterior is impenetrable to sticks and stones but kind words, now that’s my kryptonite.

  “I’ll put her on.” I hear Mom shuffling off through to another room, the chirpy tones of a cartoon blaring from a TV.

  I blow out a breath, in readiness for a conversation with Hope. She may only be six, but she’s a shrewd girl. And having spent so much time with mainly me over the years she knows every nuance in my character.

  “Hello Sweet Pea. How was school?”

  “Awful.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s the weekend and you’ll spend extra time having fun with Grandma and Grandpa.” I’m not being mean or dismissive. Awful is Hope’s new word, and she uses it for pretty much everything she’s not interested in. “Have you had dinner yet?”

  She sighs. “Yes. A vegetable teddy bear.”

  I laugh. My mom arranges vegetables as faces or animals, hoping she’ll eat them.

  “Yes. Anyway, gotta split, Cate.” Ugh. It’s another thing she’s started with—calling me Cate instead of Mom. It’s a common thing apparently when kids enter elementary school. Well, it’s what her school teacher reassures me.

  “Okay. Love you, Sweet Pea.”

  The phone crackles as it’s dropped or hurriedly handed over.

  With a hand muffling the receiver, I catch Mom clearing her throat. “Sorry about that, Cate. She was watching TV and you know how she gets when she’s engrossed in something.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Have a great night.”

  “I will, and you too.”

  Music blurts from the car speakers as soon as the call disconnects and I push my foot harder on the accelerator.

  It seems the girls are as excited as me about our outing tonight. As each leaves work, there’s a flurry of messages in our group chats and I can’t help but have a nosey as I stop at the intersection near home.

  My house looks as if a bomb has hit it, with toys and shoes cluttering the hallway. Last night’s dinner plates languishing in the living room. All that can wait. In fact, I’m happy to leave it exactly where it is and focus on getting dolled up.

  I dump my briefcase on the sofa and walk through to the kitchen, relieved to see there are still two beers in the fridge. I grab one and swig almost half in one go before heading up the stairs to my attic bedroom.

  I fire off a few texts to the girls before connecting the phone to the Beats speaker and picking tunes to get ready to.

  Although I’m not sure what the event is Nate has invited me to, he said it’s a corporate do, so I’m using Tessa’s age-old advice of not under-dressing. An adage she lives by to get what she wants—her nine-inch heels and expensive suits grab the eyes and dicks of every guy in a courtroom, long before she opens her well-educated mouth.

  My choice tonight is a cherry-red dress, with a deep plunging neck leading to a subtle ruche of material down to the knee. Black Jimmy Choo peep-toe heels and a matching purse which I know is somewhere around. Finishing the fuck-me look with lipstick which is a perfect match to the dress. Red is a color my complexion and hair coloring fit with well. Anything paler looks insipid.

  The rap on the front door is overly loud, as if the visitor is annoyed they’ve been knocking for too long. I finish the last curl with my tongs even though it will likely fall out over the evening, as I haven’t any hairspray. Turn off the music, and rush to the window to holler to Jaz.

  “About time. I’m freezing my tits off here. C’mon.”

  “One sec.” I pull the window to and frantically look around for my purse. I yank every drawer open and ransack the shelves but it’s not until I retrieve my jacket from the back of the door I see it hung th
ere. I ram my lipstick, wallet and phone into it and run down the stairs clutching my shoes.

  “Come on Cate. I’m gagging for a drink here,” Jaz shouts out of the top of the partially open front window of the cab.

  I lock the door behind me, pop the keys into my purse and hop along the path trying to put my shoes on at the same time.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you was waiting. You’re early, aren’t you?”

  “Nope.” Jaz taps the driver on the shoulder. “Almo’s please.”

  I settle on the seat, fumbling at the side of Jaz for the seatbelt. She shrugs her shoulders at me and I give up; resting my hand onto the front seat instead.

  “Hope okay?”

  “Yes, she’s at Mom’s… until Sunday.” I beam.

  “Aw, that’s awesome. So lovely of her.”

  “I know. I’ll treat her and Pops to something nice.”

  Jaz accidentally stabs my foot with her ridiculously spiked heels and then elbows me countless times applying, removing and then reapplying her false eyelashes.

  “They’ll fall off into someone’s drink if you don’t stop messing with them.” I hand the eyelashes back. “Either that or you’ll glue your eyelids together.” I giggle.

  “So, who else is out tonight?”

  I reel off names of the girls I’ve invited.

  She takes a small bottle of vodka from her purse. “Here.” I take a cautious sip and wipe the lipstick from the neck before passing it back. She glugs a good few mouthfuls.

  “Jeez. Is your mouth made of asbestos?”

  “No, just plenty of practice.”

  We fall out of the taxi at Almo’s and compose ourselves before swaggering in.

  “Ooh la la.” Jaz sucks her stomach in as we parade passed a line of hot looking men stood near the door.

  Our group are loitering near to the bar and there’s a cheer when they spot us.

  One girl comes across, doles out friendly embraces and steers us away from the bar and into their enclave to share in the bottles of Prosecco they have already acquired. Introductions, or in most cases, re-introductions are made and before I realize I’m feeling light-headed. A glance at my phone, and I realize we’ve only been here an hour and I need to slow the drinking down if I’m to see the night out. There’s no reason to waste a good evening with friends by going home early to an empty house because I’m too drunk. I also see a text from Elliot.

  “Shit!”

  “What’s up?” Jaz looks over at my phone screen.

  “Oh, nothing major, I forgot to tell Elliot where we are and now he’s gone into a hissy.”

  “Oops.”

  I fire off a quick apologetic text, interrupted by the strong smell of aftershave.

  I look up to see the line of hunks are obviously feeling brave as they’ve joined us, each picking off whichever prey they prefer. Mine happens to be exactly the opposite of my type. Which suits me. I purposely steer clear of dating and men in general. I’ve got my thing with Nate and it suits me fine. No strings. At all.

  Nate is one of the most career-minded people I have ever met and we hit it off at Law School. He has a life plan, and it doesn’t include any kind of commitment until he’s where he wants to be in his career. And me? I’ve got Hope and there’s no man who will come between me and her.

  Nate and I never talk about each other’s personal lives. It’s our way of staying distant and not caring too much about each other. It allows us to hook up, have sex, and go home with our emotions intact.

  I stay at his pad, because it’s not a home, more of a resting place. I don’t think I’ve even seen any personal photos, or books, or anything which looks as if it wasn’t provided for by the landlord. It’s not at all personalized. He knows I have a daughter, and that’s it. He doesn’t even know, or care, where I live.

  So, when this guy stood before me, opens with a line. I smile politely without the slightest hint of a come on and answer in as benign fashion as I can. Fortunately, he’s not one of those assholes who turns aggressive when his pants aren’t unzipped right there and we have a decent, but in no way leading, conversation.

  I’m still holding my phone when a text comes through from Nate, giving me the address for this event he’s at. It’s my perfect excuse.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting my boyfriend. It’s been nice chatting with you.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” he charms.

  I smile sweetly. Even in a different life, this conversation isn’t going anywhere.

  Quickly, I catch hold of Jaz and tell her where I’m going. She’s used to me sloping off early. It’s what I do. Cramming the only downtime into one night has its compromises, and this is one of them.

  She bustles her way through the door, to make a note of which taxi I take and also so she can have a sly cigarette at the door.

  I roll my eyes at her.

  “How else do you think I stay thin?” she quips, lighting it and letting the first exhale of white smoke curl up her nose.

  There’s a queue of taxis outside Almo’s and I climb in the first in line, throwing a last wave to Jaz and reading out the name of the venue from Nate’s text to the driver.

  I watch her sucking on the cigarette as the driver waits to pull out into the traffic, contemplating if I should talk to her about Isaac. Subconsciously, it’s why I went to her salon on Monday. It’s only I don’t want to dump it on her when I can’t make sense of any it myself.

  She has a dim view of Isaac, born from his misdemeanor and subsequent lack of contact. She is one of a handful of people who knows he is Hope’s father—my parents, my aunt, Elliot and Jaz. And of those, only Elliot knows Isaac is back. Everyone else is told Hope’s father lives overseas and doesn’t want to know. No lie there. Well, until now. Now he’s back on US soil. Living in the same city.

  I allow my head to relax back on the head rest and my eyes momentarily close. The alcohol has made me tired and I hope Nate doesn’t want to stay at whatever this event is, until the early hours. The thought reminds me I don’t even know what it is I’m going to, so I angle forward to the cab driver.

  “Do you know what’s going on at this place you’re taking me to tonight?”

  “Yeah. MMA.”

  “What?” I’ve no idea what he has said.

  “Cage fighting.”

  “What with men or animals?” I’m still not sure what it is.

  He laughs and shakes his head at me in the rearview mirror. “A mixture of the two, ma’am.”

  Sounds fantastic. Not.

  I gain entrance, as Nate said I would, after collecting the ticket at the admissions office.

  An usher shows me into the venue and I’m instantly assaulted by raucous noise of men baying for blood. I pan the room wide-eyed as she leaves me to be sucked into the atmosphere.

  Men standing on seats, throw their fists in the air toward the ring. Screaming at the fighters with such ferocity the tendons in their necks look as if they may snap.

  Nobody notices me stood here, a flower amongst an army of thorns.

  The audience shouts and thumps and stamps; the vibrations booming through me.

  It’s barbaric. And primal. Hot, and stinks of testosterone-laden sweat.

  But it’s also energizing. And the throb from my toes to my chest excites me.

  After a few seconds acclimatizing to the alien scene, my eyes come to rest on the spectacle everyone’s focused on. Two men in a high-sided cage; dressed only in tight shorts, with mid-calf boots, and gloves, circling each other as if about to pounce.

  Both have tattoos, although the larger one is covered in them. A vivid explosion of black marked with color.

  I edge further down the gantry, not spotting Nate in amongst the audience.

  A quick glance to my ticket, skimming over the ridiculous name of the fighters—Raul the Wolf and Bo ‘Ripper’ Johansson, I home in on the seat location. Row C, seat 47.

  I scout around for seating numbers and count from ro
w L at my side down to row C. Halfway along the row I spot Nate and his colleagues. Like everyone else, he’s stood, arms aloft and angling forward, spitting out macho taunts. I make my way toward them, stepping on toes and dipping under sweaty armpits, until I reach Nate’s side.

  There’s a huge roar and I’m instantly frightened, my attention refocuses on the animals in the cage.

  It looks as if the fight is over. The smaller guy laid out on the ring floor.

  I clap a hand to my mouth.

  My heart leaps into my throat as I tunnel into the vision.

  And recognize the shaven head with tattoos which snake down a thick neck and across broad shoulders, scooping to a lean waist.

  Now being held aloft by equally burly men.

  He is turned mid-air and homes straight on me. His eyes latch onto mine and his mouth closes mid-roar.

  It can’t be.

  And for the second time in a week I’m staring at Isaac.

  5

  Isaac

  I hate this guy already and he’s not even laid a punch on me yet. That’s what it usually takes, a slap to the head or a kick to the ribs, before I snap. But this guy…

  My nostrils flare watching him taunt me. He’s cocky, but then aren’t they all? But he’s also blasé, and that will be his downfall. Mock me and I either walk away or snap, and in a cage there’s nowhere to walk.

  Twice he’s rushed into my face, done nothing but smirk and pull back.

  Third time he’s not so lucky. His nose splatters across his face, the sound of the crack, making the promotors and VIP’s on the front row suck in a disgusted breath. He staggers backward; unable to keep his balance he topples over. Blood spurts over the mat.

  Jerk.

  I hold out my arms and slowly circle the ring.

  The crowd is on their feet, some cheering, some jibing but all fired with emotion.

  The cage fills with medics, trainers, scantily clad women, cameramen, and fuck knows who else. I’m lifted onto the shoulders of two of my crew and paraded above everyone.