He glared.
“Are you still wearing the cross?” he asked.
I reached toward my chest, tapped the piece of silver with the tip of my finger and shook my head.
He scribbled on his pad.
“Are you ready to discuss the meetings, Mr. West?” he asked.
I nodded my head once. “Okay by me, Patrick.”
“You’re still attending the AA meetings?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Racine, I do. Once a week, maybe twice, it depends on my moods,” I responded.
He widened his eyes slightly as he rolled the pen between his thumb and forefinger, studying me the entire time. Eventually he tilted his head to the side. “And you’re of the opinion, or at least you were, that they are helping you cope with your addictions?”
“That’s my take on it, yeah,” I said.
“Interesting. Do you still feel that way?” he asked.
“Well, Patrick, it sure seems to be the case. The meetings help me cope,” I responded.
“Do you find today’s session annoying, Blake?” he asked.
“Not anymore, Mr. Racine,” I said as I stood from my seat.
“Mr. West, sit down,” he said in a stern tone.
As I walked toward the door I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key to my Harley, and clutched it in my hand. As I pulled the door open, I paused and turned to face him.
“Next time I’m here, make sure the music’s playing. I’m not fucking around. I don’t want to talk to you if there’s no music. Listening to you in the silence is fucking irritating. Write that down, Patrick,” I said.
As he centered the pad on his desk and began to write, I grinned. I really didn’t care so much if the music was on or off, I had just become accustomed to listening to it. Having him fully understand my thought processes wasn’t ever something I was interested in doing.
Keeping him guessing was much more fun.
“Mr. West, I would appreciate it if…”
I cleared my throat and interrupted him from speaking. “That’s another thing, don’t call me that anymore.”
He fixed his eyes on mine and waited.
“I’m fucking tired of the back and forth shit. Call me Blake. Or you can call me Boss. Or Brainiac. Yeah, that works. Brainiac. I like that,” I said with a nod.
And I turned and walked out the door.
RILEY
Growing up, there were times when I was aggravated with my mother, but regardless, I always loved her. She despised Stephen, and we often disagreed about my relationship with him, his treatment of me, and her belief that he was with me for sexual reasons alone. In the end, she was correct in all respects, a quality I think all mothers must possess. Admitting she was right was easy for me, because admitting it allowed me to accept that Stephen truly was the controlling prick she had always believed him to be.
“So, how old is he?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but before you say anything, believe me, it doesn’t matter,” I said.
“Why doesn’t it?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Because age really doesn’t matter, and it shouldn’t. But I guess because he’s not as old as Stephen, and because you’re really going to like him.”
“We’ll see about that. You said he owns a tattoo shop downtown?” she asked over her cup of coffee.
“Yep, and he doesn’t drink, doesn’t use drugs, and he’s not like Stephen at all,” I assured her.
My relationship with my mother had always been one where I could - and did - tell her everything. I found the open line of communication we shared to be therapeutic, never really held anything in reserve, and was always willing to listen to what she had to say; deciding afterward if her opinion was something worthy of considering or implementing in my life. In complete contrast to any other girl my age, I could truly claim my mother was my best friend.
“Well, I like that about him already, as long as it’s true,” she said.
I clasped my hands around my coffee cup and considered my response.
“Well, he came over the other day and we were making out on the couch. You know, just kissing, but for a really long time. So, I glanced down, and he was rock hard. So, I…”
She raised her hand in the air as if she’d heard enough. As she began to chuckle I continued.
“You asked, Mother. So, anyway, I decided to grab it. And I did. He immediately jumped up, denied me the cock, and went back to work,” I said.
“Well that’s a first. And good for him,” she said with a nod.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Stephen forced himself on you from the beginning and never let up. If this guy at least has the courage and the ability to walk away from you groping him, he’s much better than Stephen, at least in that regard,” she responded as she raised her cup of coffee in the air.
“I didn’t grope him. I grabbed his junk,” I said with a laugh.
She shook her cup of coffee in front of me, as if offering a toast. I lifted my cup.
“Here’s to tattoo artists with courage,” she said.
“Courage and a big bulge,” I said as I clanked my cup against hers.
“Riley Jaye Campbell,” she snapped back.
“I’m telling you,” I said.
She took a sip of coffee, shook her head from side to side, and lowered the cup to the table.
“Now, that, I don’t need to know,” she said.
I narrowed my eyes slightly, grinned and nodded my head once. “I’ll keep it a secret.”
“As it needs to be,” she said.
“So, still not a word from Stephen?” she asked.
I shook my head, “Not a single one.”
“Good,” she said as she stood from her seat.
“You sure you don’t want anything to eat?” she asked.
“No,” I responded. “I ate some yogurt before I came.”
“You’re not eating enough. You look thin,” she said over her shoulder as she walked to the refrigerator.
“I look thin because I’m healthy. I’ve been at the gym every morning since I left Stephen,” I said.
She opened the door to the refrigerator, peered inside, and as she rummaged around for a snack, spoke.
“Well, going to the gym doesn’t make you healthy. But going to the gym and eating properly might,” she said.
“I’m eating properly, Mother,” I said.
“If you say so,” she said as she pulled her head from the refrigerator.
“What did you come up with?” I asked as she carried a plastic container toward the counter.
“Cantaloupe,” she responded.
“Fork me,” I said.
She shook her head from side-to-side as she grabbed two forks and a bowl. After dumping the contents of the container into the bowl, she walked back to the table and set it between us. As she handed me the fork, I shrugged my shoulders and glared.
She widened her eyes. “What?”
I stood from my seat, walked to the stove, and grabbed the salt. As I sat down at the table, salt shaker in hand, she shook her head again.
“Not on my half,” she said as she covered half of the bowl with her hand.
I shook the shaker over the bowl, making sure to cover her hand with as much salt as possible. After a few extra shakes, I placed it to the side, and stabbed a piece of cantaloupe with my fork.
“That’s a good cantaloupe,” I said as I chewed the melon.
“Got it at the farmer’s market,” she responded. “Good, huh?”
I nodded my head and stabbed another piece. “Yep.”
As we sat and devoured the entire bowl of cantaloupe together, I realized how much I had missed my mother during my time with Stephen. Although I continued to see her throughout my relationship with him, I didn’t see her as frequently, nor was I as open with her as I typically was. Our time together was short, and our talks were brief and almost meaningless.
Although she w
as my mother, we could easily pass for sisters, and often did. She looked much younger than her thirty-nine years of age, and depending on my makeup and what I was wearing, I could look a little older than my age. She was a very attractive woman, blonde, and no differently than me, had a lanky body and nice boobs.
I had always suspected the only reason she was single was because she wanted to be, not because she had to be. When I started high school and she was thirty-one, all of my male friends claimed she was “hot”, and often made excuses to come over and stare at her.
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” I asked..
“I don’t need one,” she responded.
“Everyone needs someone,” I said.
“Well, I don’t,” she responded as she stood.
After grabbing the bowl and our two forks, she carried them to the sink. She stood for some time, gazing out the window before coming back to the table and sitting down.
“I suppose it’s the same as it’s always been, each time you’ve asked. I still love your father. Being with someone else would never amount to anything but friendship. It wouldn’t be fair. I loved, and still love your father,” she said.
My father died as a result of a tragic accident when I was in kindergarten. My mother lived, walking away with nothing more than a scar on her neck from the shards of glass. Although the curious side of me always wanted to know more, I was unable to find out any details, as the internet had yet to be developed for widespread use in 1998 when the accident happened.
My mother’s explanation of a truck running a red light, a loud metallic crunch, and the sound of breaking glass was all I knew of my father’s death.
“All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy,” I said as I stood.
She glanced upward, narrowed her gaze, and pointed at my chair. “I am happy. Where are you going?”
“I just wanted to give you a hug,” I said.
“Okay,” she said as she stood, “But you can’t leave. I want to hear more about this Blake character.”
“About his bulge?” I whispered as I held her in my arms.
“No, about everything else,” she said as she released me.
“You said he rode a motorcycle. Have you been on it yet?” she asked as she sat down.
I nodded my head and grinned, “It’s awesome.”
“Did you wear a helmet?” she asked.
I glanced down at the legs of the table, knowing she would not like my response, but fully realizing I couldn’t lie to her.
“No,” I responded.
“Riley Jaye,” she gasped.
“Mom, he didn’t have one…”
She glared at me. “Not again. I’m not losing you to a motorcycle accident because you weren’t sensible enough to wear a helmet.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Promise me,” she said.
“I promise,” I whined.
“Okay. Now, tell me everything you know about him.”
“Everything?” I grinned.
“Everything but the bulge,” she said with a laugh.
“Well, he’s tall, but not like tall. Maybe six foot-ish. And he’s got a little beard thing going on some of the time. You know, a few days growth. He’s covered in tattoos; all up and down his arms, hands, knuckles, and even one kind of on his neck, but not like all up on it. But he doesn’t look like a thug, he’s really cute, mom. He, uhhm, he always looks serious, like he’s thinking. He squints his eyes a lot, and when he’s doing it, I can tell he’s thinking,” I paused for a moment and lifted my cup of coffee to my mouth.
I took a drink of the lukewarm coffee, winced at the temperature, and continued.
“He owns his own tattoo shop, and he has a guy who works for him, Tyler, and the guy’s a complete dick. He doesn’t drink and he doesn’t use drugs, but he smokes,” I said.
“Pot?” she asked.
“No. Cigarettes,” I responded.
“He rides a motorcycle, and I think he said he doesn’t even have a car. It seems like he told me that,” I said.
“Well, that’s kind of strange,” she said.
“Oh, and his eyes. They’re like brown and green at the same time. Like equal amounts of each, it’s crazy,” I said.
“Hazel,” she said.
“I know, Mother. But not like just hazel, they’re crazel,” I said.
She scrunched her nose and stared. “Crazel?”
“Yeah, crazy hazel,” I said with a laugh.
“It’s nice seeing you happy again. And I see you’re wearing your glasses. That’s a change,” she said.
“Well, Stephen hated them. Blake freaking loves ‘em. So, I’m wearing them again,” I said.
I didn’t bother going into detail about my eye being scratched severely, and the eye doctor saying I may never be able to wear contacts for any length of time again. My mother despised Stephen’s treatment of me, and another reminder of his violent nature would not do either of us any good. I was over him, he was leaving me alone, and forgetting him was best for both of us.
“I like them, too,” she said.
“He’s just really reserved and kind of like nervous all the time, it’s cute,” I said.
“Parents? Does he have a good relationship with his parents?” she asked.
I gazed down at the table for a moment, glanced upward, and shrugged my shoulders.
“I don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned them.”
“Well, I hope if you two end up seeing each other that he’s nice to you,” she said.
“I think we are seeing each other,” I said with a nod of my head.
“You think so?” she asked as she stood from her seat.
And, although Blake and I hadn’t discussed it, in my mind we were.
“Yes,” I said.
And I hoped he believed the same.
BLAKE
As pleasing everyone would never happen, pleasing myself became priority. I determined if I pleased myself, pleasing those around me was easy. Their pleasure came from being exposed to me and seeing me genuinely happy. I found a good mood and a smile to be contagious, more so than even malaria, but much more enjoyable.
There were times truly pleasing myself required sacrificing others. Realizing when those sacrifices needed to be made and recognizing the people who were best suited to be tossed from my life was crucial to my success.
And, at this juncture in my life, my success was the only thing I was concerned with.
I screwed the last screw in the frame and took a few steps back. The sign was perfect, and added to the stand-offish nature I always wanted to possess in the shop. As I placed the cordless drill in the box and clasped it closed, I heard the back door open and slam shut.
“What’s with slamming the door?” I asked as I peered over the partition.
“Musta been the wind,” Tyler mumbled.
“Okay,” I said.
“What’re you doing up there?” he asked.
“Posting a new sign,” I said as I took one last glance at the sign.
“Raising prices?” he asked as he unlocked his box.
“Nope, prices are fine. Just clarifying the rules,” I responded.
“What rules?” he asked.
“Shop rules,” I said.
“Huh,” he murmured as he turned my direction.
He sauntered to the front of the shop, stepped behind me, and read the sign out loud in a light whisper.
BLURRED LINES
NO use of cellphones beyond this partition
NO children
NO one under 18 beyond this partition
NO I won’t use your sketch or stencil
NO checks, trading, or bartering
NO food in the shop
NO tattoo without a valid ID
NO drunks
NObody here cares how cheap your last tattoo was
NO crying, whining, or bitching
YES tipping makes it hurt less
“No checks, trading, or bartering, h
uh?” he asked.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Starting when?” he asked.
“Starting,” I paused and glanced at my watch. “About ten minutes ago.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Jesus, Blake. Well, good thing Candee Diamond is under the old set of rules,” he said as he walked around me.
I began to walk toward my work station. “Old rules no longer apply,” I said over my shoulder.
“Good thing we already worked out the bartering, and she won’t be using a check. If she fucks me again, it’ll only be because she liked the cock,” he said.
“No sex in the shop,” I said.
“Didn’t see that on the sign, bro,” he said as he sat down.
“Don’t need to write it on the sign,” I said.
He swiveled his stool around to face me. “No sex?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Applies to you too, right?” he asked.
I nodded my head.
He laughed, turned his stool halfway around, and whistled a long shrill whistle.
“We’ll see how long that lasts with Riley coming in and out of this motherfucker like a junkie at a methadone clinic,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You heard me,” he said.
I shook my head, decided to keep my mouth shut, and dropped the drill into the bottom drawer of my box. As I pushed the drawer closed, he turned his stool around again.
“You go see her the other day? When you got mad and left?” he asked.
“I wasn’t mad, but yeah, I did,” I said.
“You fuck her?” he asked.
He was beginning to irritate me. Knowing my best countermeasure was to keep from losing my temper, I picked up the cling wrap and began wrapping my chair.
“Sure didn’t,” I responded.
“She suck your dick?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“She give you a hand job?” he asked.
“No, and who the fuck gets a hand job once they’re over the age of fourteen anyway?”
“All types of people. Ever heard of a happy ending?” he asked.
I didn’t respond.
“You kiss her?” he asked.
I nodded my head as I continued to wrap the chair in the sheets of transparent plastic.
Blurred Lines: Tattoo Romance (Bodies Ink and Steel) Page 8
