A knot forms in my stomach and I can’t stop myself from asking, “Rogue, are you sorry that I found you?”
“Manita,” she exclaims softly, “I will never be sorry that you found me.”
“Man-nee-ta?” I repeat, trying to mimic her melodic accent. “What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means that you are my dear sister,” she translates. “Whatever happens with our mom, you will always be my manita.”
I JUMP ABOUT A MILE HIGH when Rogue taps me on the shoulder. I pull my earbuds out of my ears as I see her lips moving.
“What?” I say pointing to the headphones.
Rogue rolls her eyes at me as she regards the display on my workstation. “Marcus, isn’t that the third time you’ve torn your machine apart today?”
I look down at my disassembled tattoo machine. It’s almost as if I had an out-of-body experience when I took it apart. I barely remember any of the process. I hope this run lasts longer since I need the routine to burn off some mental energy. I feel like a kid who’s been caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. Normally, I can keep my unusual behaviors under wraps, but my brain is too unfocused to worry about it at the moment.
“You know what a stickler I am over clean equipment,” I comment casually.
“Uh-huh, I do know the difference between clean equipment and dirty equipment because you taught me quite thoroughly,” Rogue responds skeptically. “Even making allowances for your fastidiously high standards, you passed anyone’s definition of clean last Thursday. They could perform brain surgery on the floor in Ink’d and it would be cleaner than most operating rooms. What’s going on with you?”
I remove my non-latex gloves and wipe my hands down the sides of my jeans, then walk over and straddle the chair at the station that Rogue has been using. She’s been mixing some custom colors for an autumn-themed tattoo for one of her classmates. I scope out the beautiful array of colors she has mixed on her tray. Her grasp of color intensity and balance is impressive. I start to whip off my shirt. “Are you ready to practice on me?”
“Not on your life!” Rogue declares. “You’ve got plans for this piece and you don’t need a newbie like me messing it up.”
“Rogue, I totally trust you. You know that, right? You are an amazing artist. I would be honored to have your work on my body. Your practice stuff is better than some of the professional stuff I’ve had done. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true.”
“Marcus, you’re either being nice or you’re delusional. I work hard and I practice a lot, but my skills are not nearly as developed as the people who have worked on you before. In comparison, it would look like some kindergartner scribbled on you with crayons. It would be irresponsible of me to try to work on your piece.”
I just shake my head at her stubbornness. When that woman gets an idea, there’s no talking her out of it. I try a different tactic. “Okay, if you won’t do new art on me, will you please help me do some fill-in work? The guy who did my upper bicep was killed in a motorcycle accident and the ink is faded. Your color blending skills are phenomenal, whether you want to admit it or not. Please, one friend to another, will you do some touch-up work on it?”
She looks over at me and raises an eyebrow as she asks, “You’re awfully jumpy today. If I start this, are you going to be able to hold still long enough for me to get anything done?”
I chuckle at her observation because it’s totally true. I’m bouncing around the shop like a Chihuahua that ate coffee beans for breakfast.
“Believe it or not, getting ink actually calms me down. I’ll be totally mellow, I promise.” I finish stripping off my shirt and lay face down on a table that resembles a fancy massage table and stretch my arm out. Rogue examines my tattoo and half mutters under her breath, “Marc, this is super faded. How long ago did you get this? I’m not even sure we use these blues anymore.”
“I can see I taught you well. Let’s just say I got this tattoo a long time before I should have, in an environment where it wasn’t exactly safe or legal. On the upside, it got me interested in an actual career path.”
“Marcus, I’m not sure that there’s enough here for me to accurately fill in,” Rogue protests nervously.
“Rogue, I wasn’t kidding when I said I totally trust you. If a cover piece is more appropriate, then go for it. That tat was from a really dark, tumultuous place in my life. I’m not there anymore, so if the piece needs to go, I’m totally down with that.”
“I’m not sure I’m okay with that,” Rogue argues. “Are you sure you’re okay with me covering your friend’s work, especially since he’s passed away? Are you sure you don’t want to keep this as a tribute piece?”
I snicker as I reminisce about the time in my life when I got this tattoo. “I was young and dumb and trying to be something I wasn’t. I was twelve years old and trying to prove that I was as tough and street smart as my older brother, Tomás. Some of his friends were into street racing and motorcycles. They took me to an old abandoned garage and dared me to get drunk to prove that I was tough. Then my brother and I got these back-alley tattoos to prove our loyalty to the group.”
Rogue gasps as she exclaims, “Your brother allowed them to do this to you when you were only twelve?”
I turn my head to watch her response to my unconventional tattoo story. I shrug slightly as I reply, “Yeah. I didn’t know it at the time, but Tomás was already pretty hooked on drugs. It took him years and a couple of treatment programs to kick the habit.”
“Wow! No wonder you don’t care if I cover it up. I’d want something like that covered too. What did your parents say when they saw it?”
“Well, it happened at the beginning of the school year, so I was able to cover it with long sleeves for months. When my mom did discover it, you can imagine she wanted to go headhunting in the neighborhood. But Tomás and I wouldn’t tell her who did it because we were afraid that she might start a gang war.”
“I’ve met Anna Lucille. I can imagine that she would stir up your whole neighborhood trying to find answers. How did you talk her into backing off?”
“We just told her it was a couple of bullies from out of town and we heard that they moved away. I had to promise her I would never get another tattoo without fully thinking it through first.”
Rogue raises her eye brow at me. “What do you think you are doing now mi amigo?”
“Oh, I’ve been wanting you to do this for months, you just don’t think you’re ready. I know you are. Consider me a client who just walked in off the street.”
Rogue walks over to an empty station she was using as a work area and grabs some of the colors that she mixed earlier. She swallows hard as she washes her hands and puts on gloves. She loads the paint into metal tubes. She’s old school like me and likes heavy machines. Less bounce. Her touch is light and professional as she unwraps a new disposable razor and carefully shaves the area. “Marc, how would you explain the difference between the person you are now and the kid you were then?” she asks softly as she wipes my arm down with antiseptic cleaner.
I take a minute to think about it as I look around the shop. “I guess you could say, I’m learning to find balance. I still go in six different directions at once, but I’m less scattered and more mature about it now. I don’t have it all figured out, but I’m trying.”
Rogue’s brow creases as she focuses on my words, but finally she nods. “To do this design proper justice, I need a little time. Do you want to grab some lunch, or do you want to lay here and take a nap?”
I snort as I answer, “How long have I been your friend? What do you think it’s going to be? Have you ever known me to turn down anything that even remotely resembles food in the entire time we’ve known each other?”
Rogue laughs out loud. “Good point. Go get food Marc. I’ll draw this up on the light board while you’re out. Can you spot me lunch? My financial aid check is slow this term.”
“No problem, I’ll just build it into the substantial t
ip I know you’ll be earning.”
“Oh shut up! You could hate it for all I know. Bring me an iced chai tea please.”
“No Red Bull?”
“No, thank you. I’d actually like to be calm enough to draw a solid line on you, if you don’t mind. I consider it central to the art of tattooing.”
I sit up and roll my eyes at her as I reply, ”Oh fine, be all safe, responsible and reasonable when you’re going to mark me for life, see if I care.”
“Go! I’m hungry! I want a Cuban.”
“How did you know I was going to get Cubans?”
This time, she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes at me. “It’s Thursday. You always get Cubans on Thursdays, Mr. I-live-my-life-on-the-wild-side.”
“Oh Geez, Ivy hit the nail on the head. There isn’t a bad-to the-bone bone in my body. I’m just a senior citizen in disguise waiting for the daily lunch special.”
Rogue pats me on the shoulder after I pull my vintage Robert Plant T-Shirt over my head. “Relax, Marc. In the real world, women find stable remarkably sexy.”
“But what about my reputation as a bad-boy?” I practically pout.
“Who cares? You’re not in high school anymore. Besides, anyone who knows you for more than a couple of hours knows better anyway. You volunteer for Habit for Humanity and Big Brother/Big Sister. You’re hardly the picture of a hoodlum.”
“Well, I have my reasons for that. Those programs mean a lot to me,” I reply with an embarrassed shrug. It’s easy to forget that I really have no secrets from Rogue.
“Go get some food Mr. Dependable, before I wise up and remember I’m not a real tattoo artist and totally freak out about what I’m going to do to your aforementioned perfect body.”
“Do I get design approval?”
“Of course! What kind of tattoo artist would I be if I didn’t give you design and placement approval before I so much as touch a needle to your skin?” Rogue scolds mildly.
“Well, I’m going to make you trust your instincts on this one. I don’t want to see any part of it until the final reveal.”
Rogue tightens her lips in a thin line of disapproval. “Are you sure Marc? What if you hate it?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve seen you sketch hundreds of tattoos over the last year, and you know me better than anyone on the planet. You haven’t done a single one that I would not have worn with pride. You know me better than my own mama. If you can’t nail this, no one can Ro.”
Rogue smirks at me. “Really Marc? You would have worn the one of the Powerpuff Girls with pride? Even the pink one?”
I pause to think about that for a moment, shrugging as I reply, “I’d catch plenty of grief for it, but if you did the ink, I really would get the Powerpuff Girls. Your caricatures are completely dead on.”
Rogue giggles. “Come to think of it, you’re just crazy enough that you probably would. Go on and get out of here so that I can do some serious artwork so that you don’t end up with the Powerpuff Girls. While you’re at it, can you stop by the garage and see what’s taking them so long to finish my car? All I asked them to fix was the timing belt. It shouldn’t be taking them a week and a half.”
“Didn’t Super-Secret-Spy-Guy help you drop it off the last time he was in town?”
“Last I checked, he still went by Tristan,” Rogue replies dryly. “But yes, he did help me drop it off because you were busy with Anthony. You guys were at the skate park or something. I know better than to bug you when you’re on a Big Brother outing.”
“If I had to guess, I suspect that explains why they still have your car.”
“What in the heck are you talking about?” Rogue asks impatiently.
“Again, and I’m just speculating here, mostly because you guys told me to butt out, but it seems to me that Tristan considers himself to be ‘the guy’ in your life right now. As ‘the guy’, it would be irresponsible for him to allow you to drive a car around that’s held together with dental floss and Band-Aids. So, considering he probably has about as much money as Bill Gates, he probably told the garage to fix everything that could possibly be wrong with your car and upgrade everything else while they were at it.”
Rogue’s expression is like a cartoon. If her jaw could come unhinged, it would be on the floor. “No flippin’ way! I just asked him for a ride home after I took my car to the garage. I didn’t ask him for anything else, I swear. Do you think he thinks I asked him for something else? We haven’t even officially been on a date yet. Oh my God! I can’t afford to pay him back. That’s why I didn’t get the car fixed to begin with. What the hell am I going to do now?”
I’m trying really hard to smother my grin because it’s a talent almost unique to Rogue to be able to freak out more over good news than bad. If you give her unsettling news like her rent is being raised or she’s being evicted because her place is being overrun by bedbugs, she just shrugs it off like she expects that kind of thing to happen to her. However, if you tell her that she’s won a scholarship, deserves a raise, or has earned a huge tip, she acts like the sky is going to fall at any moment. It’s the most bizarre thing. She has the opposite reaction of most people. “Maybe it’s a good thing. Your car wasn’t exactly safe—” I venture carefully, trying not to hurt her feelings.
“I know, but I still hope you’re wrong.” Rogue sinks down into a low tattooing chair designed for doing back pieces next to where I was sitting. “I swear, I didn’t ask for any of this, but he definitely would be the type of person to do that.”
“I kind of got that vibe from him too, but he doesn’t seem like the kind who would brag about all the things he does with his money either. If you hadn’t told me he was some sort of kajillionaire, I would’ve thought he was a grad student studying English or something. He looks like a total bookworm.”
“English, really? I would’ve thought Economics or something… he looks too straight and narrow for English,” Rogue smirks.
“If he’s so straight and narrow, how come he makes your heart go pitter-patter?” I tease.
Rogue sighs as she twists her long hair between her fingers. “I have no earthly idea. All I know is that he feels like a calm, centered space for me. I’ve never felt that with another person before. Not even with you and you’re my best friend. I feel comfortable with you, but you don’t quiet my soul.”
“Wow, Ro. That’s deep. Are you sure? You haven’t known this guy very long.”
“I can turn the tables on you, Romeo. You haven’t known my sister any longer than Tristan and I have known each other, but you seem to have some sort of cosmic connection with her that you don’t have with me. Are you going to dismiss that and say it’s not possible because you just met?”
Her words are like a punch in the gut. She’s right, of course. Even though on the surface Rogue and Ivy seem identical, it doesn’t take any time at all to determine that they really aren’t. Their personalities and outlook on life are radically different.
Initially, it might be tempting to say that Ivy is more fragile, but I think that Rogue just hides her fragility better under an armor of hard-earned street savvy. When Mama Rosa remarried a guy Rogue wasn’t sure she trusted, she left Vermont on a Greyhound bus before she turned seventeen. She’d doubled up on her classes enough in high school that it was a breeze for her to get her GED and take the ACT to get into college, although because of her nonstandard transcripts she was bumped down to a nontraditional admit status, which I thought was incredibly unfair given her stellar grades and test scores. If they had known that through most of her junior high and high school years she worked an outside job as a housekeeper to help her mom pay the bills, they would’ve had much more respect for her ability to maintain a 3.8 GPA. But, true to form, Rogue never breathes a word about that to anyone. I only found out about it when my refrigerator came unplugged over a weekend when I was out of town and I had to figure out how to clean up a freezer full of melted and rotten food.
So it seems that both women could stand a
little buffering from pain. Ivy seems, at least on the surface, to be much more fragile than Rogue. But something tells me that despite her openness and obvious naivety, she has an inner tensile strength that few people recognize or acknowledge. Ivy strikes me as a very quiet leader.
Ivy and I have had several entertaining phone calls that have gone really late. We’ve also been playing this silly computer game where we challenge each other to solve puzzles on our iPads. It’s kind of like Pictionary using a stylus. For someone who claims she doesn’t have much innate artistic talent, she’s remarkably gifted. Every time she complains about one of her business classes, I threaten to swoop in and hire her away to work at the tattoo shop. She laughs like I’m kidding, but what she doesn’t realize is that she actually has more innate artistic talent than the last guy I hired. For some reason, Venom Q. can’t seem to get perspective down, so all of his drawings are a bit skewed. He did a portrait so poorly the other day that I’m going to have to offer the person a free cover up tattoo. I could tell just by looking that the problem started with a really bad drawing.
I don’t want to fire him, but I think I’m going to have to, even though he was recommended by a buddy of mine. I hate this part of the job. Management is just not my thing. If I could just focus on the artistic side of owning the business I would be totally copacetic with it all, but the day-to-day grind of running the business starts to wear on me. Being a hard-nosed supervisor does not come naturally to me. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that for many years, I was just one of the guys as we all learned our craft together. But for some reason, I seemed to have more natural talent than some of the other guys, so I learned faster and got bigger, better jobs with higher profile clients. Therefore, I got more name recognition and more respect. More respect in the tattooing world equals more responsibility and higher visibility. In my case, the higher responsibility includes co-owning the shop. It definitely has some perks, like being able to mentor younger apprentices like Rogue.
Identity of the Heart (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 1) Page 9
