Indelible

by Mark Carver

  “How was that?”

  Bennie clapped his hands. “Wonderful.” He looked at Cameron. “That was good, mate. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect when they told me we were going to interview a weapons guy. I go to those conventions and most of those guys are pretty lame, no offense. You’d think they made the halberds for the Swiss Guard at the Vatican or something. But you’re a real down-to-earth bloke, and I like that. The readers will like it too.”

  Cameron nodded his thanks and rose to his feet as Cherish stood up.

  “We done?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Cherish said. Cameron thought he saw a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

  Bennie motioned towards the door with his hand. “My lord, my lady.”

  Cherish giggled as she left the room, followed by Cameron, and then Bennie, who checked his watch and gasped.

  “Hey Cher, I’ve got to jet. Cameron, sorry to rush off like this.”

  “No problem,” Cameron said as he shook the man’s hand.

  Cherish waved goodbye as Bennie darted down the hall with startling quickness. Cherish giggled again.

  “He’s a character,” she noted as they headed down the corridor. When they rounded the corner, they nearly smacked into Kara, one of the models who had joined Cameron in the photo shoot.

  “Oh, excuse…”

  Cameron’s eyes bulged. Kara was wearing a hip-length translucent shirt that did a terrible job of concealing her eye-popping body.

  “No problem, Mr. McConnell.” Her accent was Eastern European and her voice sounded like whiskey.

  Cameron could only stand and stare like a mannequin. Then he felt Cherish coil her arm around his bicep.

  “Cameron,” she cooed in a soft voice meant to contrast with Kara’s husky tones, “there were a couple of questions I forgot to ask. Would you mind if we walked to my car?”

  The electricity radiating from Cherish’s soft touch pulsed through Cameron’s skin and Kara seemed to fade from his vision.

  “Sure,” he said as he turned like someone in a trance and let Cherish lead him away.

  “Where is your car?” Cameron asked as they stepped out into the sunshine.

  “Around back.” Her arm was still locked with his.

  Cameron could feel his heart pounding. He suspected what was really going on, but he had to play it cool.

  “So, what questions do you still need to ask?”

  Cherish reached into her pocket and pulled out a set of keys. She aimed the remote at a neon yellow SUV and it unlocked with a chirp. She looked up at Cameron and he saw it again – that sparkle in her eyes, dangerous yet inviting. His heart was pounding so loudly, he was sure she could hear it.

  “Just one question, actually,” Cherish said as she reached out and opened the door to the back seat.

  Cameron gulped. He was a prisoner of those eyes.

  “Yeah?” he stammered.

  Cherish pressed herself against him. “Do you want to see the rest of my tattoos?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Cameron’s body ached as he unlocked the front door and stumbled inside. The traffic, the leather costume, the hours of posing, the...well, just everything.

  He rubbed his bleary eyes as he shuffled through the foyer towards the kitchen. For a moment, he almost called out for Conan, but immediately demanded that his heart be still. He needed at least one part of him to function normally.

  His ears heard the desperate calls of ice cold beer in the fridge, and he realized that he had a blazing thirst. He opened the refrigerator door, opened a beer, and downed half of it at once. He knew that beer was a terrible choice to quench one’s thirst but he didn’t care at all.

  Lurching like a zombie, he made his way to the living room and turned on the lights. He collapsed onto the sofa and stared at the empty TV screen. The remote was sitting innocently at the other end of the coffee table. Nearly three feet away. Too far.

  He gulped another mouthful of beer and sighed. His nerves were frayed and his shirt reeked of sweat and exhaust.

  The stillness surrounded him for several minutes, even after he had finished his beer. His eyes were like snow globes with nothing in them. Even his left leg, which often bounced up and down when he was sitting, didn’t move an inch.

  Exhaustion. Fatigue. These words rolled over and over in his mind like rambunctious children. He glanced at the wall clock. Only 7:45 pm. Still plenty of time to fix a quick bite and catch up on some work.

  Except he didn’t have an ounce of motivation to get up off of that sofa. His mind felt empty, like a porcelain vase that’s cracked on the underside where no one notices and spills water all over the table. He searched his mind and couldn’t find a single shred of inspiration. He felt as dumb as a tree.

  And he needed another beer.

  As he got up from the sofa, grimacing and creaking like an old man, he reached out and turned on the computer. It automatically logged into his email account, and his mouth fell open.

  Two hundred and fourteen new messages.

  A tiny whimper escaped from his parted lips. Forget the beer. He was going to bed.

  ****

  He awoke with a start, turned and listened.

  Nothing.

  No vibrating phone, no meaty fist hammering on the door. He glanced fearfully at the clock on the wall, preparing for the unwelcome news that it was still early in the morning.

  9:23.

  He’d slept more than twelve hours. And he was ravenous.

  He didn’t even shower and shave before heading to the kitchen and fixing a mammoth bowl of oatmeal, which he devoured in less than two minutes. Feeling infinitely better than he had last night, he stretched his rejuvenated muscles and looked through the window at the workshop in the backyard.

  The shower could wait.

  Cameron worked for three hours without taking a break, not even for a drink of water. He finalized the design that had been pricking at his mind and had only seen the light of day as that tiny little midnight sketch. Now he could see it in his mind’s eye for the first time, feel every razor-sharp edge, trace every sexy curve.

  He didn’t like the word “epic.” It was way overused, especially in the entertainment industry. But this sword was the incarnation of “epic.”

  This belongs in a movie, he thought. He made a mental note to contact Toby later and see if he could plant any seeds.

  A familiar tingle sang within his nerves. He recognized it immediately: the thrill of creation. It felt good to just hunker down and get some work -

  The phone buzzed. Cameron smiled wearily as he put down the oily rag he was using to polish the edge he’d just made.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Cameron, it’s Troy over at Skyson’s Collectibles.”

  “Oh yeah, hey, what’s up?”

  Skyson’s Collectibles had bought the license for about a dozen of Cameron’s designs a couple years ago and was his largest source of income outside of personally commissioned work. As he listened to Troy, his eyes grew wider and wider. After a few minutes, he said, “Thanks, Troy. Take care,” and hung up the phone.

  He looked at his tattooed face in the reflection of a chrome-polished battleaxe.

  Orders for Cameron McConnell weapons had almost doubled in the past week.

  His fingertips were tingling again, though not with the ecstasy of creativity. With excitement.

  The beginning of the surge...

  He grabbed the phone again and quickly dialed a number.

  “Chucky?”

  “Mmm, yeah?” a groggy voice answered.

  Cameron checked his watch. “Are you still asleep? It’s almost one o’clock!”

  “Man, I got hammered last night. Wasted, baked, stoned, trashed, whatever is physically possible, it happened to me.”

  Cameron could only shake his head. “Listen, you remember that idea I was telling you about? Going to hobby shops unannounced?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Feel like taking a
drive?”

  Cameron could almost hear Chucky’s eyes pop open. His voice was as clear as crystal.

  “Oh yes!”

  They hit three major shops that day. Chucky would slip inside to see if they had a decent weapons display, which meant they would probably know who Cameron was, especially in light of his recent publicity. He would browse around for a while, during which time he would give Cameron a call and then hang up. Cameron, who was waiting in the car, would then stroll through the door, looking positively ferocious in his leather bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses.

  The clerk on duty would invariably freak out, gush about how much he loved Cameron’s work, beg him to sign everything in the story that bore the initials “CMC,” and then text every single person that he knew. Ten or fifteen minutes later, people would start to show up, and then the autographs and photo sessions would start.

  Cameron and Chucky knew that eventually someone would realize that Chucky was showing up in all the pictures, but they didn’t care. In fact, Chucky was kind of hoping that people would eventually recognize him too, kind of like the herald for the knight. If someone saw him meandering through his store, Cameron couldn’t be too far behind...

  There were a couple shops that Chucky felt were not worthy of Cameron’s presence, and he would bail after a few minutes of aimless browsing. But they really hit the jackpot with the third store they visited. It had a large black-and-white photo of Cameron’s face in the window. Cameron recognized it as coming from the header of his new website that Robyn had commissioned. Beneath his simmering gaze were the words “Cameron McConnell Swords Sold Here!” in giant Gothic script.

  When Cameron walked through the door, the clerk shrieked.

  Cameron and Chucky were both exhausted by the end of the day, and they celebrated with a pile of bacon cheeseburgers and spicy fries at a beach-side burger joint. They silently watched the bikini-clad bodies for several minutes, and when the twilight began fading into night, it became too dark to see so they turned their attention to each other.

  “This was the best day ever,” Chucky declared through a mouthful of fries.

  Cameron averted his eyes. “Yeah, yeah it was.”

  He couldn’t believe it himself. He guessed that he’d autographed more than two dozen swords, a hundred posters, and the chests of a few enthusiastic female fans. He’d also been slipped several phone numbers, which he graciously accepted with no intention of calling. He may be a blossoming rock star, but he wasn’t about to go down the groupie road.

  Chucky had had a blast as well. He photo-bombed every picture he could, and he openly bragged about his status as Cameron’s best friend. Cameron was a bit hesitant at first because he wanted to preserve the illusion of spontaneity for these hobby shop invasions, but in the end, he just thought, screw it, let him have a good time. He doesn’t get many chances for attention like this.

  As Chucky munched on a burger and squinted in the twilight in hopes of one last glimpse of sun-kissed skin, Cameron realized how glad he was that he had someone to share this with. It would have been great if it had just been himself, but it was even better to have Chucky along.

  “Thanks for bringing me,” Chucky said, as if reading his thoughts.

  Cameron smiled and lifted his cola in a toast. “To my spotter.”

  Chucky knocked his cup against Cameron’s. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  “So now you need to get a tattoo like mine.”

  “Fat chance! You’re loco, man. I’m the one with a level head on his shoulders.”

  Cameron laughed, and Chucky laughed too. Their voices faded away and they ate their food in silence again.

  “Chucky?” Cameron said, his voice hesitant, almost timid.

  “Yeah?” It sounded more like “Yaww” through the mouthful of food.

  Cameron looked down at the table, unsure if he should say anymore. “I’m...kind of starting to feel overwhelmed. A little nervous, you know?”

  Chucky frowned as he dipped several fries in ketchup. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Cameron leaned back and shrugged. “I guess this is all happening really fast. I mean, you know me; I’m not a crazy seat-of-my-pants kind of guy. I just like to hang back and do things at my own pace. It used to just be me and my tools and my blades. But now...my face is on hobby shop windows, I’m being tweeted and retweeted... I’ve got a publicist, for crying out loud. Me. A publicist, like I’m a freakin’ Hollywood wannabe.”

  Chucky licked his fingers with a loud smack. “Dude, it’s all in your hands. I mean, no one’s making you do anything. You don’t have a manager who tells you what to make or where to show your face. I think you’ve got the best of both worlds, to be honest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, everyone wants to be famous on their own terms. Some people hit it big but they’re just a puppet and they get jerked around day and night by fatcats in suits who don’t care about their health or sanity or friendships. But you’re not like them. You can still do what you love, and you’re already making a lot more money than you were before, and it’s only been a few weeks since you brought out this...this...new Cameron. New on the outside anyway.”

  “But that’s just it. I’m afraid that it will change me on the inside. What if I become like those phonies and puppets walking around with the million dollar smile and a black heart the size of a walnut?”

  Chucky reached for another burger. “If that happens, I’ll personally put you down myself.”

  “Wow, I’m touched. You’d do that for me?”

  “Yep. You wouldn’t even see it coming. Just an ice pick to the base of the skull. Pow!"

  Chucky jabbed his index finger into the hamburger bun to make his point. Cameron smirked.

  “Well, I’m going to keep my guard up. I’ve seen too many movies to know how easy it is to get all money-crazy. It never ends well.”

  “Good thing you’ve got a spotter,” Chucky observed as he slurped his cola.

  Cameron nodded. “Yes I do.”

  ****

  After another productive morning in the shop, Cameron microwaved his lunch and went to the living room to watch Masters of the Universe. He’d loved it ever since he was a kid, and he found that it always gave his creativity a bit of a boost. There was just something about this film that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he never got tired of it.

  Maybe it was because this was the first film that he and his father saw together in the theater.

  He brushed away the crumbs of nostalgia and shoveled a forkful of tortellini into his mouth. A flash of movement caught his eye and he glanced away from the TV and looked towards the window.

  Mindy’s ponytail didn’t seem to bounce as playfully as usual. Her steps seemed a little slower and heavier. He couldn’t see her face very clearly, but he knew she wasn’t smiling, despite the gorgeous sunshine and refreshing breeze. She seemed...lost.

  Cameron took another bite of pasta and set the tray down on the coffee table. He hadn’t really confirmed their dinner date yet. On a whim, he grabbed the phone and called her. He knew she wasn’t at home, but that was good because he just wanted to leave a message.

  “Hey Mindy, it’s Cameron. Um, I was just wondering if you’d like to do our cookout tonight. I don’t have anything going on and it’s a good day for a barbecue, so if that works for you, give me a shout. I know it’s a little bit short-notice but better late than never, right? Call me back.”

  As he dropped the phone on the sofa, he looked again out the window. She was gone, heading deeper into the bowels of the neighborhood. He frowned, displeased with himself for letting her mood affect his. He glanced at the TV. He didn’t really feel like watching the movie anymore.

  His phone buzzed, and he jumped. Mindy? No, it couldn’t be; he just saw her running the other way. Unless she turned around and -

  Answer the phone, you moron.

  He grabbed it and held
it to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Cameron? It’s Ivan Stockton at Cloak and Dagger.”

  “Ivan? Oh hey, how’s it going?”

  “Good, man. I was back in town and I just wanted to check with you to see how the tattoo healed up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s great. You’re a magician.”

  “Yeah, I’m Harry freaking Potter. Listen, are you busy later? If you’ve got some free time, maybe you could pop on down to the shop. I’m with a couple of buddies and they’d like to check out my handiwork.”

  Cameron stared up at the wall clock. There was still so much day left, and he was really getting into the groove at the shop...

  “Sure, no problem,” he heard himself say. “How about around three o’clock?”

  “Sounds good. Anytime is fine; I’m going to be here all day.”

  “All right. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Later.”

  Cameron looked up at the clock again. He could get a couple more hours of work in, stop over at Cloak and Dagger for a bit, then head to the grocery store and pick up some food for the cookout. He was sure Mindy would answer him by then, and he was certain she’d say yes.

  With renewed energy, he sat down and began rapidly consuming the rest of his lunch.

  ****

  When Cameron eased the Ducati into the parking lot at Cloak and Dagger, his heart froze.

  Parked between a Honda compact and an SUV was a badass Harley chopper. A nightmare scenario rushed through Cameron’s mind.

  “Hey Cameron, how’s it going? Let me introduce you to the General. Don’t know if you’ve met him. Hey, you guys both have facial tattoos. That’s so cool. Of course, the General’s is way bigger and kind of makes you look like a poser.”

  He felt like the skinny kid at school who worked out all summer and packed on some extra muscle, but finds out that another kid got totally ripped and is getting all the cheerleaders’ attention. What could he do? He was already here, and it would solidify his status as a poser if he turned tail and ran. Besides, what if it wasn’t the General’s chopper?

  Yeah, right. Cameron glowered at the chrome-smothered beast, then got off his bike and cut the engine. Tucking his helmet under his arm, he strode toward the door with his head high and a cold-eyed stare. He wasn’t going to let anyone steal his thunder.

  The bell above the door tinkled cheerfully, but the sound was instantly swallowed by the pounding thrash metal being vomited from the sound system mounted on the walls. Several heads turned in his direction as he walked in.