by Rhys Ford
Still… boyfriend. Another first. Another step to a dance Ivo wasn’t sure he knew the steps to. The word was old-fashioned, tangled with gender and roles he didn’t know if he could fit into, but Ivo rolled the scent of it around on his tongue, tasting at its unfamiliarity. He loved the flavor of it, the starchy meatiness of its permanence, something first knitting him into Ruan’s life.
“No, it’s fine.” Ruan didn’t look Ivo’s way, keeping his attention on the other men. “Barry and I are just going to have a little talk.”
The tension at the end of the table thickened when Ruan’s cop stance settled in, and Ivo went back to James’s main portfolio, forcing himself to concentrate on the startling rendering of a tiger on a woman’s bare back, comparing it to the photo displayed on the opposite page. James took some liberties with the shading, each one a good decision to open up the tiger’s features while maintaining its ferocity. The coloration was excellent—a blend of browns, oranges, and golds with enough open space left to let the ink breathe—and using the client’s golden skin to accent the palette.
James deserved his full attention, but Ruan’s voice dropped to a whisper, and out of the corner of his eye, Ivo saw Barry stiffen, jerking his head back. Glancing toward the end of the table, James frowned and murmured under his breath, “I can go talk to Barry. Tell him to back off.”
“Nah, Ruan’s a cop. Detective up in SF.” Ivo glanced up, hoping his grin reassured James. The other artist was shifting back and forth on his feet. “You okay?”
“Sure. Fine. Kind of nerve-wracking having my stuff looked over by a shop’s headhunter,” James confessed with a short laugh. “Ivo Rogers, huh? Out of 415 Ink?”
“Yeah.” Grasping James’s outstretched hand, Ivo gave it a good shake, then let go. “Headhunting’s a strong word. More like… seeing who’s out here. It’s been a while since I’ve done a show.”
“I saw you in Vegas two years ago. You came out with a couple of your brothers.” James dug through a box set on a chair behind him, pulling out a smaller binder. After flipping it open, he put it down on the table, showing Ivo a full clipper ship and swallows worked into a rope-and-roses frame. “Worked as a guest out there at Rolling Dice. Did a lot of American Traditional.”
Another peek at Ruan, and Ivo saw Barry was gone, leaving behind the two men Ivo thought were related. The dissipating tightness lingered a bit in the air, but Ruan’s stern demeanor remained, probably residual cop attitude he couldn’t shake off even if he tried. As engaged as Ivo was in James’s artwork, he grabbed at the image of Ruan standing firm a few feet away, burning it into his memory so he could turn it back around onto paper, sculpting the memory into lines and shadows so he could revisit the feelings later. Ruan’s presence was a welcome one in his life. He wanted to hold on to it, turn it over and revel in it, even capture moments they shared with the artistic lens he saw the world through.
“Anything you want to ask?” James’s voice broke through Ivo’s musings. Hooking his thumbs into his pockets, James rocked on his heels, pushing his shoulders back. “Anything you need to know?”
Something sharp was in James’s voice, a timbre of authority Ivo heard in Ruan’s. It made him look up, the glint of steel at odds with the casual demeanor James fronted. Stripping away the artist from the man, Ivo studied the potential addition to 415 Ink, judging how he would fit in. Like Ruan, there wasn’t much ego, but certainly a confidence James carried himself with. There was a hardness in his brown eyes, veiled behind the amiable personality James put forward. But it was definitely there. He looked like somebody Ivo could trust in a fight. It wasn’t just the bulk of muscles across his chest and in his arms, his loose T-shirt doing little to hide the definition of his body beneath the cotton fabric. James Rockwell looked like he could handle himself, and Ivo gave him credit for noticing the tussle going on at the next table.
Still, he was focused on Ivo and what Ivo was bringing with him. Walking into the expo without being attached to a booth certainly meant Ivo was looking around, and not just for another piece of ink. The questions he was asking were pointed and phrased to dig into an artist’s work. James would’ve had to be the most broken chopstick in the utensil drawer not to have known Ivo was headhunting, but he also got credit for not being nervous about it.
“How do you feel about walk-ins?” It was a blatant question. There was no hiding behind a wink or a nudge. Ivo was laying everything out on the table, asking questions James would expect at an interview. “Tell me how you would deal with a group of women coming in to get something small.”
“How small?” James shot back, his hands still in his pockets and his body language loose. “Flash or custom?”
“Could be flash. Something off the wall, but maybe one or two of them want something custom on it, like a change of color or altering a few lines.” Ivo went back to the tiger, looking at the photo for any imperfections. “Just something small. Flowers. Couple of hearts. Nothing like this.”
“The way I see it, everybody gets tattooed for a different reason. Sometimes, it isn’t about what someone gets but why they’re getting it. That group of women should get treated the same as somebody who comes in for a custom back piece.” James looked at something over Ivo’s shoulder, his eyes unfocused and distant. Then the moment was gone and James gave Ivo a wry smile. “Let’s not bullshit each other. Everyone here who’s been in the industry for more than ten minutes knows who you are. And about three-quarters of them think you’re a dick. Half of those people say you’re a shitty artist but—and I’m not going to blow smoke up your ass—we both know you can tattoo circles around everyone in here. But every single one of them would say you don’t play games. You don’t brag. You just know a lot of people and have learned from some of the legends.
“You’ve got something I don’t have. Not the shop—although I wouldn’t mind one of those—and not the talent, because you and I tattoo differently. We’re on different levels. Do I wish I could look at something and twist it like you do? Sure. But I can look at a lot of artists and say I wish I could do that. That doesn’t mean I suck. It just means I’m not at your level, and that’s something I can live with,” he continued. “But what you do have is access. Access to those guys who taught you, and sitting in a chair at 415 means I’d get the chance to connect with those people. People who are better than me and I can learn from. I need a place where I can learn all the tricks and be around artists who push me. And if I have to tattoo a thousand little red hearts on a thousand ankles to get there, you bet your ass I’m going to do it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“How do you take criticism?” Ivo lobbed the conversation back at him, delving past James’s speech, digging in deep. “We’ve got an opening for an artist, but not a permanent stall. Do you understand that? Nobody’s name gets put on the wall unless they earn it. Not me. Not Gus. And Bear paid his dues way before we opened our doors so his was the first name we put up. People in the shop are going to take shots at your sketches and then have something to say about your ink when you’re done. You going to be okay with that?”
“Depends on the criticism,” James replied. “And if they’re willing to listen to some of it right back. If it’s just to tear something apart to be an asshole, then no. But if it’s to show me where something went wrong or how to get a better look, make something readable, then I’m all for it.”
“Okay.” Ivo flipped back toward the front of the book, away from the tiger with its beautiful shading and clean lines to a wolf he’d seen James had done a couple of months earlier. The resolution of the finished piece was clearer than the tiger, picking up every pore and welt on the customer’s skin. “If you’d shown me the sketch for this before you started, I would’ve told you it needed a different perspective than flat on. The shading is decent, and given the size of the wolf, you’ve got enough detail in there so it’s recognizable, but as a blue-and-black chromatic, you didn’t do yourself any favors by making the pine trees in the background a
single note, and the wolf doesn’t have any dimension. Even if you were going after a paper-cutout style, you would still want some depth of view to make it more interesting. Most of the line work is good. You’ve got a few blowouts on the trees and you didn’t commit to packing in black where you needed it the most, so over time, the wolf’s going to fade back and the trees will become the dominant feature. The black is fixable. The rest of it isn’t.”
James turned the binder around, staring at the picture as if he’d not seen it before. Grunting to himself, he grabbed a sketchbook he’d been working in when Ivo approached, and placed it on the binder next to his original composition. “Show me what you mean by perspective and depth.”
“Hand me that pencil.” Ivo squatted, moving the binders out of the way and ignoring the pull of his calf muscles complaining about the angle of his boots and the uncomfortable position he’d put his legs in. Problem was, he worked better sitting down, and unless he was going to climb over the table to get to one of the chairs, his legs were just going to have to suck it up. Taking the soft lead pencil from James, he flipped to a blank page, studying the original sketch. “It’s not going to be ink ready, but you’ll see what I mean.”
“Here, sit on this,” Ruan said, stepping from the side of the table with a folding chair he’d liberated from someplace. “Watching you fold yourself in half there makes my knees hurt.”
“Thanks.” Ivo’s legs sighed with relief when he settled down into the seat. Inching forward, he hunched over the sketchbook and began to fly.
The crowd faded, slipping back when Ivo’s mind unfolded. Ruan remained by his side, as did the table beneath him, but everything else fell away, his world focused on the blank piece of paper beneath his fingertips. There was a lot wrong with the original. Not wrong per se, but not good enough. He knew art was subjective. Paintings he loved repulsed others, and he never understood people’s fascination with postmodern art. He could appreciate American Traditional, understanding its rules and what made one piece brilliant and another dull, but it wasn’t his favorite style. It wasn’t even in the top ten. He didn’t like to live by strict constraints and hated it even more when doing tattoos. He wanted movement and vibrancy, even when doing something monochromatic. A piece of art on the skin should capture a slice of someone’s soul, and when given the chance to work on a canvas unfettered by anything but his imagination, Ivo felt the most free.
What the wolf needed was a change in camera angle, and a softer touch in its background. Working without a reference was a little difficult, but the details at the moment weren’t important. It was more about the creature’s stance, the squaring of its shoulders, like Ruan facing down Barry or James coming to alert at the rise of the voices at the end of the table. The wolf needed to master the landscape, dominate the tattoo, and force everything behind it to fade, refusing to give up the place it carved for itself on the customer’s skin.
Ivo didn’t know how long he took, but it could’ve only been a few minutes. The seat was still a little cold, but it was a pressure of warmth behind him, the murmur of people having grown since he’d sat down. There was something wrong with the rough sculpt of the wolf’s chest, but a few strokes of the pencil fixed it, and he darkened those lines, giving them prominence. Satisfied with the sketch, Ivo turned it and the binder around for James to see.
“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Ivo murmured, leaning forward to talk to James, his kilt spilled over his knees. “It’s just a shift to one side, and it’s only a few degrees, but it changes the perspective—”
“No. You’re right, and I kind of really hate you for right now,” James interrupted, a scowl on his face. He wasn’t angry—Ivo could see that—but he was disappointed. Irritated even. “This is what I need. I’ve got the techniques, but I need work on my eye. I can see the difference, but I need to know that before I begin a sketch.”
“I’ll have Bear call you. Give me one of your cards, and he’ll get ahold of you sometime this weekend.” Ivo stood up, rubbing at his thighs. “And if he gives you a chair, make sure you don’t tattoo in heels, because we’ve got a cement floor and it’s a fucking bitch and a half on your knees after more than twenty minutes.”
“FUCK, I’M tired.” Ivo draped himself over the sectional, grunting under Spot’s sudden weight when the cat jumped up onto his stomach. “Jesus, cat. You weigh about a hundred pounds and your breath smells like a fish orgy. I fed you chicken. How can you smell like a salmon’s armpit?”
“Do salmon even have armpits?” Ruan chuckled, shifting the cat off of Ivo. “Sit up. I’ll help you get your boots off.”
“What is it with you and Bear and my shoes?” Ivo grumbled as he righted himself. “Not that I’m complaining about taking them off. Would it kill anyone if they put padding under industrial carpet? I don’t know what hurts more, my knees or my spine.”
“Could you not lump Bear and me together in one sentence when I’m contemplating not stopping with your shoes when I begin to strip you?” he teased, sitting down on the end of the L. “Turn and put your feet up.”
It’d been a long and enlightening day. There’d been artists who Ivo knew and handshakes and hugs given, while a couple were like Barry, muttering under their breath when Ivo walked by. Nothing had prepared him for the enmity Ivo encountered, but it had been a delight to see his lover stand shoulder to shoulder with obvious veterans of the industry listening intently to what he had to say about arts, styles, and where he saw their craft going.
“Okay. No mentioning Bear.” Ivo turned and, with a long groan, pulled his legs up, resting his feet in Ruan’s lap. “Fuck, that floor was brutal. Hadn’t meant on staying there for that long. A couple of hours, maybe, but not the whole show. And how do you know my feet won’t stink? Those could be nuclear weapons. Like your cat’s breath.”
“Because I trust your body not to betray me.” The zipper was a bit tricky, but Ruan eventually got it down. A few seconds later, he discovered the buckles weren’t just for show and spent a bit of time working them loose. The boot slid off easily, curving up when Ruan tugged it free. “Okay, there’s one.”
He got the other one off quickly, amused with Ivo’s kneading the air with his toes, stretching his socks out by arching his feet. Stripping off Ivo’s socks was as much of a chore as taking off his boots, especially when Spot decided to fight Ruan’s efforts. After working the offending socks into a tight ball, Ruan tossed them toward the kitchen, and Spot quickly bounded after the knotted sphere to bat it around the floor. Rubbing at the arches of Ivo’s feet got another moan, sensual and thick with pleasure. Laughing, Ruan kept it up, running his thumbs up the sides of Ivo’s ankles.
“Keep that up and I’m going to marry you,” Ivo purred, stretching his legs out as far as they could go, breaking Ruan’s hold on his feet. “Okay, that sounded weird. Ignore that. Endorphins. Relief my toes can breathe. Just… ignore it.”
“I don’t know. It’s a good incentive for me.” Ruan pretended to ponder the idea, but something in him… clicked. “I come home to clean clothes, food, and a happy cat. Can’t say I wouldn’t trade a few foot rubs for that.”
“I… am a pain in the ass to live with.” Ivo crawled over toward Ruan, then straddled his lap, pinning Ruan to the couch with his hands on Ruan’s shoulders. His kilt bunched up against Ruan’s stomach, the thick pleats tickling him through his T-shirt, but the sensation was overwhelmed by Ivo’s satisfying weight settling down on his hips. “You’d have to come live with me and Bear in the house. This place is too small, and I wouldn’t want to leave Bear alone. Earl loves cats. Like loves them to death. He keeps trying to play with the neighbor’s cat, but she’s a bitch. The cat. Not the neighbor. Won’t have anything to do with him. Spot would give him a run for his money. They could play fetch together.”
“Sounds like you’ve got this all worked out. Sure you were joking about the stalker thing?” It was hard to speak around the lump in his throat, and as hard as Ruan tried, he co
uldn’t keep the images of waking up next to Ivo every morning from filling his mind. “Maybe I should meet the family first? Officially, and not after you’ve gotten into a fight with a bunch of assholes trying to rob you.”
“That can be arranged. Mace and Rob are playing in a baseball game against another station tomorrow. Whole family’s probably going to show up.” Ivo leaned back, giving Ruan some room. “Neutral territory. We’ll probably throw some food on the grill, and they’ll boast about how much better firemen are than cops. You know, that kind of thing.”
“Sounds… very domestic and suburban. I’m in. Now, can we talk about something that doesn’t include impending doom and maybe my head getting ripped off my neck?” he whispered, unable to keep his mind on the lurking dangers of Ivo’s brothers and an afternoon spent dodging their jabs and questions. Ivo’s kilt slithered up his thighs when he moved, exposing long stretches of gorgeous skin over rippling muscles, and Ruan couldn’t resist sliding his hands over Ivo’s tense legs, tracing the sculpted lines he found there with his thumbs. “You’re taking advantage of me. It’s not fair talking to me about these kinds of things while you’re wearing this and sitting on my lap.”
“I’ve got something even better to distract you. Did you know this kilt has pockets?” Ivo dug his hand into a part in the pleats by his hip and came up with a small square foil packet with a screaming, flaming skull printed on it. “Look what Ratchet Studio was giving away as swag. I grabbed a handful of them. Prelubed, and they apparently have flash art on the latex. Some of them even glow in the dark.”
“Who the hell gives condoms away as a marketing thing?” Ruan took the packet. It was slickly done, emblazoned with the tattoo shop’s address and website on the back, with a reminder to practice safe sex and tattooing. “I mean, it definitely gets you noticed. But do you want to equate sex with the pain of a whole bunch of needles punching through your skin?”
