[Beneath 01.0] Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  “Yeah, right. He wasn’t exactly your type.”

  “Really?” I pointed at the door. “Did you see the same guy I did? Because he was every woman’s type.” Tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair styled in that artfully messy way, a little stubble on his jaw, and flashing hazel eyes. The military ink on the inside of his corded forearm was pretty hot too.

  “A little straight-edge for you, Lee. Trust me. Plus, you shouldn’t even be thinking about leaving here with some guy you just met. I thought you were smarter than that.” Con frowned down at me.

  I winced, feeling guilty, and knowing he was right. In my quest to lie as little as possible about my past, I let people assume whatever they wanted about my motives for keeping a low profile. Con’s assumption: I was running from an abusive boyfriend. Some days I wished that was the truth, and then I wanted to kick my own ass for feeling sorry for myself and thinking my messed up situation was anywhere near as bad as a battered woman’s. Besides, I didn’t deserve pity. Even from myself.

  I looked at the clock. “You care if I head out? I’m working an early shift tomorrow.”

  He smoothed my hair back from my face. “You work too damn hard. I wish you’d just let me…” His statement trailed off when I looked away. It was a conversation we’d had too many times to count. “Get your mutt, and get out of here, Lee.” Con was the only person who called me Lee. He claimed I was too sexy to call by a guy’s name. Whatever. Thankfully, given what he assumed to be my situation, he paid me under the table and had never asked to see my ID. So I’d let him call me whatever the hell he wanted.

  I grinned. “Thanks, boss.” I whistled shrilly, and he clamped his hands over his ears.

  “Jesus, fuck. Was that necessary?”

  “That’s for cock-blocking me.”

  Con rolled his eyes as my brindle mutt trotted out of the back room. His head came up past the counter, and he stood thirty inches tall at his haunches. Huck and I had arrived in New Orleans on the same day one year earlier, or so I’d been told. I’d met him on my third day in the Crescent City. He was the newest resident of the Humane Society of New Orleans, and I was their newest volunteer. I took one look at the thirty pounds of roly-poly bear-cub-looking pup and begged Harriet, my honorary grandmother and landlord, if she’d allow a pet. She’d agreed. When I’d learned that he’d been found floating down the Mississippi on a pile of plywood and old tires, I’d realized that he was my very own Huckleberry Finn. Fast forward one year, and another 130 pounds, and Huck and I were inseparable. The best I could figure, he was a cross between an English Mastiff and a Great Dane. I wasn’t sure what other combination would produce such a monster. He was my baby, my guardian, and an irreplaceable part of the new family I’d built. Unfortunately, my volunteering had been curtailed by my crazy work schedule.

  Con smacked my ass, and Huck growled softly. “Stow it, mutt. I let you sleep on my goddamn couch.” Con held out a hand, and Huck head-butted it. I wondered if Con had been someone Huck didn’t know, whether he might have lost that hand. It was a theory I didn’t want to test.

  “Get out of here then, girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Con leaned down and brushed a kiss across my temple.

  I snagged my bag from the break room and headed out the back door. I unchained my pale blue Schwinn and hooked a leash to Huck’s collar. He tolerated the indignity for appearance—and leash law’s—sake. Given the thick Friday night crowd, I opted to walk my bike instead of ride. Jimmy, my favorite hot dog vendor, was set up on the corner of Bourbon and St. Louis. He grinned and waved his tongs as I slipped through the mass of people.

  “You want the usual, Ms. Charlie?”

  “Yes, sir. One with everything and one plain.”

  He handed me one hotdog wrapped and the other one unwrapped. Huck sat at my feet, licking his chops; he knew how this worked. He downed his in two head-jerking bites.

  I shook my head. “Someday you’ll learn to savor your food, I swear.” I looked up at Jimmy. “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “It’s a date, Ms. Charlie. To be sure, it’s a date.”

  I pushed my bike, and the drunken revelers parted like the Red Sea. It was a common occurrence when traveling with Huck. His rangy stride was pure king of the beasts, and he looked mean as fuck, so no one bothered us.

  A half-mile later I dug out my keys and unlocked the narrow wrought iron gate that blocked off the passage leading to my secret garden oasis. Okay, Harriet’s secret garden oasis, but she let me use it. Locking the gate behind me, I unclipped Huck’s leash, and he trotted over to his designated grassy section. After he’d taken care of business, we ascended the wrought iron spiral staircase that led to my 500 square foot apartment. It had hardwood floors, a space that could loosely be called a kitchen, an itty-bitty bathroom, and skylights dotting the ceiling throughout. It might be tiny and humble, but it was mine. Well, again, it was Harriet’s, but she leased it to me. The woman was my very own fairy godmother. She was the grandmother of my crazy best friend from college. The one who my mother begged me not to befriend because she had tattoos, and even worse, she was a Democrat. Lena Zwiers was actually more of a socialist, but I didn’t tell my mother that. After college, she’d opted for a stint in the Peace Corps and was now living in Madagascar. Beyond being a fantastic—though long distance—friend, Lena had begged Harriet to let me rent the place. So when I showed up, fresh off the Greyhound from Atlanta, with my newly black hair still reeking of cheap dye, she’d taken me in with open arms. I paid fair rent, but Harriet treated me like more than a tenant. A shrewd businesswoman who owned several shops in the Quarter, Harriet preferred to spend her time painting and traveling the country showing off her art. She’d farmed out management of the shops to trusted employees, one of whom had agreed to hire me—despite the fact that Harriet was my landlord. Which was the reason I had an early shift tomorrow morning at the Dirty Dog, a vintage clothing and novelty shop. I looked at the clock and sighed. It’d be another night of too little sleep.

  I scrubbed the heavy black eyeliner from around my lids and slathered on face cream before curling up in my bed. I reached out a hand to ruffle Huck’s fur where he slept on the rug. With my other hand, I traced the ink on my arm revealed by the dim glow from the skylight. With each line the needle buzzed into my skin, I was another step removed from my former life. The tattoos had become more than camouflage to hide the girl I’d once been; they were a declaration that I was never going back. I’d permanently marked myself to ensure that I could never again fit into the life I’d previously led. The life I’d run from rather than face every day as my father’s daughter. Rather than face constant questioning by the FBI and the chance that the Department of Justice would eventually decide that despite the truth I’d spoken on the stand, I was somehow culpable for my father’s crimes. I could freely admit it had been cowardly to run, but at least by running I gave myself a shot at having some sort of future. A future where my every breath wouldn’t be scrutinized and dissected. Each tat was a conscious, deliberate choice to move toward the new me. I’d taken the tiny spark that had always burned to rebel against my mother’s directives as she groomed me into a perfect society princess, and I’d fanned the flames. The irony of it was, even though I had assumed a false identity, I was finally discovering the real me. All it took was ripping off the blinders I’d worn for twenty-two years.

  Four

  Simon

  I pushed open the door of Voodoo Ink at four o’clock on Saturday afternoon. I’d spent the morning hung over and pathetic, with one thought from the night before bothering the shit out of me—there was no way that girl was as stunning as I’d remembered. I mean, I had on beer goggles, tequila goggles, Hurricane goggles, and every other kind of goggles out there. But my curiosity had gotten the better of me. It was a thread of my drunken compulsion from the night before that my brain wouldn’t let go of. I had to know.

  Just like last night, the bell dinged and a cool rush of air condition
ing hit me as I stepped inside. The place was deserted, and, even sober, it was still creepy looking. A glance at the door told me they’d just opened and would stay open until 2 AM. I couldn’t figure out how the rule about not tattooing drunks gave them enough customers to stay open that late. Not my business or my problem. A woman with chin-length blond and pink hair, wearing a ‘50s style pink and orange polka dot dress, was sitting at the counter.

  No Lee.

  And yes, I remembered her name, even after the last two bars we hit.

  “Hey, handsome. How can I help you?”

  I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone else. Disappointing, but it’d been worth a shot. I glanced down at my faded tattoo. Might as well make the trip a useful one.

  “Con mentioned something about doing touch-ups for veterans.” I held out my forearm where the trident and anchor I’d gotten shortly after graduation from the Naval Academy were now a dull gray.

  The woman flipped open the appointment book on the counter and then extended a hand with orange-tipped nails. “I’m Delilah, and I’d be happy to do that for you. Thank you for your service.” I shook her hand and followed her to one of the small rooms where she pushed aside the black curtain. “I’m the only one here right now,” she explained. “We may get interrupted with walk-ins, but you picked a good time, because things don’t usually pick up until later.”

  I almost asked about Lee, but held my tongue.

  Delilah’s eyes narrowed at my silence. “Don’t think that means I won’t fuck you up if you try to make a move on me. You don’t have the kind of equipment I like.”

  I held back a smile at her serious expression. “Duly noted, ma’am.”

  She got to work.

  Just over an hour later, I was pretty fucking happy with the touched-up tattoo. It looked better than it had when I’d originally gotten it. I’d shot the shit with Delilah, and she’d drawn up another tattoo for me. One that I’d been thinking about getting for years, but had never made time to actually do it. It was a memorial. A list of dates I knew by heart and the call signs of the brothers I’d lost. Simple script. Nothing fancy. But long overdue. I was pulling my T-shirt off so she could place the transfer paper on my left shoulder blade when I heard a door shutting and what sounded like nails clicking on the linoleum floor. And then I heard her voice.

  “Sorry I’m late, Delilah! Huck chased after one of the horse-drawn carriages and yanked me off my bike. I ripped my damn jeans, and I need the freaking first aid kit.”

  Delilah jumped into action, but I remained in place.

  “Oh sweetie, look at your knee. And your hands. Ouch. Clean yourself up. I’ve got this covered. Just doing a walk-in.” Delilah’s voice lowered. “And if I were into guys … let me tell you…”

  Someone snorted. “As many times as I’ve heard you say that … don’t you think you might be bi-curious?”

  My attention was wrenched away from their conversation when the clicking nails materialized in the doorway of the tiny room as a massive fucking dog. His black and brown swirled fur was short, thick, and dense. He stared me down with giant, dark brown eyes.

  “Huck! C’mere, baby. Get outta there.” Lee’s voice was a smoky alto and sexy as hell.

  She peeked a head into the room. “Sorry—” She jerked back. “It’s you.”

  I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corners of my mouth. I wasn’t just a faceless customer. Good to know.

  “And it’s you. Lee, right?”

  She nodded slowly. “Charlie, actually. Con’s the only one who calls me Lee.”

  I held out my hand. “Simon.”

  She reached out to reciprocate the gesture, but I saw the angry red scrapes on the base of her palm, and turned her small hand over in mine. “You should probably take care of that.”

  She scrunched her nose. “I know. But it’s going to hurt like hell when I pour that stinging stuff on it. I’m trying to psych myself up first.” She looked down at the dog that had moved to place himself directly between us. “And I need to get Huck into the back room. I don’t like to let him wander. He scares the shit out of customers.”

  “Since he’s roughly the size of a pony, I can see why.” The dog was eyeballing me as I held his mistress’s hand in mine. “Is he going to rip me to pieces for touching you?”

  She smiled down at the furry giant. “If he thought you were a threat, probably. If he knew you, maybe not. But I don’t know you, so I’m not introducing you to my dog. For all I know, you could be some creepy stalker.” She eyed me up and down, and it occurred to me that I was shirtless. And she was studying the tattoo over my left pectoral muscle … and the rest of my chest … and my abs … before she dragged her gaze back up to my face. If I knew anything about women, which was debatable for any man, I would’ve said she looked interested.

  I released her hand and flipped over my forearm. “Came back for my touch up. And Delilah’s going to hook me up with another.”

  “She does great work. I’m sure you’ll be pleased.” Charlie inhaled and let out a long breath. “I guess I better go clean myself up. Come on, Huck.”

  She turned away, and the dog followed close on her heels.

  Well, I had my answer.

  She was every bit as gorgeous as I remembered.

  Five

  Charlie

  I pulled the giant first aid kit out from under the sink in the employee bathroom. I hadn’t lied to the guy. Simon. I really didn’t want to pour that shit on my hands and knee. It would hurt like hell, and Juanita wasn’t here to blow on it and lessen the sting like she had when I was a kid. Dammit. Two days in a row. But I couldn’t push the thought of Juanita aside. I missed her. I kept up with her life as best I could with my infrequent stops at the public library. There, at least, my searches and internet browsing couldn’t be tracked back to me. But since the library wasn’t Huck-friendly, and I pretty much took him everywhere, I didn’t get to keep as close of tabs on her as I would have liked. Huck’s presence had deterred a close call about six months ago, and after that he’d become sort of a security blanket. Without him, I might have … I shivered, remembering the scrape of the brick across my cheek as some tweaker asshole had shoved me up against the public restroom at the NOLA City Bark—the off-leash dog park downtown.

  Huck and I had stayed until closing one night, and I’d ducked into the restroom for a pit stop before starting our trek home. I was kicking myself for not leashing him while I stepped away, because when I came out of the bathroom, he was off exploring the other side of the four and a half acre park. Before I could even open my mouth to call him back, I was slammed face first into the brick wall. I’d been paralyzed with shock for a beat before I’d started struggling against his hold. Sour breath wafted over my shoulder as cruel hands roamed my body, tearing at my clothes. His garbled words didn’t register; all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. I pushed against the wall, scraping up the skin of my hands, and found my voice. I have no idea what I’d yelled, but Huck had come barreling toward us, his puppy bark transforming into something deep and vicious. The man had stumbled back, seeing the hundred pound monster heading for him, teeth-bared, and run for the fence, scrambling over it before Huck’s snapping jaws could reach him. I’d dropped to my knees, adrenaline pumping, lungs heaving. Huck had barked at the fence for only a few moments before racing back to my side and guarding me against any other potential threats. He’d shown his loyalty before, but that day … I let out a long breath and shook off the memory, grateful to my pup that a close call was all I had to remember.

  Back to happier thoughts—Juanita. She was living with her daughter and son-in-law in New Jersey. She was now a full-time stay-at-home grandma. I was glad she got to spend as much time with her family as she wanted, rather than the limited amount she’d been able to take before. Her social network accounts were splashed with pictures of her beloved grandkids and all of the fun they were having together. It made me think back to my childhood. She
’d been the one to take me on nature hikes through the woods at our country house, and take me swimming during the summers at the Hamptons. She played a central role in all of my best memories. I swallowed the lump in my throat. It was better this way. I’d give it a few years—let the dust settle—and then I’d contact her.

  The other person I kept tabs on was my mother. Not that there were many tabs to keep. She’d basically gone into hiding, although not nearly as successfully as me. She had, I’m sure, much to her horror, gone back upstate to live with my grandparents. It seemed that her stable of wealthy friends had turned their backs on her. Not surprising considering most had lost millions investing with my father. They might have recovered easier from the losses than the people who’d lost their whole lifesavings, but it didn’t make them any happier about it. According to every article I’d read, my father still hadn’t given up a single sliver of information as to where the money went. His sentence had equated to multiple lifetimes in federal prison. Unless there was an upside for him, he’d never talk. Then there were the news articles I avoided—the ones that speculated on my whereabouts. It seemed that the leading hypothesis was that I was living off my father’s ill-gotten gains in Switzerland. Every time I accidentally ran across one of those articles, I’d take a deep breath and remind myself that they wouldn’t be speculating if they knew my actual whereabouts. And then I’d head back to Voodoo and get another tattoo. More camouflage. Another mask to hide behind. I hadn’t quite moved into the facial piercing phase, but depending on what the news said, I could be headed that way. I also kicked myself for not thinking of getting colored contacts. My eyes were too damn distinctive not to attract attention. But it was too late now. People would ask way more questions if I suddenly showed up with brown eyes.