She halted, turned to look at me. “You built it?”
I nodded. “Yep. My cousin Lewis did an internship for an architect up in Anchorage. I drew up the design and had my cousin’s boss look it over. I’ve got a shit-ton of cousins, so once I bought the raw materials, it only took a dozen of us a couple of weeks to put it up. Helped that one of my other cousins works for a home builder out of Juneau, so he made sure we didn’t fuck anything up. Only things I paid to have professionally done were the plumbing and electric.”
Liv grinned at me. “And, let me guess, you have cousins who got you discounts?”
I laughed. “I wish. But no. Out of pocket, full price, local union boys.”
She eyed the home again: steeply pitched roof to make room for the loft, dormer, doors on either end, which I call front and back but really are just left and right side of the house, in through the living space and out through the kitchen.
“Well. You did a marvelous job. If you weren’t a tattoo artist already, I’d say you could have a career building these.”
I couldn’t help but feel a little pride. “Thanks. I’ve thought about that, actually. Still may do that, just for some variety from doing tats.” I led her to the front door, meaning the left side. Opened the door for her, let her precede me inside.
Cassie was on my couch, a bowl of soup in her lap, wrapped up in one of my giant flannel blankets. She saw us come in, and seemed to perk up a little.
“Hi, Mom.” Her eyes flitted to mine. “Hi, Ink.”
“Feelin’ better, huh?” I asked, taking a spot against the wall in the kitchen, where my bulk wouldn’t be in the way of mother and daughter.
Cassie nodded, lifted the bowl of soup. “Yes, much better. This soup is amazing. You made it?”
I bit back a grin, anticipating the other half of this conversation. “Yep. Old family recipe.”
She spooned a bite, and when she’d finished she glanced at me. “What kind of meat is it? Not beef, not pork, not chicken, or fish.”
I waited, let her finish the last few bites before answering. “It’s, uh—like I said, old family recipe. An’ when I say old, I mean real old.” I grinned. “It’s moose soup.”
She blinked at me, and then stared down the empty bowl, going a little pale. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Moose. Moose meat. I did a thread piece on Fox last week, and he traded me a nice haunch of fresh moose.”
She let out a sigh, and I could see her working through it. “Well. I knew it wasn’t the usual suspects, so I can’t say I’m shocked. And it was pretty delicious. Not as gamey as I would have assumed it would be.”
“Well, it’s fresh. I froze a good bit of it for later, but I’ve been makin’ soup from it ever since I got it. Gotta use the right cuts for soup, and those parts don’t freeze as well. It’s lean, too. Healthy for you.” I glanced at Liv. “Care for a bowl?”
She smiled, taking a seat next to Cassie on my couch. “Yes, please. I haven’t had dinner yet, so if you have enough, I’d be delighted.” She accepted a bowl from me, inhaling the steam. “This smells amazing.”
“Moose soup was a staple around my house, growing up. At my house, or Juneau’s, or go into any of my cousin’s houses pretty much ten months outta the year and you’ll find moose soup simmering on the stove. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve poured some into a Thermos and taken it out hunting with me.”
Liv tried a few bites, her face brightening. “So, you’re a talented tattoo artist, you built this house, and you’re a great cook?” She glanced at Cassie. “Probably the first time I actually approve of your friends, Cassandra.”
Cassie stuck her tongue out. “You loved Amy and Britt. Can’t pretend you didn’t.”
Liv shrugged. “I love you, and you loved them, so I accepted them. Not the same thing.”
Cassie frowned. “Wait, what?”
“They were not the greatest influences on you, if you want the truth.” Liv met her daughter’s eyes. “Amy’s home life was…troubled, at best, and I was never entirely comfortable with you spending time at her house. Britt was a sweet girl, but a little flighty. Between the two of them, you got into more trouble than I think you would have left to your own devices.”
“Wow. I never knew.”
“They weren’t outright troublemakers, and you never spoke of any real issues at Amy’s house, so I never saw enough reason to keep you from them.”
Cassie frowned. “We rarely left Amy’s room if we were there.” She thought, eyes going up and to the left. “Now that I think about it, Amy was pretty cagey about her family. We tended to just stay in her room. If we wanted something, she’d get it for us.” A glance at her mom. “What do you know about her family?”
A shrug from Liv. “Nothing concrete. But there were lots of rumors about her dad. The other moms would talk in the pickup lines and later on chat boards. The rumors were he drank a lot, and there were a few who suspected he hit her. But nothing ever concrete, like I said. Helen never seemed to me like an abused woman, and Bruce was never drunk when I was around him, so I couldn’t stop you from going over there based on rumor and hearsay.”
Cassie shook her head. “Weird to know what you weren’t aware of, you know?” She glanced at me. “You built this place?”
I nodded. “Yep. Had a lot of help from my endless supply of cousins.”
Liv was looking around. “Very simple and attractive layout. Good use of space. Lots of storage. In order to be more widely and commercially available, you’d probably need to include an eating nook or something.”
I shrugged. “I eat at the coffee table.”
“I know, and a lot of people would do the same. But I know from personal experience that most people want a dedicated eating area.” She gestured at the end of the cabinets on the sink side of the space, where there was a few feet of empty space. “Build in a table there with a bench along the wall, picnic table style, and a bench on the other side. Wouldn’t take up much room and would give you somewhere other than your couch nook to eat.”
Cassie laughed. “Mom is an interior designer, so you’re getting her professional opinion, free of charge, unasked for.”
I nodded, thinking. “That’s a good idea. I rarely have guests, so I didn’t think it was necessary for me, but if I was gonna build one for someone else, I could do that.” I laughed. “My cousin Juneau is the person I’m closest to, and even she rarely comes over here. You two are the first guests I’ve had in a long time.”
“No girlfriend?” Liv asked.
I shrugged, looking away. “Nah.”
“Sweet, multitalented guy like you, I’d think you’d have your pick.”
I snorted. “You’re thinkin’ of Juneau’s boyfriend and his family. Ain’t nobody lined up for this mess,” I said, slapping my belly.
“Mom!” Cassie snapped. “Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude, I’m being complimentary,” Liv answered, her voice calm and quiet, but hard.
“You’re prying,” Cassie insisted.
“It’s fine. No harm, no foul.” I ladled myself some soup, ate standing up.
Liv nudged Cassie with her shoulder. “So, are you up to going home today?”
Cassie nodded, not looking at her mother. “Sure. Just…don’t push things, okay?”
“Push what?” Liv asked. “I don’t push anything.”
Cassie snorted. “Um, yeah, you do. You want to talk about things. You want me to tell you how I’m feeling every moment of every day. You want me to get back on my feet. You want me to process and cope and make healthy choices and…it’s exhausting.”
Liv looked down at her empty bowl. “I just want the best for you. You’ve been through a lot.”
“And I just want to cope with it my way, okay?”
I kept quiet, knowing this conversation wasn’t about me, and wasn’t meant for me. I busied myself in the kitchen, not wanting to pry, but I’d admit to being a bit curious about Cassie’s past since I kn
ew almost nothing about her. I was trying to make myself invisible—pretty much impossible—but I was surprised at how open they were with one another. It was almost as if I wasn’t there at all.
“I get that, Cass, but I’m worried your way of coping is to not cope at all.” A pause. “Or to cope through overindulgence.”
“Mom, god. Come on. I’ve been brutally strict about every aspect of my life, my whole life. You know how many Friday nights I stayed home and went to bed early instead of going to parties with my friends because I had dance in the morning? You know how much I missed out on? How often I sat and watched my friends have milkshakes and fries while I ate a salad or dry chicken breast? That was my childhood, my early teenage years, and my entire adulthood thus far. And it’s fine. I chose it. I wanted it, I wanted dance and I willingly sacrificed all that to get there. But now dance is gone, Mom. It’s gone. It’s never coming back.”
“You don’t know that, Cass,” Liv said. “Maybe—”
“I do know that. I have a hardware store’s worth of metal in my right leg, Mom. It took weeks of PT just to be able to use it at all. Weeks after that, I still can’t walk more than a couple blocks without it hurting. Shit, sometimes it hurts just sitting doing nothing, like right now. If I ever dance again, it’ll be…months, at best. And that’ll require a level of work I’m just not sure I’m up for. I worked so fucking hard to get where I was, and it was taken away from me in a matter of seconds. And now I have to start all over again? I don’t know. I just…I don’t know that it’s worth it.”
“You’re a dancer, Cassandra. It’s who you are.”
“It was,” Cassie whispered and then went silent for a long time. She got up and limped for the door. “I don’t know who the hell I am now.” She gave me a tight, small smile. “Thank you, Ink. For…everything.”
I didn’t smile back, because it wasn’t what she needed. I just gazed at her steadily. “Be strong, little sparrow.”
She swallowed hard, even as she pretended to laugh lightheartedly at me. “Weirdo.”
She left, leaving Liv and me alone in the taut silence. “Sorry, Ink. Family stuff is messy.”
I shrugged. “All good. Trust me, I know about messy family stuff.”
She left then, too, and for the first time in four days, I was alone in my home.
It felt weirdly, uncomfortably empty.
At two in the morning, a couple of days later, I was at the laundromat, washing my bedding and the rest of my laundry. Sitting alone, sketchbook on my knees, I was working on a landscape I’d started. Or at least it had begun as a landscape. A mountain in the background, the channel, a pier. Then, somehow, the focus had shifted from the landscape to a wooden post in the foreground. With a small sparrow perched on it. Wings fluffed, about to take flight.
I specialized in animals, so sketching something like this was not a big surprise. But I’d never done much with sparrows. Not really a heavy hitter in the indigenous tattoo world, sparrows.
I heard the little bell over the doorway ding, but I didn’t look up. Someone else coming in to wash clothes was none of my business, even in the middle of the night.
Except I felt a presence, and then someone sat down beside me. “That’s an incredible drawing, Ink,” I heard Cassie say. “I mean, really incredible.” She huffed. “Thought for sure I’d be the only one doing laundry at this dumb hour.”
I turned and offered her a smile in greeting. “Thanks.”
She met my gaze. “A sparrow, huh?”
I shrugged, nodded. “Just doodling.”
She frowned. “That’s a doodle?”
I nodded. “To me it is, yeah. Just something I’m working on to pass the time.”
She eyed the sparrow again. “It looks so real. Like, it could fly off at any moment.”
“I sorta specialize in lifelike animal pieces.” I flipped back a few pages, showed her the final charcoal drawing I’d done as a sample design for a client—a coiled cobra, hood flared, fangs bared. “That’s a piece I did for a client. Final version on him was full color, and was even more lifelike.”
She shivered. “Eew. Not a fan of snakes. But that’s…I can’t believe you can do that with nothing but pencils.” She peered closer. “Even in black and white and gray, it looks…slimy. And…angry.”
I laughed. “Yeah, he was a biker, and his gang nickname was King Cobra. So his tat had to be intimidating.” I flipped back to my work in progress. “Nice guy, though. That cobra piece paid for a good chunk of my house, too. Full back piece, nearly thirty hours over half a dozen sessions.”
“Thirty hours?” She sounded incredulous. “Of being tattooed?”
I laughed. “That’s pretty common for a full-size, detailed piece. Those full sleeves you see, from shoulder all the way down?” I swept a finger down my own full sleeve of tattoos, albeit most of my sleeve work was done in the ancient threading style rather than full-color needle gun style. “Those can take even more, because sleeves are typically many different individual images all woven together, so each piece can take several hours.”
She examined my arm. “Yours look different than the other tattoos I usually see.”
I nodded, tracing the lines and angles and dots on the outside of my right bicep. “It’s threaded.”
“Meaning?”
“Certain cultures, like the Polynesians, and my people—the various Inuit tribes from here in Alaska, Canada, Siberia, Greenland, places like that, we sorta invented the idea of the tattoo. The word ‘tattoo’ itself actually comes from the Polynesian word ‘tatau.’ They use small sharp sticks and an ink mixture and poke it into the skin. Like modern guns, except a lot slower and a lot more painful.” I twisted to show her my ribcage under my left arm, where I had a stick-and-poke piece done in the traditional style. “That one was done that way. I traded a threading piece for a stick-and-poke piece.” I tapped my arm again. “These are done in the Inuit way, with needle and thread and ink. Of course, if I’m doing it for a client, I use modern medical-grade needles, dissolvable thread, and tattoo-grade ink. But on me, I do it the ancient way, with whalebone needles and caribou sinew thread and soot.”
She made a face. “Yikes. Does it hurt?”
I laughed. “To run a needle through your skin hundreds of times? Yeah. But after a while, enduring the pain of it becomes…I dunno. Meditative, I guess you could say.” I glanced at her. “No tats for you, huh?”
She taps her earlobe. “Don’t even have my ears pierced. Body modification isn’t my thing.”
“Was not piercing your ears an intentional decision?”
She bobbed her head side to side. “Not at first, and then yes, it was. Mom wouldn’t do it when I was little, said I had to want it myself. And I just never wanted to. Then, when I was a teenager, it started to be a thing among my friends. But, I was different because I didn’t have them pierced, and I liked that. And from then on, it became an intentional thing.”
I smiled. “See, I look at you, and all I can think is that you have all this beautiful virgin skin for me to draw on.”
She stared at me, into my eyes, hers wide and looking more blue than anything at the moment. She swallowed. “Yeah, I…” A pause, another swallow. A deep breath. And then she looked away and stood up. “I should put my clothes into the washer.”
Despite her having stayed at my place for three-plus days, I hadn’t really looked at her, other than her face and her eyes, until that moment. And when she stood up and went to the washer, dragging a black mesh bag of dirty laundry bigger than she was, my mouth went dry.
I couldn’t look away.
Couldn’t think. Breathe. Swallow.
All I could do was…look.
Legs. God, her legs. Long, long, long. She was five feet something, and from where I was sitting, most of that was leg. Bare, naked leg. She was wearing…I guess “shorts” is the word. Sort of. Booty shorts, dance shorts? I don’t know the word. Tiny, barely there. Like, nothing but enough purple elastic material t
o stretch around each of her taut, hard, round tight buttocks, and that was it. Bare midriff. White tank top, cut off just below her breasts. As in, when she bent over to tug dirty clothes out of her bag and toss them into the washer, I got a brief, tantalizing glimpse of the underside of her breasts.
Her hair, long and platinum blonde, was loose and wild, in a tangled, shimmery sheaf down her back. God, good god, she was built.
She turned away after thumbing coins into the washer—visible abs, thick, strong, powerful thighs, toned arms, hard shoulders. Yet still soft in the right places. She tugged her thick mass of hair down over her shoulder, and her eyes met mine.
I forced air into my lungs, and managed to tear my eyes off of her body.
And you bet she noticed. Glanced down at herself, as if just realizing what she was wearing. “Laundry day, you know? Haven’t really washed my clothes since leaving Paris and that was over two weeks ago.” She did a little pose, popping a hip out, arm over her head, like tada! “So I ended up wearing these dance clothes.”
I shook my head, but words took a moment before emerging. “I—um. I don’t…mind.”
“No?”
I shook my head again, slowly. “No.”
“I wasn’t imagining there would be anybody here this late at night.” She sat down again, rubbed her thigh where I saw scars knotting the flesh and muscle.
“There ain’t, usually. Just me, mostly, which is why I’m here. Nice and quiet and peaceful.”
She nodded. Glanced at me. “You ever wear a shirt?”
I shook my head. “Nah, not usually.”
“What about in the winter?”
I rolled a shoulder. “If it’s real cold, I might throw on a hoodie while I’m outside.”
“Is it because of your tattoos?”
I snorted, a gently sarcastic laugh. “Nah. I just…I’ve never liked wearing anything on my body. It’s a sensitivity thing. I get hot. I’m big, produce a lot of energy, a lotta heat. And I just…I don’t like clothes, in general.” I smirked at her. “But also, yes, it’s sorta like free advertising, I guess. People ask about them, and I can tell them to visit my shop, if they’re serious.”
For A Goode Time Call... Page 5
