He groans into his pillow, punches it like it will make me shut up. ‘Fuck off,’ he says again.
I pull my hand back. ‘Fine.’
Matty catches my wrist before I get far at all. He keeps me beside him. His fingers tighten their grip, their familiar calloused tips waking my insides, and when he turns his head, his amber eyes widen in a way only I can understand.
‘Fine,’ I repeat, defeated.
He tugs on my wrist and I go easily. I always do. I lie flat on my back so he can drape himself over me. I struggle to ignore the warm tickle of his slow, even breath on my neck, the way he nuzzles into me.
I look up, focus on the ceiling instead.
It looks just like the rest of the walls, every bit of white covered like he doesn’t want anyone to see that beneath all the glossy muscles his room is just as plain as everyone else’s. They surround him like a shield, famous faces he’ll probably never meet. They stare from every angle, watch us like they’re gods or something.
Matty shifts and I look away, bury my nose in his dark hair instead. I breathe in deeply. It stinks of styling wax and cigarettes, but somewhere beneath that I can just make out the sharp scent of tea tree.
My left hand rests on the arm he has stretched across my stomach. ‘When did you swap my cheetah for some scrawny ginge dude?’
‘Yesterday,’ he mumbles, distant and dreary. ‘I needed it.’ He clears his throat. ‘The empty spot was weirding me out.’
My fingers creep towards his elbow, rub tiny circles on the textured skin. ‘What for?’
He exhales loudly and pulls away from me, blindly reaches for something on the floor beside him. He rustles around for a minute before he finally sits up and looks for what he wants.
I flinch when a hardcover book hits my gut. Matty curls into my side again as I pick the familiar thing up.
‘I’m getting inked,’ he tells me before I have a chance to open his journal.
‘What?’ I blurt out.
He nods against me with an absentminded hum.
I poke his cheek and he opens his eyes. He doesn’t look all that thrilled, but I’m not either.
‘Matteo,’ I say firmly, demanding almost. ‘What the fuck?’
‘I hate it when you call me that,’ he complains. He props himself up on his left elbow. He holds my gaze for a moment, dead silent. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’
‘Why?’
He doesn’t say anything, just takes his journal and sits up completely. I follow his lead. Our shoulders brush when I’m upright, but there’s no pleased hum in my chest, no warm tickle. I watch him flip pages quickly, searching for the source of my assumed happiness, I guess.
He finally stops. ‘Here.’
I hold my breath, unable to look away from the picture he’s showing me.
‘You cut it up,’ I say at length, unsure if I’m horrified or awed by what he’s done to the drawing I gave him. ‘You—’
‘Fuck no,’ he says quickly. ‘No, it’s — I copied it first. I cut up the copy.’
Somehow I don’t notice just how hard my heart is pounding until I hear his reassuring words. King cheetahs are his favourite animal in the world; he adores them more than the crash of cymbals and wail of guitars. I spent days getting that piece perfect for him. It’s important to me, fucking special.
The portrait I drew a good year ago now has been cut straight down the middle. The left half is untouched, but the right has been redrawn from scratch, reborn in a way that’s distinctly Matty. My cheetah morphs into a rotting corpse, all bone and torn flesh. He dies as your eyes cross the page.
Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he starts out dead and comes back to life, resurrected.
‘It’s us,’ he tells me.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I admit.
He steals my full attention with, ‘I’m getting it on my back. The whole thing.’
‘Matty, no.’ I shake my head rapidly. ‘You can’t. That’s way too big. And what if, like, something happens and we don’t …’
The softness his face shows when we’re alone vanishes in a split second, his amber eyes darkening so fast I flinch. His jawline is hard, his soft lips as straight as his shoulders. Every muscle in his body has stiffened and he’s suddenly wide awake.
This is the face the rest of the world is forced to see. This is the bitter resentment that protects him.
‘It’s my body,’ he tells me, tongue sharp and deliberate. He snaps his book shut. ‘I’ll do what I want. You don’t like it, don’t look at it.’
‘I do like it,’ I insist, palms up defensively. ‘I do, Matt. But I just — Your whole back? Seriously?’
He tilts his dark head, eyes locked on something other than me. He scratches his jaw.
Matty looks back at me with a smirk, forehead relaxed once again.
I lean back a fraction, uncertain. ‘What?’
He licks his bottom lip slowly. ‘I’ll get a smaller tattoo if you get one too.’
I blink. ‘You’re out of your fucking mind,’ I say bluntly.
Laughter knocks him backwards and he hits his bed with a soft thump. ‘Don’t act so surprised,’ he says brightly. His eyes slip shut. ‘And don’t be such a pussy, either. It’s just a little prick. You can take it. I do all the time.’
I purse my lips.
He’s trying to get a reaction, wants to provoke me into saying something he can tease me about for the next month. But I can resist. I can ignore him. I will fight the urge to—
I’m on him in seconds, familiar warmth in my guts. I yank his shirt off. ‘I’ll show you a little prick, fucker.’
I IGNORE THE ANGRY insults and follow the soft strum of guitar strings instead. My feet stop outside Arielle’s bedroom door and I push it open slowly. I spot her quickly, sat at the foot of her bed with an old acoustic balanced in her lap. She glances up at me, but her fingers don’t stop their graceful movement.
‘What is that?’ I ask with a nod in her direction. ‘It’s … familiar.’
‘Some old song from the radio,’ she tells me, eyes neck of her guitar again. ‘I can’t get the melody out of my head.’
The sound stirs something in me. It fills my head with strange images of Dad smiling and laughing, his heavily tattooed arms exposed while his fingers dance across piano keys.
We’ve never owned a piano, and Dad never listens to music.
I sigh. ‘How long they been at it?’ I ask, feet shifting. I lean against her doorframe.
She lifts a shoulder. ‘I dunno. An hour, maybe?’
‘About?’
Ari stops strumming. ‘Who the fuck knows.’ She clucks her tongue, sky-blues taking me in properly. ‘Where have you been, ditcher? School finished ages ago.’
‘A friend’s,’ I lie. I swallow thickly, cross my arms over my chest. ‘Have you eaten?’ She shakes her head no and I jerk mine towards the hall. ‘Come on, Dad won’t mind if we take the car.’
‘I’m poor,’ she whines, a ridiculous pout on her face. Her bottom lip quivers when she rests the guitar on the bed beside her.
I shake my head at her. ‘You’re always poor, and I’m always paying.’ I push myself off the doorframe. ‘You need to stop buying so much band merch and shit. The stuff just sits in your closet anyway.’
She jumps up with a grin, pulls her too-tight jeans up when she’s on her feet. She tugs the hem of her hoodie down, struggles to hide the bulge of her stomach.
‘I’m saving for a new keyboard, actually.’
Of course she is.
Ari pushes past me, stepping into the noisy hallway. Mother’s hateful tone attacks our ears. It’s louder than it was a minute ago, more intense.
Ari looks over her shoulder at me. ‘A good brother would help me convince our parents to chip in.’
I snort. ‘Better find yourself a good brother, then.’
MATTY AND I HAVE been together over a year now, ever since his oldest brother Lucius threw him and Gio a surprise sixteenth. And maybe to old people that’s no
t significant or anything, but to people our age, we’re practically married. Or would be, if people actually knew we were together. Point is, the longer we’re together, the easier it is for him to talk me into doing stupid shit.
I figure that’s why I’m where I am now: sitting in a tattoo shop after hours, watching some over-inked twig attack my boyfriend’s ribs with a buzzing needle.
‘Calm down, man,’ he tells me, amber eyes focused on mine. He breathes in deeply, exhales. ‘It’s not that bad. You’ll be fine.’
Matty hasn’t flinched once since the tattooist started, but I know it’s more painful than he’s letting on. It has to be.
‘Liar.’ I wrap my arms around myself. ‘You’re a fucking robot.’
He laughs and the man working on him shakes his dark head. ‘Don’t make me fuck up,’ he says, wiping Matty’s ribs with a black-gloved hand. He sounds like he smokes a pack a day. Maybe two.
Matty sends a half-arsed glare my way. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.
I smile at him, try to think about the way he beamed when I agreed to do this and not about the agonising pain I know is coming my way.
The monotonous buzzing stops and the tattooist brushes Matty’s skin again. His short fingers inspect their work. I bite my lip, try to ignore the way my heart beats a little faster.
I know it’s his job, but every time he touches Matty’s body I want to close the distance between us and break his fucking fingers.
His ugly eyes meet Matty’s. ‘It’s looking really good.’
I could punch him in the back of the head right now. He’d never see it coming.
‘You should seriously think about becoming a tattoo artist,’ he adds. He rests his free hand on Matty’s leg. ‘I’d take you on as an apprentice for sure.’
My spine stiffens.
What the fuck?!
‘I dunno, man.’ Matty chuckles like some random dude’s hand isn’t on his fucking thigh. ‘I’m good with a pen, not a gun. I’d probably fuck up.’
The guy laughs like Matty’s hilarious, and he pats my boyfriend’s leg before he places his tool on the small wheeled table beside him.
I’ve mentally killed him at least three hundred times before he’s on his feet.
The guy tugs each glove off, says, ‘Piss break.’
Matty nods, shoulders slumping when a huge gust of air leaves his parted lips.
My eyes follow the sleazy fucker all the way to a staff door, fingers twisted into fists.
I snap my head in Matty’s direction when he laughs again. His amber eyes are twinkling like one of Matilda’s little minions. He puts his hands behind his head and his lips curl on one side.
‘What?’ I say, and the word sounds sharp to my own ears.
He tilts his head a fraction, eyes on my lap. ‘Jealous much?’
My gaze drops, and I grit my teeth when I realise how white my knuckles are. I flex my fingers, let the blood flow back into them.
‘How do you know this creep, anyway?’
‘Customer,’ he says with a shrug.
Fucking stoner.
He drops his arms, scratches the tip of his nose. ‘He’s got like a four-month waiting list or something, but I told him I’m going away tomorrow so he said tonight’s cool. Well, as long as I bring him some weed.’
My lips purse. ‘What else does he want in return?’
Matty shakes his head at me. ‘A blowjob, obviously. A fuck if he does yours too.’
I know he’s joking, but it doesn’t take the tension from my muscles.
I’m pretty sure he’s joking.
‘Jake,’ he sighs when I don’t ease up. He gets to his feet, crosses the room in a few easy strides until he’s stood right in front of me. He takes my hands in his, shakes my newly formed fists loose. ‘He’s harmless, Jake.’
His fingers are freezing compared to how hot mine have suddenly become.
‘I wouldn’t cheat on you for a tattoo.’ He pauses. ‘Maybe for a big cat,’ he says thoughtfully. His eyes drift. He nods. ‘Yeah, I’d fuck him for a pet tiger or something.’
I squeeze his hands and he laughs again. He leans in until his mouth is barely an inch from mine. I can taste his last cigarette every time he breathes out.
‘Don’t be so paranoid, babe,’ he says slowly.
‘Don’t call me babe,’ I mutter back. ‘I’m not a girl.’
‘Sure act like one,’ he returns quickly.
He kisses me before I have a chance to reply. His lips press to mine gently, barely. His day-old stubble makes my skin itch, but I like it. I love it. He’s warm and familiar and mine. All mine.
A sudden bang makes me pull away from him. My head hits the back of the chair I’m sat in.
Matty doesn’t move for a good minute or so, not until the tattooist has returned to his seat and asked if he’s ready to finish. He doesn’t say anything, just nods and crosses the room again.
The buzzing resumes and he doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second. But I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s shut me out the way he does sometimes, showing me the mask he insists on presenting to the rest of the world. It’s like he doesn’t want me to know what’s going on in his head.
When it’s finally my turn I feel like I can’t get any air into my lungs. My heart’s beating so hard that it’s suffocating me, crashing into my ribcage over and over and over. I’m gripping my chair so tightly that my fingers could snap off at any second. It’s my lifeline, and I can’t focus on anything else. Not the angle of my leg or holding my underwear up high enough.
‘It might be easier if you just take them off,’ the tattooist says, his brown almond eyes on me.
‘Easier for who?’ I bite.
He grins, lips pulling into a crooked smile that exposes the black smoke spot on his two front teeth. ‘You need to relax, kid. It’ll hurt less if you relax.’
‘Kid?’ I breathe through my teeth. ‘Who are you, my dad? You look twenty, dude. Twenty-two, tops.’
‘I’m actually twenty-eight,’ he says with a shrug. ‘And married. With kids. So like, we have to get this started now.’
I look down at the outline on my left thigh. It’s just like Matty’s, only a fraction of the size. I can cover mine with a closed fist, but his would probably take both of my open hands. He says it’ll be quicker than Matty’s, an hour tops, but I don’t think I can handle it. I won’t handle it.
I shake my head quickly. ‘Matty, I—’
Matty’s behind me all of a sudden, his right hand on my shoulder, his left on the leg of my boxers so he can hold them up. He squeezes my shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine.’
The chatter in my head dies when I feel his thumb on my inner leg. Matty’s calloused tip runs back and forth slowly and I quickly realise I have a whole other problem on my hands. What’s worse: crying in front of a strange dude, or getting a boner in front of him?
I can’t decide.
The tattooist makes his gun buzz a few times and I turn my head slowly, stomach in painful knots. ‘You’re eighteen, right?’
‘Fifty bag says he is,’ Matty tells him.
I shake my head rapidly. ‘Sixteen,’ I confess.
He makes a contemplative hum, forehead creased. My heart freezes. It waits for him to tell me to put my pants on and fuck off, waits for his fatherly conscience to kick in and stop me doing something so fucking stupid.
The guy shrugs. ‘Close enough. Got my first when I was fifteen, so who am I to judge?’
My breath stutters when he starts his gun again.
I don’t want to do this. I’m afraid, scared that if I watch the ink-covered needle make contact I might actually puke. Or worse, cry like a little bitch. I don’t want to be one of his band boys and I definitely don’t need more secrets. And seriously, as fucking painful as the thought is, what if we break up? What then?
I look up at Matty, stomach in mangled knots. His eyes are already focused on me.
‘It’s okay,’ he says gently.
M
y heart slows like that’s all I needed to hear. A little.
‘I think— Holymotherfuck!’ I yell as the needle finally hits my skin.
Matty and the guy both laugh.
I blink back tears, a jagged rock jammed in my throat. It traps the few wisps of air I managed to take in. I can’t focus. On anything. The pain in my leg is hot and sharp and achy all at once, and I don’t understand how people can do this willingly. How did Matty talk me into this? How the fuck did he hold a conversation during his?
I don’t look down when familiar fingertips brush the back of my right hand; I look at their owner instead. My eyes find Matty’s and the painful lump in my throat dissolves. He bobs his head, lips twitching upwards.
Maybe they don’t matter, all my fears and concerns. We’ll be together forever or we won’t. We could live together when school finishes or, shit, we could be over by the end of the year. Next week. Tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find the courage to tell people the truth about him and what he means to me. Who knows?
We don’t say the words, but I know what this is. Our bond. It will never go away, tattoo or not. I’ll carry him with me the rest of my life.
I breathe in deeply, breathe out.
I focus on him.
GREAT LONG STORY
PAULA MORRIS
At the graveside of Robert Johnson, I was stung on the neck by a bee.
Before he died Robert Johnson was living in Greenwood, Mississippi. Greenwood still calls itself the Cotton Capital of the World, though nowadays Greenwood farmers prefer corn and soybeans and catfish. The Amtrak train called City of New Orleans stops there en route to Chicago. At Greenwood, two rivers — the Tallahatchie and the Yalobusha — become the Yazoo and run through Vicksburg to the Mississippi. Some people say that Yazoo is a Choctaw word for ‘river of death’.
Nobody knows exactly where Robert Johnson died.
We drove along Johnson Street in Greenwood, looking for the place in Baptist Town where Robert Johnson may or may not have lived. Johnson Street is not named after Robert Johnson. We were looking for a building on the corner of Young and Pelican, where Robert Johnson may or may not have died. There’s no building there anymore, just a historic marker. Residents of Baptist Town were out in the street, eating barbeque. It was Saturday afternoon, Halloween. A local hospital had set up some kind of information tent. We read the marker without getting out of the car. The neighbourhood was like New Orleans, but smaller and shabbier. Some of the houses were falling down. People looked at us, sitting in our car. We looked at the historic marker.
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