by Wendy Cole
“Shit,” I murmured, my jaw tight and hands fisted.
I really needed to stop caring about that crazy old shit.
I stiffly followed behind them.
CHAPTER SIX
The large expanse of property behind the shop could have been a campground. By the time I slowly caught up, the old man was already sitting at a weather-worn picnic table, and Zeke had a grill going on the opposite side of the yard.
Between them was a charred fire pit, a corn hole set, a broken tether ball pole, a scattering of tiki torches stuck into the ground in random order, and as if all of that wasn’t enough to scream suburban family vacation, a rusty motorhome looked abandoned on the far backside.
I looked around as I took the seat across from Mr. Frankfire. “Why do I feel like we’re about to sing Kumbaya?”
His lips curved into a crooked grin. “You just be quiet.” He chanced a glance over his shoulder at Zeke, then turned back to me with a more serious expression. “I swear, for a girl who seems smart, you sure do some stupid shit.”
I’m stupid? If anything, us sitting here was stupid. I opened my mouth to give him hell, but the old man cut me off.
“We live on the street, girl! When someone offers you food, you don’t just turn it down. That’s the difference between livin’ and dyin’.”
Living and dying.
“I’m more concerned about what comes after the food.” I shot him a look that made him bow his head. “It’s not smart to trust just any asshole that offers you a piece of bread. I’ve got my reasons for not trusting him. Did you ever think of that?”
He looked to the sky as if asking for aid, then settled his gaze to mine. “You can trust this one.”
I scoffed. “Really? And how do you know that?”
“I’m older than dirt, that’s how,” he grumbled. “I’ve been on these streets longer than you’ve been alive. Hell, you weren’t an itch in your daddy’s crotch, and I was out here.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You don’t want to live like this. Not your whole life.” His eyes crinkled, and his jaw firmed as much as it could behind aging loose skin. “You need to take this damn job. You’re going to take this job, and if you don’t, you can just go about your damn way after this.”
I stared at him. Was he kicking me out? From under a fucking bridge?
I laughed.
“You think this is funny?” His voice was raw―emotional. My laughter dulled at the sound of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he cared, and looking at him then, I almost believed he did.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life, girl.” His gnarled knuckles whitened as he clasped his hands together and stared at them. “I like you,” he said. “I like your spirit, but if you don’t get out, it’s gonna fizzle and die. I’ve seen it happen before. I’ve got no aim to see it again.” His eyes met mine. “I’m too damn old for that shit.”
Zeke chose that moment to set a plate of steaks on the tabletop between us. I was too caught up in the old man to notice him, and something in his expression let me know he’d heard at least part of what was said.
He set a stack of paper plates down beside the bounty and took the seat beside Mr. Frankfire. “I didn’t have anything to go with them,” he said, his voice as even and steady as it’d always been.
If he had heard, he didn’t let it show. I instantly liked him a fraction more for it.
“But I cooked up six of them.” He smiled as he took the plates and began separating them.
I watched his fingers work. His arms moved about as he placed one down in front of me then the old man and himself. I took a closer look at the artwork spread across his skin. There was a dragon, a horse, and inches of flames, but the largest and most detailed stood out above the rest.
A bear. It was big enough to cover his forearm from elbow to wrist, silhouetted by black inked trees and a mountain range backdrop. I stared at it. It was obviously a grizzly but composed of white. There was nothing aggressive about the way the animal was portrayed. It just seemed peaceful-like. Then below it…a date.
Zeke plopped a steak onto my plate, and I jolted.
I met his eyes and knew he’d noticed my scrutiny, but instead of commenting, he served himself and started to eat.
I turned my attention to my food. The smell hit me first like the memory of a long lost love. Saliva pooled inside my mouth, and my hands shook as I cut off a piece and lifted it to my lips.
Heaven. I closed my eyes. It’d been so long since I’d had real food, I’d almost forgotten what it was like. How long had it been since I had meat? Something hot? Something besides shit peanuts or old bread? The food they handed out at the coalition was always days expired and stale, but this…
I opened my eyes and cut off another piece, then another. Before I knew it, I was ravenous. I paid little mind to the men at the table. If they’d chosen that moment to stick a hand too close, I’d probably have eaten it too. When I made it to the last bit, Zeke plopped another in its place without comment.
The old man smiled at me when I met his gaze. His steak was over half-way gone, and he seemed to be enjoying it just as much as I was.
Zeke finished off his last bit and pushed the plate to the side. “I know you’re running from someone.”
The atmosphere charged the moment he spoke the words. The food sat heavier. My chest tightened, and my heart quickened as if readying itself to run.
He fixed me with a leveled gaze, and my grip on the steak knife tightened.
Zeke’s attention shifted to the blade. “I can promise you, whoever it is, I’m not a part of it.”
I waited with my breath held. Why I hadn’t left already was beyond me. I looked at the old man―to his solemn face―then chanced a glance in every direction as if Drake would suddenly step out from behind a tree and laugh at my stupidity.
Zeke continued. “I want to help you.”
I laughed a dry sound that held no humor. “Now I know you’re full of shit.”
He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened. “You see this place?” He motioned to the shop. “It used to just be a garage.” His other hand lifted and pointed out to the motorhome. “I used to live in that old RV. Didn’t have two pennies to rub together after I bought it and this bit of land.”
He lowered his arms back to the tabletop and leaned forward. “Nobody offered to help me. They’d have preferred I’d just disappear. That’s how it is for folks like us. Ex-cons.”
My teeth clenched. He knew. Maybe the girl told him, or maybe he heard me talking with the sweaty manager.
Zeke nodded slowly. “I did ten years.” He paused to study my reaction, then continued when there wasn’t one. “I was an MMA fighter, but the fights I did weren’t legal.” His lips thinned as he spoke. “I was jacked up on pills, out of my fucking mind. Next thing I knew, there’s a man in front of me with his head bashed in and cops everywhere.” His brows lifted. “You see, we just happened to get raided at that exact moment. What are the fucking odds?”
He smiled, but it wasn’t the happy, carefree smile I’d seen on him before. There was no pleasure behind the expression, only regret.
“They sentenced me fifteen years to life,” he said. “I wasn’t getting out. I’d accepted it. After what I did to that man, no warden was ever going to grant me parole.”
Perhaps I was an idiot. Perhaps I just wanted to believe, but there was something in the way he spoke―in his expression, his voice―that made me loosen my grip on the knife.
Zeke noticed, and the action seemed to urge him on.
“But,” he rolled his shoulders and leaned back, “ten years into my sentence, the district attorney in charge of my case was caught tampering evidence. Every case he’d ever handled had to be thrown out, including mine.” He grinned then sobered as he leveled me with a long look. “Miracle huh? Nah. The real miracle was me getting arrested in the first place. I realized my life was shit, and when I got out, I vowed that I was go
ing to do better.”
I stared at him, and for that moment, that fraction of a second, I felt connected to somebody apart from myself. I felt like somebody got it; like maybe it wasn’t just me that Karma liked to shit on.
Zeke nodded again. “I feel like that’s what you’re trying to do now. Am I wrong?”
I shook my head, unable to find my voice.
He motioned to the shop again. “Everyone that works for me has a story. We’re all fucked up in some way, but these people are my family.” His voice grew thick, his tone passionate. “I don’t know what your story is, but I see something. You might think I’m crazy, but I’ve just got this feeling like you’re supposed to be here. I’m supposed to help you, and you’re supposed to be a part of that family.”
Family. The word felt vile as it crawled across my memory. I’d never had a family until I met Drake, and apart from a select few, they hadn’t done me any good.
“Take the job, girl,” Mr. Frankfire spoke, his voice terse.
I met his pleading gaze, and the million warning bells that rang inside my head seemed muffled beneath the two words echoing through my mind. What if?
It was a chance. It was what I needed. What if this was my shot at normal; karma’s final offer, a life, and I passed it up because of fear.
Because of Drake.
My jaw clenched. Either way, I was doomed whether it be from this man or the frigid cold. I looked at Zeke. My answer solidified, and my heart thundered as I forced my tongue to form the words.
“I’ll take it.”
He smiled. “That’s great.”
He patted the old man’s back, and his dark aura disappeared as that infectious joy returned. Almost fatherly, he looked at me with a warmth that seeped to my bones. My chest lightened in a way I was unaccustomed to.
“Well, then…”
“Jessie.”
His smile widened. “Jessie. I need a tattoo.”
Every nerve inside me jumped to attention at the prospect.
“A tattoo?” I asked, barely suppressing my excitement.
He chuckled. It was another throaty sound that seemed to echo from his belly. “Yes. Whatever you want. Consider it a job interview.”
I paused as my lips parted. This man was giving me, a stranger, full reign to tattoo anything I wanted on him. Was he insane?
“What if I put a big dick on your back?”
The old man cursed at the same time Zeke roared with laughter.
“If you do that, I won’t hire you.” He stood and motioned for me to follow.
I looked at Mr. Frankfire.
“I swear, girl, if you fuck this up, I’ll have your hide.”
I nodded and stood. Just the thought of having a gun in my hand, of feeling the vibration and allowing myself to purge all the stress and pain of the past few weeks into my art, had my fingers twitching at my side.
“I won’t fuck it up,” I said, and I wouldn’t. Trick or not, I was going to give it all I had.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zeke lead the way to a back entrance, and the smell of A&D ointment and smoke wafted out the moment he opened the door. We followed the sound of Ozzy Osbourne’s War Pigs down a hall and into a larger room. Inside was all concrete floors painted black, graffitied walls, and artwork. Tons of artwork and frames of every shape and size scattered the walls. I scanned each one and noticed a few pictures in the mix. They were either clients or artists.
Massage tables lined the whole right side separated by smaller tables full of equipment and inks.
Zeke hurried forward. “Charlene.”
His serious tone drew my attention back to him.
A wooden counter formed in an L-shape in front of the wall faced the entrance with more artwork and photos covering its surface. The woman behind it pushed her copper curls from her face and forced a smile at Zeke’s approach.
“Good.” She heaved a sigh. “Maybe you can help with this.” Her eyes pleaded as she tilted her head to the man that stood across from her.
Zeke’s whole persona shifted. The jolly seemed to fall away as his shoulders squared and his muscles tightened. Within an instant, he’d positioned himself between the two, blocking the view of the woman entirely.
The man took a step back. “I don’t see what the problem is,” he said. “They’re just ashes. Just mix a little in the ink. You don’t even have to touch it.”
He held an urn in his hands, and I realized why she looked that way.
I shuddered. The guy wanted a dead body in his tattoo.
Charlene touched a hand to Zeke’s back and peeked around him. “I already told you. Our artists can’t do that.”
I heaved a sigh. Thank god. If they asked me to, could I? I didn’t want to answer that question, not with my financial situation. I was grateful I wouldn’t be asked to do it.
Zeke visibly relaxed and clasped the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, but we can’t do that. I could lose my license.”
He motioned to another station where a girl sat. Her bright blue hair was chopped to the scalp, and combined with her thin frame and tiny features, she looked like a hell fairy.
“I’ll tell you what, though, you go talk to Scarlet over there. I bet she can come up with just the tattoo to help honor your friend.”
“My brother,” the man said, his voice rough. “He was my brother.”
Zeke’s expression softened as his hand fell away from the man, and he pulled up his arm. “I got this bear when I lost my brother.”
The man looked at the tattoo, his eyes red and glossy. When his gaze met Zeke’s again, a quiet understanding seemed to drift between the two of them.
His brother. The bear.
I’d known it was something like that when I saw the date scrawled beneath it.
Zeke convinced the man to talk to Scarlet then turned a look over his shoulder at me.
“Jessie, this is Charlene. Charlene, this is Jessie. I’m interviewing her.”
Her eyes ran over me, from my tattered hoodie to my dirty hair, but not an ounce of judgement crossed her expression. Her nose didn’t wrinkle. Her lips didn’t curl.
“We’re happy to have you, hon.” She met my gaze and smiled softly before turning to Zeke and pulling him down for a kiss. “You bring her back to me before you let her out of here.”
Zeke rumbled a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
He tugged a piece of her hair then winked at me. “You ready?” He motioned to an empty station then stepped over and pulled himself up onto the table. “There’s some paper there for you to draw something up.”
I shook my head and lifted the gun. The weight felt like a long lost friend. I smiled. “Don’t need to.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You’re going to freehand?”
I lifted one brow in return. “Scared?”
He laughed. “Go ahead.”
“You’re asking for a lot of faith,” a new voice said.
I turned to find the artist behind me. He was a massive man with similarly long black hair and a shorter trimmed beard.
He rolled his chair around, leaned forward against his legs, and grinned up at me. “I’m Boe.”
I knew the look. I should have known this place couldn’t possibly be without any flaws. “That’s nice.”
I turned away. Zeke rumbled a laugh just as a finger tapped my shoulder.
I turned back again.
Boe’s smile had stretched, and while I couldn’t deny he was attractive, it wasn’t in any way appealing to me. It was too dark; too bad-boy dangerous. Leather jacket, worn jeans, black boots. He looked like he belonged in the club. I’d had my taste of that, and I wasn’t looking for more.
“You got a name?” he asked, the smile never leaving his face.
I needed to just be nice and say it. I was about to land my dream job, and this man was going to be a coworker. I should have been welcoming, but everything about him sent red flags through my brain. I didn’t want to give him my name. Regardless, I
answered, “Jessie.”
His smile turned into a grin. “That’s a nice name.”
“Your station looks a little rough, Boe,” Zeke said.
Boe kicked himself backwards and rolled back to where he’d been. “I was just trying to make her feel welcome.”
Zeke snorted then lifted his brows in a prompt for me to continue.
I scanned his exposed skin, every spot covered in some way. “Do you even have a spot for this?”
“Did you check his ass, Jessie?”
I ground my teeth, and turned to the smaller table, grabbed a pair of gloves and slid them on.
Just ignore him.
Zeke chuckled as he pulled the shirt over his head and lifted his arm. A small spot about five inches in diameter stood out pasty pale against the colorful ink surrounding it.
I scanned his other artwork again, trying to get an idea of what he would want, but it was all so random. Each piece seemed to be fit for a new personality, and I wondered how many times he’d done this type of interview.
To hell with it. I’d just let my art take me where it wanted to go. I flipped on the machine, and the motor’s buzz brought goosebumps to my arms. Despite what prompted the insane decision to stick around this place, I couldn’t regret it. This rare moment to escape into my art was worth whatever consequences that followed.
I worked with precision. The vibration of the gun; the way the ink sunk into the skin, it was therapy. My therapy. I lost myself, forgetting all the shit, fear, and anger. Every part of me went into that piece.
Zeke didn’t exist. The sounds of the shop didn’t exist. It was just lines, shadows, ink, and release.
When I was done, I took a step back to observe my work. It was an hourglass. To anyone else, it would look simple, but to a true artist, it was a masterpiece.
I kept the lines clean and sharp. You could see each grain of sand as it filtered down. This was how I felt. This was what I was; what I’d become.
A dwindling hourglass.
How much time did I have before the last grain fell and death found me?