I didn’t allow my gaze to wander below her neckline, I was a professional and composed myself as one. But she was the type of pretty you didn’t find yourself facing every day, and while I’d never say I was attracted to her, I couldn’t argue that she was irrefutably gorgeous.
“So, you said you had something in mind,” I said, clearing my thoughts and releasing her hand.
“Oh, yes,” she quickly replied, reaching into her bag to retrieve a piece of paper. As she began to unfold it, I spotted the colorful wings of a typical butterfly design. And somehow, I managed to quell my shudder.
“No. I don’t think this is gonna work.”
Her hands froze as those big, blue eyes met mine. “Oh, but um, I thought—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I won’t do it. I’ll see if Celia wants to take a look, but otherwise, I really don’t want to waste anymore of my time. Or yours.”
From behind me, I listened as Gus cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, Blake? You wanna come chat with me for a second?”
I held in my groan, closing my eyes for a brief second, before turning. “Yeah, just give me a—”
“Actually, right now would be a really good time.” He stood from the desk, holding my glare as he headed toward his office.
Pulling in a deep breath, I groaned and made a sharp right into the closet he called an office. “What’s up?”
“Close the door, will ya?” I did as I was told and before I could get in a word, Gus continued. “Blake, I get you have your thing, and I’ve always been really cool about it. But it wouldn’t kill you to get down off your high horse. You know. Just every now and then.”
“My high horse?” I snorted, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.
“Yeah, your high horse,” he repeated, his tone sharpening. “You know I like you, Blake. I love you, even. But I gotta tell ya, refusal to work with clients is not cool. We both have bills to pay.”
“Come on, Gus,” I groaned, shaking my head. “You’re acting like I’m constantly turning people away. This chick brought in some Pinterest butterfly bullshit. Celia can do it.”
“No, but turning one away looks like shit for the whole shop,” he pointed out. “And that girl specifically asked for you, so you're gonna make an exception this one time. Now, go out there and ink the prettiest damn butterfly you've ever done.”
“You’re killing me,” I muttered, unwinding my arms and raking a hand through my hair.
“Yeah, maybe, but I’m still your boss. I’m allowed to kill you sometimes. Now, get out of here.” And I decided, in that moment, that Gus was the devil and I was repenting for my abundance of sins. I sighed and left the office without another word. Audrey was still standing where I'd left her, with her hands clasped at the edge of the butterfly print.
"Let's go," I told her brusquely as I hurried past.
"O-oh," she stammered, collecting her purse and running to keep up with me. “We’re doing it now? I thought you just wanted to look at it today.”
“It’ll be quick.” I brought her to my station and aggressively wiped down my vinyl-covered chair with disinfectant. The willpower to not be a complete jerk was excruciating. "So, where are we putting it?"
"Oh, um, I was thinking maybe my hip?"
I looked at her exhaustedly. "I want you to be absolutely certain of where you're having me put this thing. No questions, no maybes."
"I thought you would give me your professional opinion," she admitted.
"Honey, you don't want my professional opinion."
Audrey's gaze narrowed curiously as she cocked her hip. "Why's that?"
"Because, in my professional opinion, you shouldn't be getting some Photoshopped crap you found on someone's Pinterest,” I spoke frankly, struggling to keep my tone from sounding too snobby. “You shouldn't be getting some random butterfly because you think it's cute. You should be getting a one of a kind piece of art created specifically for you with your body and vision in mind, and—"
"It was my sister's," she cut in abruptly, her voice quiet and small. “She got it done by you a few years ago.”
My gaze was still and blank as I stared at her. Sufficiently speechless, stunned, and stupefied. I took a gulp from my water bottle to wet my mouth, before asking, "Can I see that for a second?"
"Sure." She passed the picture to me and I studied it, trying my best not to let it show how much of a judgmental piece of garbage I suddenly felt like.
Only one half of the butterfly was colorful, while the other was grizzly. Splotched with black and grey, highlighted in white. I struggled to remember doing it and who I’d done it on. I did so many tattoos, it was hard to memorize them all. Hard to remember every meaning behind them. I didn't remember Audrey's sister, but I thought I might remember this tattoo. It was a transitional piece, I think. Meant to symbolize a change in her life, I think—or maybe not. Fuck. What did it mean? I couldn't recall and I immediately felt embarrassed for it.
I cleared my throat and rubbed a hand over my mouth. "Where does your sister have it?"
"Oh, my sister is dead."
At the blunt statement, my eyes shot up to meet hers. "Fuck. I'm sorry."
Audrey waved a hand and shrugged nonchalantly. "It's okay. Anyway, it was on her shoulder. So, maybe I should get it there, too?"
I chuckled and let my eyes soften. "Is that where you want it?"
She smiled almost bashfully. "Actually, I really wanted to get it over my heart, but I'm scared it'll hurt."
"It's going to, but the pain is temporary," I replied bluntly. “If that's where you want it to go, then that's where it should be. Nothing else will look right to you, and the last thing I want is for you to regret it."
A flicker of apprehension passed over her gaze before she toughened up and nodded. "Okay. Let's do it."
"All right. Let me just get the stencil drawn up. You can take a seat right here and we'll get started in just a few minutes."
***
"It's perfect," she announced, studying the wrapped tattoo in the full-length mirror. "Thank you so much."
"No problem." I tossed my black latex gloves into the trash. "Take your time. I'll meet you up front."
Celia snapped her gum and grinned at the sight of me. "Well, look who it is. The world's biggest asshole."
"Oh, fuck off," I grumbled as I shoved my way to the computer to calculate the cost of Audrey's tattoo.
"I only do originals," she mocked in a deeper voice. "Oh, wait, what was that? That is one of mine? Oops. My bad, har har."
"Cee, I'm gonna kick your ass in two seconds," I warned as Audrey came out from the back. She pulled her white sweater on, favoring her chest as she buttoned it up.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Well, I charge one-fifty an hour and we were working for three, so ..." A wash of guilt swept over me, remembering the way I'd treated her when I first saw her. Then, I shook my head. "You know what? Let's just call it fifty for the supplies."
Audrey looked absolutely flabbergasted. "What? No, I couldn't do that. I'll pay you for the three hours."
"Pay me for one, and we'll call it even," I haggled, offering her a smile.
Audrey sighed and pulled out her wallet. "Okay,” she relented. “But, seriously, thank you so much. I really appreciate it a lot."
"I appreciate you not high-tailing it out of here when I was acting like a judgmental asshole."
I accepted her money and ran through the tattoo aftercare. Then, Audrey was out the door, with the familiar euphoria of fresh ink leaving its permanent mark on her skin.
I thought about that tattoo throughout the rest of my workday. I wondered about her sister, how she had died, and what brought Audrey in, years later, to have the butterfly done for herself. I regretted not asking her in the hours she'd spent in my chair. I'd been too self-absorbed in my own shame for jumping to conclusions based solely on her physical appearance. I hated so much when people did that to me, so why did I think it was okay to treat
her in that manner?
It tormented me for the rest of the day. Thoughts of butterflies and assumptions. Siblings and stories. It kept me preoccupied and quiet while I worked, right until I snapped my gloves off for the final time that night.
"You're all set, man," I said to my last client of the day.
"You okay, bro?" he asked as he stood from the chair.
"Yeah," I assured him. "Just got some shit on my mind. How do you like it? We all good?"
He went to the mirror to assess my work and there he stood. Stunned. "Holy shit," he muttered, bicep proudly displayed. He marveled at the scythe and sword bordering the gritty black and white skull. "You are a legend," he gushed, unable to take his eyes off the tattoo.
"Glad you like it," I replied, brushing the compliment off. "I'm just gonna wrap you up."
"Yeah, yeah," he nodded, eyes still fixated on his reflection. "You ever think of opening your own place?"
"Nah," I lied, putting on a fresh pair of gloves and grabbing some plastic wrap for his arm.
"You're too good to be here, dude."
"Don't let my boss hear you say that. He’s the one who taught me this shit."
“Well, the student surpassed the fuckin’ teacher, that’s for damn sure.”
I smiled as I wrapped the fresh ink and tender skin in the plastic. I secured it with surgical tape and rang him up. A piece that big garnered a good tip, and I smiled at the wad of cash I'd accumulated throughout the day already in my pocket. I needed to go grocery shopping and with that money, it was going to be a good trip.
After work, I stopped at Jake's daycare to pick him up. I was surprised to find him in a good mood after such a long day, but, as reiterated by my brother, he had spent the time baking cookies with Miss Thomas and Mr. Scott. They had kept Sesame Street on the TV and allowed him to take over the table with their big box of Legos, and by the time I'd gotten there, he was the last guy left in the room.
"What are you doing this weekend, Jake?" Miss Thomas asked as I helped him into his windbreaker.
"What are we doing?" he asked me, watching intently as I pulled the zipper up to meet his chin.
I smiled, clapping my hands to his shoulders. "Come on, buddy. What do you do every weekend?"
"I watch cartoons and play with Mickey."
"Oh, boy, that sounds like fun," Miss Thomas said. "I bet you're excited."
"Mom loves having you home all day, right?” I said, grabbing his backpack.
“Yeah,” he nodded fervently.
“And Mickey loves that you don’t have to leave,” I added pointedly.
"Mickey is my dog," Jake told Miss Thomas. "He's a Golden Retriever. Blake doesn’t let him come over like me because he says he’ll shit all over the house."
Miss Thomas snorted as I patted his shoulder and led him to the door. "What'd I tell you about filters, buddy?"
"Enjoy your weekend, guys," she called after us.
I knew Jake would enjoy the weekend with his dog and our parents. He always had a good time with the Lego sets our father picked up for him. He loved going on walks with Mom and Mickey. And I knew he especially enjoyed not waking up in the morning. But I was convinced nobody enjoyed the weekends more than me, when I was granted the sanctity of silence for a little over twenty-four hours. When I could kick my feet up, relax, and pretend my life wasn't controlled by the needs of my twin brother.
And sometimes, I even allowed myself to not feel guilty about it.
Chapter Three
IT WAS TOO EARLY to hit up the poetry club I frequented on the weekend. So, I spent that time babying my bike, giving the Harley the attention I wished I could give it during the week. With Nine Inch Nails filling the garage, I gave it a bath, polished the chrome, and wiped down the leather seat. I remembered when I bought the old girl, nearly ten years ago, with the promise that I'd get the chance to ride on a regular basis. That was before I accepted the realities of my life and before I really understood the responsibilities I'd always be saddled with.
After the bike was clean, and with some time left, I pulled out my phone to call Celia. She also got the weekends off and answered on the first ring.
"Hey, it's not really a good time," she said in a harsh whisper.
"What do you mean, not a good time?” I scoffed lightheartedly. “A good time for what? You don't even know why the hell I'm calling."
Cee snorted. "Well, I have a feeling it has something to do with an extracurricular activity you only get to partake in when you don’t have your brother to deal with.”
I laughed, pushing my dark hair back with a hand. "Guilty."
"Yeah, see I know you, Blake. You're predictable as fuck." She laughed again but I heard the regret in her voice, and I wished I hadn't called. "Seriously, I’d invite you over, but I have the kids tonight.”
“I thought it was your ex’s weekend.” I seemed to recall a conversation from earlier in the week.
“It was, but he’s got something to do for work, so he asked if I’d trade weekends.” She sighed into the phone and said, “You know what? If you really wanted to do something, you could come by later—"
"Nah, it's cool,” I quickly replied, not wanting to impose or put myself in an awkward position.
“You sure? ‘Cause once the kids are in bed, I wouldn’t turn away some company. As long as you kept that mouth of yours shut.”
I considered the possibility. I’d never been to Cee’s place while her kids were around. At six and four, she didn’t want to complicate things by having her friend with occasional benefits around while they were, and I didn’t blame her. I had too much on my plate as it was. The last thing I needed was to confuse a couple of kids who would never have a chance of calling me Step Daddy.
But still, it had been a while since I’d gotten laid, maybe two or three months, and those had been a few long months of unrelenting responsibilities and unending self-love before I passed out for the night. The company of another body sounded more like a necessity and less like a simple human pleasure, so I nodded thoughtfully and replied, “Yeah. Okay. Text me when they’re asleep and I’ll come by.”
***
The highway wind whipped around me on the way to the club. Dusk had settled over Massachusetts in streaks of orange and pink, with dark clouds laying across the sky in silhouettes of black and shadow. I pulled into the parking lot and parked the bike into a spot. Judging from the amount of cars, there was a good turnout tonight. Good for the club, not so good for me. I didn't like the place too crowded. Didn’t like the potential for attention. But this was more fruitful than any therapy session I’d had so far.
I took the stairs to the basement and was greeted by the bouncer, a big guy I never bothered to learn the name of. He nodded a familiar greeting at the sight of me and I offered one in return. Dim lights and the smell of nag champa greeted me in a calming embrace and I inhaled, breathing it in before heading over to the bar. I would only ever indulge in one drink—I was driving, after all—but I needed it tonight. Just one would be enough.
With an IPA in hand, I wandered to a darker corner of the already dark club and slumped into a chair wedged against the wall. In my black leather jacket and jeans, I was instantly submerged in the shadows, becoming a part of the darkness and not an obstacle inside of it. I could hide here for the night if I wanted, listening and deciding, and nobody would know I was there. It felt safe.
"Good evening, everyone," the club owner said, standing underneath the spotlight. "So glad to see such a crowd here tonight. We welcome all readings, as long as the work is original. Just put your name on the list and no cutting in line. The first poem of the night will be read by yours truly ..."
I tapped my fingers soundlessly on the table as she read her work. I always tried to keep my personal opinions at bay—it never felt like the place—but it was difficult to not scoff at the stereotypical prose of blackened tears and black-winged birds carrying the soul off to whatever afterworld there may or may not be. It was un
inspired and lacking, and I was bored.
Luckily, the readings improved. I enjoyed a beautifully written sonnet about a tree, and another about a first love gone astray. I marveled at the talent of a young man with a broken heart clearly displayed on the sleeve of his shirt. And then, just when I thought I might put my own name on the list, the next reader stole my breath and dried my tongue.
"Hi everyone," she spoke into the mic. "This is my first time coming, but a couple of my cousins convinced me, so ... here I am. My name is Audrey and this poem is called Windswept."
As she read a short poem, about the dusty petals of a dandelion floating without control, I wondered if it was at all possible that it wasn't her, the woman I'd met a few days ago at the shop. Audrey wasn't an unpopular name, and this woman could've just looked similar. But I was fooling myself. The tattoo, faintly pink around the edges and beginning to scab, was displayed proudly on her chest. It was crisp and unmistakable, and I was desperate to hide from it, to sink into the wall behind me and disappear entirely.
She left the stage and headed in my direction, and my heart pumped noisily in my throat. There was no way she could see me—right? I was shadowed, lurking in the dark like a creep, but it was possible she'd seen me walk in—right? She could've noticed me sit down. She could've mustered the courage to approach me, once the adrenaline from being on stage took control. Did I want her to speak to me? The clamminess of my palms told me no, absolutely not, but the hopeful pitter-patter of my heart resounded with absolution and I held my breath. Waiting. Hoping. Dreading. Needing. This was my chance to find out about that tattoo, what it’s story was, what brought her here to my little underground hideout.
But before she made it to me, she abruptly sat down two tables away, in the company of two other women. My heart sank with relief and the unsettling sensation of despair.
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