Warrior Blue

by Kelsey Kingsley

  I crossed my arms and cocked my head. My resolve to remain cool and collected was slipping away by the second. "No way. How, uh ... how did you find my work?"

  "Well, I was checking some stuff on Instagram," he said, pulling his phone from a pocket.

  "Ah, of course," I replied with a nod. "You found my page."

  "Well, no. Not exactly," he corrected, and turned his phone to me. "I found this one, and from there, I found your page."

  I had to blink and clear my mind of the image before I could look at his phone again, just to be sure I'd seen it correctly. But when I opened my eyes, there it was, just as I had thought. The picture of a butterfly, one half beautiful in splashes of color and the other bold in black and white, gritty and dripping with morbidity. I had once forgotten I'd even tattooed this image onto anybody's body, and now, I couldn't seem to escape it.

  "This piece is absolutely killer," he went on. "I mean, there are so many talented artists out there, and so many of them can adequately dabble in multiple styles. But this vision, the flow of the watercolor and the seamless transition into this sooty black and white ... I don't know. It's not exactly unique, but at the same time, it's nothing I've ever seen before. The craftsmanship, man ..." Shane laughed, shaking his head as he looked around the shop's waiting area. "I gotta be honest, I didn't expect to find you in a hole in the wall like this."

  I was too in shock to laugh with him about the grungy, outdated state of the shop. Too startled to react. Shane's laughter waned as he tucked the phone back in his jacket pocket.

  "Anyway, I was hoping you'd let me run an article about you in an upcoming issue of ModInk," he cut to the chase, eyeing me with hopefulness.

  "Shit," I uttered. I heard footsteps approaching from behind me. Celia had overheard. "You're serious?"

  "Fuck yes, man. I'd love to interview you and show off some of your work. And hey, if you have some free time, I have a bit of skin on my leg that's all yours." He patted his left knee and chuckled easily.

  I knew what was being presented to me. It was an open door. The opportunities that awaited me over the threshold would change my life and leave me without a shred of down time for years to come. But fuck fuck FUCK! I also knew what that meant for my personal life. What would I do about Jake? How could I continue to closely care for him while experiencing a surge in my career? God, this was all I’d ever wanted and dreamed about, but the call of real-life responsibility had its hands tight around my neck, and it was choking the fucking life out of me.

  "I'd be happy to get you in. How long are you here for?"

  Shane grinned with the promise of fresh ink on the horizon. "I took the week."

  "Awesome. I'll check my schedule and get you in sometime over the next couple of days."

  "And that interview?" He was optimistic, but in that moment, I was the destroyer of hope.

  I smiled apologetically. "Can I think about it?"

  Shane was visibly taken aback and unsure of how to react. I imagined he didn't get turned down often and a can I think about it might as well have been a no. But he nodded and smiled diplomatically, accepting my answer with professionalism, and I headed back for my phone to check my schedule.

  Celia followed.

  "You'll think about it?" She hissed disbelievingly. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

  "I think that happened a long time ago," I muttered dryly, grabbing my phone.

  “Blake, seriously!”

  “I didn’t say no,” I pointed out, tapping through my calendar.

  "Yeah, okay. And my ex-husband didn't really fuck his secretary by letting her suck his dick."

  I curled my lip with disgust. "What a clichéd douchebag."

  "Yeah, he is, but whatever, we’re not talking about him. We’re talking about you, and you don't turn down ModInk, Blake. You don't fucking do that. You need this."

  I narrowed my eyes. "You're not jealous?" My session with the good doctor came back to me in a rush of heat and embarrassment. I imagined a bright, tomato red, flourishing over my cheeks and dripping over my neck, giving me away and calling attention to the secrets I had shed before.

  "Jealous?" She scoffed incredulously, shaking her head. "I'm not jealous, but I am going to be pissed if you don't grab that opportunity by the balls, you moron. You deserve this."

  I was touched, but I wasn’t convinced I deserved anything. So, I simply smiled gratefully and repeated, "I'll think about it," and before I could listen to her protests, I headed back up front to pencil Shane in.

  ***

  Shane had given me the green light to design a fresh piece for him. He didn't want to provide me with any input or inspiration, and while the freedom was delicious and made my fingers itch with excitement, I couldn't deny the pressure it put me under. Whatever I did for him would undoubtedly end up on the ModInk Instagram page, at the very least, and my name would be known to the world of body modification and alternative style. I wanted this tattoo to be good. Fuck, I wanted it to be amazing—my best, even. And that was a stress I could've done without, especially while attempting to leave my parents’ house as my brother threw a boisterous anger-fueled tantrum in his bedroom.

  “You guys got this?” I asked Mom and Dad, just as a crash and the telltale sound of Legos scattering filled the stairwell. I groaned and faced the sound, as both my parents pinched their eyes shut with exhausted disdain.

  “Go handle him,” Mom demanded. I thought she was speaking to me, when I noticed her looking at Dad.

  “What? We’re watching this!” Dad gestured toward the TV. Funny, when he’d hardly paid attention to, whatever was playing, until he actually needed to do something. “Why don’t you deal with him?”

  “I deal with him all the damn time. You could pretend to be his father and do something, you know. Give me a freakin’ break once in a while,” she snapped, and I groaned loudly.

  “Never mind,” I growled, and stormed up the stairs to follow the sounds of combusting Legos.

  I didn't bother to knock, just threw the door open, and found my brother close to tears in the center of his room. A multicolored storm of blocks laid at his feet and his fists clenched at his sides.

  "What's going on in here?" I demanded to know.

  Jake kicked at the pile of Legos and they scattered further over the carpet. "They wouldn't stick. I put them together and I put them together and they kept coming apart. They wouldn't stick. They're broken."

  "They're not broken," I insisted. "Sometimes they just fit looser—"

  "They're broken!" My brother turned on me with fiery rage, clenching his fists so tight they shook.

  "Jake, buddy, they're not—"

  "They're. BROKEN!" He broke the words with kicks of his feet and the blocks sprayed in every direction, hitting the walls like tiny plastic bullets. The tantrum wasn't unlike a toddler's, if the toddler was six-foot-two with impressive physical strength for someone who watched so much TV. I kept myself tougher, stronger, but Jake had the capability to do serious damage if he got the upper hand. And right now, he was close to that point. He was beyond reasoning. Too far gone.

  I sighed and coaxed a calm when all my body wanted was to lash out in frustration. "Hey," I said, speaking in a soothing tone and stepping into the room, "you wanna go watch something on TV?" I reached out, seeking his shoulder. "We can put on Mickey, or maybe Daniel Tiger. I can get you a snack, if you—"

  "No!" He swatted at my hand, knocking me out of the way. But I persisted, reaching out once again and meeting my mark. I squeezed his shoulder and felt the tension in his bones start to slip away. "We can have a snack and watch Daniel Tiger?"

  "Yeah, buddy."

  We stood in the middle of the mess he'd made not five minutes before when he was tyrannical and menacing. It was almost hard to believe this could be the same guy, now meeting my eye with a sweetness in its purest form.

  "This room is a mess," Jake stated, so matter of fact, and I pushed myself to smile.

  "Yeah, but we
'll clean up later before I head home, right?"

  "You betcha."

  So, we sat on his bed with bowls of pretzels and Daniel Tiger playing on the TV. With my sketch pad on my lap, I managed to work on my concept for Shane, in between Jake's incessant questions and commentary. But all the while, one thought rang loud and clear in my mind. The same thing that I'd known to be true for a long time.

  Jake would be with me forever, and as long as he was there, my life would be his. There wasn’t room for anything, or anyone, else. And there never would be.

  Chapter Five

  I BOOKED A LAST-MINUTE session with Dr. Travetti the day of Shane's appointment, and after dropping Jake off at daycare, I barreled into the office with determination singeing my veins. My leather jacket was splattered with the beginning of a thunderstorm, my favorite weather, and on any other occasion, I would've found the dark clouds soothing. But today, I saw them as a premonition from a god I could never believe in.

  "This is new," she declared, gesturing toward me before sitting in her chair.

  "What is?"

  "You coming in here unannounced."

  I screwed my face with confusion. "Unannounced? I made an appointment this morning."

  "You did?" Surprise widened her eyes and she quickly checked her phone, probably searching through her schedule. "Ah, you did. This is what I get for running late in the morning."

  I snorted at her admission. "So, you're telling me the good doctor is human."

  "More than you know," she said with a small, sad smile, revealing a side of herself I’d never seen before. I wondered if I’d ever see it again as she asked, "So, are you okay?"

  The question was tied to a smile but full of concern, and I lowered my brows at the insinuation. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

  "Well, you gotta see that this is different for you, Blake. You're usually very regimented. You keep a strict schedule. You’re very much a creature of habit, and you've been seeing me every Monday morning for the past two years, and suddenly, out of the blue, you need a last-minute appointment. So, back to my initial question—are you okay?” She smiled encouragingly without any glimmer of sadness and I missed it. That sadness had made her more relatable.

  "Yeah, I'm fine ..." The assuredness in my voice wavered and she noticed.

  "Are you?"

  With a sigh, my elbows planted to my knees, the leather of my jacket creaking with the movement. "I think so?" I looked to her for corroboration and she laughed incredulously.

  "I can't tell you if you're fine, Blake. But I do think something brought you in here, so ..." She shrugged innocently.

  I turned my head and looked out the window. Her office was on the second floor of a building overlooking Derby Square in Downtown Salem. The cobblestone streets called my name within this historical town. It was where I granted my soul the permission to come alive when the sun set and the moon rose and my dreams breathed. If things were different, if life was different, this was where I'd open up my own shop. In the heart of the history of my favorite place on Earth.

  If things were different ... Even with the use of an if, I felt I looked at it as an option, when I shouldn't be thinking it at all. It wasn't possible. It wasn't happening. It was no less improbable than the sun dropping from the sky at this very second, and the finality formed a lump in my chest that moved to my throat and made me shudder with defeat.

  "Blake?"

  I shook my head at the window, at Old Town Hall and the brick steps and the pedestrians with rain-dotted umbrellas. "Shit's been weird," I blurted.

  "How do you mean?"

  Turning from the rain and the cloudy sky, I elaborated. "Last week, some chick ..." I stopped myself, feeling instantly disrespectful to this woman I didn't know but remained haunted by, and I started over. "This woman, Audrey, emailed me, looking for a tattoo. Then, when she came into the shop the next day, I took one look at her and jumped to conclusions like a total dick. I never do that, I’m not a judgmental prick, but I said shit I shouldn't have. Yet, instead of walking out of there like a normal person, she stayed. She wanted this tattoo done by me specifically, because apparently, it was something I had designed years ago."

  "You didn't remember it?"

  I hesitated before shaking my head. "I didn't, and that in itself was embarrassing. I mean, I've been doing this shit for a long time, Doc, so naturally I'm not going to remember every skull or raven I put on someone. But this fuckin’ thing ..." I scrubbed a palm over my scruffy face. "I feel like I should remember it because it's so different. To the best of my knowledge, it's the only piece I've done with color in it, the only one ever. I don't know why I'd even agree to doing it, based on that alone. It's not my style."

  "You didn't ask?"

  I shook my head. "I was too blindsided by what a fucking dick I’d been. I'm not usually that mean, you know? I'm an angry motherfucker, but I'm not mean. Not like that."

  "Hm ..." Dr. Travetti wrote on her clipboard and I didn't get a chance to question what she was scribbling before she said, "Go on."

  "Anyway, uh ... I've had a hard time getting this tattoo out of my head, and when I'm not thinking about it, it's following me. I mean, it's the craziest shit."

  She lifted her head, tipped her chin, and asked, "What do you mean, it's following you?"

  "Well, uh ... I saw her—Audrey—at the poetry club on Saturday."

  "You saw her? Have you ever seen her there?"

  I shook my head affirmatively. I would have noticed her before. "Nope."

  "Interesting. Did you speak to her?"

  "No." My response was too rushed, too brash, and Dr. Travetti tilted her head with question.

  "But you wanted to."

  "What? I didn't say that. Why do you always—"

  Her head tipped in the other direction as a small smile stretched across her face. "Can you do me a favor, Blake?"

  "What?"

  "I'd like you to not get defensive for one session, and because this is a shorter one, I'd like you to try that today. Can you do that?"

  I sighed and slumped into the chair. "Fine. I'll do my best to make you proud."

  Her laugh was sniffed and quiet. "Thank you. Now, why didn't you talk to her?"

  I shrugged as if I didn't know, but still I said, "Because what's the point?"

  "The point is to make a human connection, and we've already established that you crave affection."

  "And we've already established why that can't happen. There is literally no room in my life for that shit. And in any case, I didn't talk to her, so whatever. It's done."

  "Okay," she concluded with a stiff nod. "So, why are you here then, if this happened on Saturday?"

  I cut my fingers through my dark mass of hair. "Because on Monday, the editor for ModInk walked into the shop, and he wants to interview me."

  Dr. Travetti cocked her head like a curious dog, and I explained why exactly that was an enormous deal. With wide, hopeful eyes, she said, "That's amazing, Blake! What an incredible opportunity."

  "Yeah, it is. Except I have to turn him down. I know what would happen the second he puts my shit in that magazine, or hell, even on his social media. Business would pick up, and as much as the shop itself could use it, they wouldn't be coming for Gus, Celia, Kara, or Matt. They'd want me, which means longer hours, more work. I'd have to work weekends, and I need my weekends, Doc. I need ... I need my time, you know? So," I finished with a rueful sigh and a shrug, "I gotta decline."

  "Sounds like you've made up your mind."

  I nodded, unable to meet her eye. "Yeah. I'm doing his tat today, and I'll break the news to him."

  "So, what do you need me for?"

  I fidgeted with the zipper on my jacket, pulling it up and listening to the hum of metal clicking against metal. "I need you ..." The words caught in my throat and they died in a whisper.

  "You ... need me?" The question was accusatory. Dr. Travetti pressed a hand to her chest, and I hurried to patch up the insinuation.


  Clearing my throat, I said, "I need you to tell me I'm doing the right thing."

  Sympathy wiped away her startled expression. Her eyes softened and her fingers clenched her pen. "You know I can't do that, Blake. I can help you find the answer, but I can't tell you what the answer is."

  "But isn't that your job?"

  Her smile was small and regretful. "It's not. But I can tell you, if you're questioning yourself this much, you might want to reconsider. Your intuition is telling you something and maybe you should be listening."

  I scrubbed a hand over my face and raked my fingers through my hair. "You know, this wouldn't be such a fucking problem if it wasn't for that goddamn tattoo."

  She cocked her head. "Why do you say that?" she asked, and I told her about how Shane had found out about me in the first place. Dr. Travetti took in the new piece of information and with a drawn-out sigh, she leaned back in her chair. "Blake, what do you think about signs?"

  "Signs?" I snickered. "What do you mean? Like from God or some shit?"

  "From God, from the universe ...” Her hand waved gracefully around in the air. “Wherever."

  I laughed and shook my head. "Doc, I thought you were a woman of science, and then you gotta throw in some religious B.S.."

  "Is it B.S.?"

  I lifted my eyes, leveling her with a condescending glare. "Yes. Yes, it fucking is. Signs are bullshit. God is bullshit. The universe is bullshit. It’s all bullshit."

  "You're getting defensive again," she said pointedly.

  "No. I'm not. I'm getting honest. None of us have a plan laid out for us by some almighty, mythical being. We're all mistakes on this mistake of a planet, floating through our lives of good shit and bad shit until we die. The end."

  "That's very bleak, don't you think?"

  I snorted and tipped my head back to assess the popcorn ceiling. "Can't spell Blake without bleak," I muttered under my breath.

  "What's that?"

  "Nothing."

  With the sigh of the defeated, Dr. Travetti tossed her clipboard unceremoniously onto the coffee table and said, "I want you to read what I wrote."