Daddy Ink

by Ali Lyda

  This tattoo was simple enough, a tribal design, but it was on a large area that would take the rest of the night to complete. A two-hour sitting if the client sat well and let me go to town. More, though, if he needed a lot of breaks. At least the money would be good.

  Reagan put a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for this, Javi.”

  “No problem.”

  I motioned for the client, Roger, to sit at my station. We worked together for the next hour as I drew up a design, and he helped me fine-tune it. Roger sometimes leaned in too close or stared at me too long, but it was flattering and harmless. I’d been flirted with by clients in the past. Getting a tattoo was an intimate experience, after all, allowing someone to permanently alter you.

  Then I was gloved up and started on the tattoo. It was going to be placed on his shoulder, wrapping up and around like a gauntlet. I was forced to sit close to him, our knees and thighs occasionally brushing. It didn’t escape me that there weren’t goosebumps or heat pooling in my belly with the accidental touches, despite all of Roger’s flirting. Not like there’d been when I’d stopped Gordo from stumbling at the bar.

  “You’re good,” Roger said as he watched me work. I could feel the intensity of his stare, and I focused harder on the lines I was drawing.

  “T-thanks.” My mouth began to feel thick, the way it did when I got nervous or upset.

  It shouldn’t feel that way. I was just doing my job, and it wasn’t like I was under any kind of pressure. But the closeness of him—close enough for me to smell the musk of his cologne—kept sending my mind back to Gordo at the bar. How it had felt to have my hands on his hips when he’d stumbled.

  Now that had made my body light up, my brain sending signals left and right that it wanted more contact, preferably of the naked variety.

  Gordo. How in the hell was I supposed to know what the man was thinking? Some days he came across as abrupt and cold, like I was a fly buzzing in his path. But other times, like at the bar, he’d been totally different. Flirtatious, easygoing, his smile hypnotic and tempting.

  I knew I should leave it alone. I already had a running list of the reasons why no one would want me for long, and Gordo already had his hands full with his baby. I should be able to be as professional with him as I was with this client, who was clearly coming on to me, and who I was having no trouble deflecting.

  But I was having trouble. Trouble keeping Gordo out of my mind, trouble staying away from him. Too many times I’d wondered what he was doing and how he’d come to be a single father. What his lips would feel like pressed against mine.

  What he looked like without clothes.

  God, I needed to get my head together.

  A little over an hour and a half passed with the client telling me about his job, his last ex, the car he was thinking about buying. I worked silently, intent on finishing as quickly as possible while still doing quality work. Most of what he said went in one ear and out the other.

  Dane left as I was nearing the last of the shading, being sure to say a smarmy goodbye and make yet another joke about the hookup he was headed to. I really hoped he didn’t screw it up—literally.

  “Your friend sounds like fun,” my client said as I shaded a large area.

  “He’s a good guy,” I managed to get out. I worked hard to keep my mind in that place of meditative focus and not get caught up in the provocative tone of the man I was tattooing. “He just likes to d-date a lot.”

  Dating, of course, was me being generous.

  “You look like you could be fun, too.” Now there was no denying Roger’s intentions.

  “Nah,” I replied, trying to deflect. “I’m boring as shit.”

  My breath had almost caught on -sh, my stutter prepared to make an appearance. An itch of irritation crawled down my spine.

  “Sure,” the man said before laughing. “The dark and broody ones like you are my favorites.”

  Flirting like this used to be my bread and butter, and I’d eaten it up since I was old enough to recognize it, the kind of over-the-top meaningless come-ons that promised a one-off fun time. Something to feel good for a while and release some steam before getting back to the daily grind.

  But tonight, even though I’m sure Roger didn’t mean anything by it, it rankled to be talked about like I was a dessert and not a person. I sped up a bit, allowing my work to be just a little sloppy if it meant being through with this interaction sooner.

  As I started the finishing sweeps, my client pressed me. “Javi. I’m not looking for much—I know how guys like you work. Let’s just have a good time after this.”

  The crotch of his pants had grown hard while I tattooed, the outline of his cock visible. It looked big, and I was still uninterested.

  “Sorry, we have rules. No fucking the clientele.”

  “Bullshit,” Roger quickly shot back. “As soon as you finish, I’m not your client anymore. What I am is horny, and you’re fucking beautiful.”

  Maybe I should have been flattered, but all I felt was irritated. This was my job, for Chrissakes, not a club or a bar. I should be able to go to my job, do it well, and then go home after without being accosted by some asshole.

  I just wanted to go home. I wanted the chance to see Gordo and Giuliana, even if it was only in passing. It was a masochistic want that set me off balance, but it was what it was.

  I finished the tattoo without saying anything, and then cleaned and bandaged it. “I’m going t-to go piss and then we can wrap up here.”

  Pushing away, I practically ran to the bathroom. The wrong kind of heat flooded me, the kind that felt like needles in my stomach. It felt like something was wrong with me, and my brain was quick to agree with that theory. I gripped the white porcelain of the sink and breathed deep, trying to tamp down the hurricane of emotions.

  It was done. I’d collect his money and wait out the remaining shop time. There had been some bad times in my past, both in foster homes and in juvie in my early teens, when there’d been a vibe. The wrong kind of vibe, one that spoke of power instead of lust, and it was the same vibe rolling off of Roger.

  I’d learned to try and get some distance, regroup, and escape as unharmed as possible, which is exactly what I was trying to do now. And then the door clicked open behind me.

  “Just a minute, man,” I managed through gritted teeth. But when I looked in the mirror, I saw the glint of hunger in my client’s eyes. He closed the door and locked it, trapping me in the bathroom with him. My heart leapt into high gear, racing like a rabbit’s. A rolling nausea built in my gut.

  “Don’t play hard to get,” Roger said. “This will feel good for both of us.” He approached me quickly, crossing the small space in two steps. His arms braced me in on either side, the hardness of his erection pressed into the seam of my ass.

  My stomach threatened to revolt, and I had to work to twist around so that I was facing him and would hopefully have more leverage. He leaned into me and bit my collarbone; I hissed against the pain. I put my hands to his chest and tried to push him off, but he grabbed my wrists and brought one of my palms to his cock, rubbing himself into me.

  “S-s-stop,” I stuttered, panic spiking. My breaths were quick bursts and my muscles so tensed I thought they might snap.

  “You don’t want me to stop. You like it. You’re a pretty little fuck boy—don’t think I can’t see it,” he said into my neck, nuzzling into me and continuing to rock his hardness into me, dry-humping my hand. “I’ve seen you at the club before. You’re always leaving with someone. This isn’t any different.”

  In my early teens, my anger had a tendency of manifesting itself in brawls, and one of those fights had gone too far. The other kid had been hurt bad—and combined with other offenses on my record, I’d been sent away. If there was one thing they’d drilled into me during my time there, it was how important it was to stay out of trouble. When you looked like me and had the record I had, a single punch could turn into an assault charge and time in jail in a secon
d.

  But what Roger was doing to me was assault, and he wasn’t listening to me. And if there was one lesson that had stuck with me even longer than staying out of trouble, it was this: When words no longer worked, fists did.

  I managed to free my hands in a vicious jerk, and as he reared back in surprise, I sucker punched his eye, making sure my knuckles grazed the cartilage of his nose on the follow through. Roger’s nose didn’t break, but I knew it hurt him like a son of a bitch. He’d be sporting a shiner for at least a week.

  “You piece of shit!” he screamed, words muffled by the hands he had pressed to his nose.

  But he didn’t fight back. No, the man’s swagger was wrapped up entirely in trying to make others submit. He was a manipulator. I had grown up a fighter.

  I pushed past him to unlock the door. It swung open and Reagan was there, keys in his hand—that motherfucker had locked me in—and his face stormy. He pointed to the client with a finger that shook with rage. “You don’t touch my staff. Ever.”

  “He’s the one who punched me!” There was blood dripping through the fingers he had pressed to his nose. Maybe I had broken it after all. “I’m going to sue you assholes!”

  “I don’t think so,” Reagan said. “You think I didn’t hear Javi tell you no? You think I don’t have you following him into the bathroom on camera? You’re banned from the shop. If I ever see you around again, I’m calling the fucking cops.”

  The client left without paying, but I didn’t care. I’d begun shaking, small tremors that rippled out after a spike of adrenaline. Each time I let myself be still, I could feel his body crushed into me, and I wanted to puke.

  Reagan ran his hands through his wild red hair, his pale skin flushed deep pink. He paced around, the bulk of his body managing to make me feel both safe and nervous. He was like a father to me, and I couldn’t stand the thought of harming him in a fit of anxiety.

  “I s-s-shouldn’t have p-p-punched him,” I said, each word a mountain of effort to produce.

  Reagan stopped pacing and looked at me. “Did he touch you?” He yelled and signed at the same time. I nodded. “Then I’m glad you punched him. Are you okay?”

  The tough guy in me wanted to say yes, yeah, sure, I was fine. But Reagan knew me. I shook my head, and his eyes gentled.

  “Go home, Javi. I’m locking up early. Text me if you need some time off, okay?”

  I could tell he wanted to hug me, and I was glad he didn’t. Being touched was something I didn’t think I could handle just yet. He was right; I needed to be home.

  But all I could think about on the drive was how large and empty my home was. There’d be no one there to listen as I unburdened myself. No one to hold me as I worked through the mass of toxic emotions that were already rising to the surface in light of that man’s attack on me.

  It made me think of Gordo, once again—and to keep myself together I allowed myself one, small, dangerous fantasy.

  One where I wasn’t going home alone, but to him.

  Fate must have been listening in. When I pulled into my driveway, Gordo was outside, getting groceries from his car. Except from the look on his face, all scowled and pinched, it seemed more like an attempt to get groceries from the car. He had Giuliana in one arm and was trying to grab the handles of way too many bags with the other.

  Seeing him struggle, my own shit dropped away, and the instinct to be helpful and useful kicked in. It was something normally reserved for the people I cared for and trusted, like Reagan and Dane, or Mike and the kids at the center. But here it was now. I parked my truck and dashed over to Gordo.

  “C-c-can I help?” My body was so wound up from the fuckwad at the shop that there was nothing to do about the stutter besides accept it—but that didn’t stop the awful gut-twist of shame that always accompanied it from brewing in my belly.

  Gordo didn’t seem to notice my stutter, though. He just pointed to the bags that he’d unsuccessfully tried to gather; I grabbed them and we made our way inside. I’d never been into his house before, but the stress that radiated off him kept me from looking around or noticing any of the details.

  I followed him into the kitchen where he practically threw the few bags he was carrying on the counter. Just as he began to root through them, though, Giuliana let out an ear-piercing cry. It was relentless, the kind of baby cry that demands you leave your sanity at the door and accommodate the infant right then.

  “Fuck,” Gordo cursed.

  I paused, startled. I didn’t think I’d ever heard him curse before. It wasn’t an angry word, either, but said in the tone of the defeated.

  “She needs to eat.” He stopped pawing through grocery bags to go to the sink, which was full of dirty bottles. He tore through the cabinet closest to the sink, where I could see tubs of formula and cleaning supplies… and an empty space where bottles presumably lived when clean.

  “Fuck,” Gordo said again, his voice taking on a desperate edge.

  Giuliana upped her efforts, her pitiful cries so piercing I felt them in my teeth.

  “What d...d-d-do you need?” Jesus Christ, a kingdom for the ability to just say what I had to say.

  “I don’t know,” Gordo replied, eyes wide with panic. “I need to clean and sanitize a bottle, she’s wet and needs a new diaper, I haven’t eaten in like eight hours, and why does all of this shit have to happen at once!?”

  When he looked at me, his crazed eyes were filling with tears.

  My heart began to crack, and years of practice and doing what needed to be done back in the foster homes took over without my say-so. “Go change her. I’ll d-do the b-b-bottles.”

  “Are you sure?” Gordo asked, even as he began to move toward the stairs with Giuliana in tow. He didn’t bother to hide the doubt that skated across his handsome features, but he also couldn’t hide the relief.

  “Yes.” No stutter that time. Confident.

  He didn’t wait for me to change my mind, not that I would. As he went up to change her, I checked out the damage in the sink. There were bottles in various states of disarray lumped in the sink, but it was nothing to grab the bottle brush and dish soap. I scrubbed quickly, making quick work of cleaning them. Next, I placed them in the sanitizer. The work tugged at memories that I’d kept buried, and, combined with my frazzled nerves from the shop, I wasn’t able to stop them from tumbling out.

  I loved kids. I may not have always liked the foster parents who took me in, but their other children—biological or otherwise—were often spots of joy in a dark time in my life. There was a calming and euphoric feeling that came from being able to care for someone who couldn’t care for themselves. I liked making sure that those kids knew they were wanted.

  Even if I wasn’t.

  Once the bottles were in the sanitizer, I paused, only to hear the bath running and Giuliana’s still-constant screams. Apparently the change had gotten messier than Gordo had anticipated.

  Which meant I could help more. I peered in all of the cabinets to get the lay of the land then got to work, putting away the groceries. By the time the counters were empty and wiped down, the sanitizer had finished.

  It took no time to make a bottle, shaking the warm water and formula to mix it. I was just getting it set up next to a clean burp cloth I’d found in the diaper bag Gordo had deposited in the hall when Gordo slumped down the stairs, a clean and newly dressed baby in his arms. She was still crying, hiccups of rage mixed in, and Gordo’s face was a mask of exhaustion and despair.

  Until he saw the clean kitchen, and me with the bottle and cloth at the ready.

  “Are you serious?” he asked in wonder.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Instead, I pointed to the bottle, and then to Giuliana, miming that I could feed her. Immediately I wished I hadn’t—if he said no, I’d be so embarrassed. Just because I’d been daydreaming about the closeness of a family, had been mourning the lack of someone like him in my life, didn’t mean I could just reach out and take someone else’s happ
y life.

  Had I been too presumptive? Gordo looked like he wasn’t sure. I hoped to hell it was a protectiveness for his daughter and not because I looked like an untrustworthy thug.

  But eventually he handed her over, slow and over-careful. “This is Giuliana,” he said as he put the red-faced, angry bundle of beauty into my arms.

  It was love at first touch. She was a beautiful baby. Sweet. She had her daddy’s dark hair, and her infant-blue eyes were beginning to darken. They’d probably be the same rich brown as Gordo soon.

  I cradled her close, a smile blooming on my face.

  It was easy to balance the bottle and cloth and find a seat. Giuliana was settled in the crook of my elbow and accepted the bottle eagerly. Those large baby eyes closed in ecstatic joy as she hungrily latched onto the nipple. Gordo stood where he’d been when he handed her over, his face a picture of incredulity.

  “That’s it, you’re staying for dinner, and if you say no, I will be very upset,” Gordo announced, still watching us.

  I didn’t say no. I didn’t want to say no.

  Eventually he stepped into the kitchen. I could hear the pots and pans clanging as he moved with efficiency, but none of that mattered. Giuliana had all of my attention. My chest ached as I held her, the moment close to perfection. This was what all kids deserved. A warm home, food, loving parents who would do anything for them.

  It was what I’d never had, but I was thankful to be a part of it for her, even if it was just for this moment.

  By the time dinner was on the table, Giuliana was content to lie on a mat and grab at giant, colorful toys.

  “You’re good with her,” Gordo said as we sat down.

  “She’s easy to be g-good with,” I replied.

  Holding Giuliana had relaxed me enough that my stutter wasn’t as demanding now, but I was still a bit nervous, especially after everything that had happened at Get Ink’d earlier. It felt odd to be there, in Gordo’s house and with a family like I’d been longing for on my drive home, even if they weren’t actually my family. This was what I’d wanted, right? To not be alone? I wished the jangled nerves in my stomach would agree.