by L. A. Witt
I blinked. “What?”
Darren swept his tongue across his lips but didn’t turn toward me. “He said he preached to his congregation every Sunday about being like Christ, but Christ had never said a word about homosexuality. Yeah, there’s some stuff in the Bible that can be interpreted as antihomosexual, but nothing from Jesus. For that matter, He’d never advocated turning away a son.” Once again he fell silent, closing his eyes for a moment. Maybe he was praying, maybe collecting himself. Maybe both. It was impossible to say.
Then he sniffed sharply and wiped at his eyes before he looked at me. “He told me he’d realized that morning, while he was getting ready for his sermon, that he couldn’t stand up there in front of all those people and tell them how to be like Christ when he’d put out his own son.” Darren swallowed hard. “He told me he loved me. And he asked me if after what he’d done, he had any right to hope he would be welcome in my life again. Like the prodigal son was when he returned to his father.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Yeah.” Darren shook some tension out of his shoulders. “That was the day I realized what I wanted to do with my life. I’d wanted to be a missionary already, even while I was still struggling to reconcile my sexuality with my beliefs, but I just knew right then that this was my calling.”
“And things with your family?” I asked. “They’ve been fine ever since?”
Darren shrugged. “There were some bumps in the road. Chris and my sisters took a while to come around. Mom was a little weird when I actually started dating guys. Dad had his moments. It took them all a long time to accept that I wasn’t going to change, and even longer that I didn’t need to change, but we all got it together after a couple of years.”
“Good to hear,” I said, watching the river instead of Darren.
“I don’t, um—” He paused, clearing his throat. “I haven’t told many people about that.”
I turned toward him again. “Oh. I, uh, hope I wasn’t stepping on a raw nerve.”
“Not really. It’s just not something I talk about except with close friends.” He met my eyes. “Really close friends.”
My breath caught. “Oh,” was all I could say.
He held my gaze. I held his.
My heart beat faster.
Oh God, let’s not ruin today with one of those awkward “we need to stay friends” conversations.
Then Darren abruptly broke eye contact and nodded toward the trail. “We should, um, keep moving. Only so much daylight left.”
“Right. Yeah. Good idea.” I stood and put my water bottle into the pack. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” His eyes met mine again. I thought for sure we were going to give in and have that awkward moment after all, but for the second time, he was the one to break eye contact.
I pulled on the pack, and we started down the trail. It didn’t take long for us to get back into our bantering groove, and as near as I could tell, he’d forgotten about the tense, slightly awkward moment we’d shared. I sure as fuck hadn’t.
I just didn’t know what to make of it.
Chapter Nine
THE SHOP was empty on Thursday night, as it often was, but we’d had some pretty good walk-ins early in the day, so I couldn’t complain. A little downtime was good. Gave me a chance to clean, sketch, and totally not think about Monday’s hike like I’d been doing all week.
I sat up to stretch a kink out of my neck after hunching over a drawing for half an hour. Lane was standing at the counter, skimming over the appointment book. I was just about to suggest we close up the shop early, since things were quiet, when he did a double take at something on the left side of the book. Then he rolled his eyes and turned the page with more force than necessary.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Just noticed one of your appointments next week.”
“What about it?”
He glared at me but said nothing. The typical Lane expression that meant read between the lines, asshole. I mentally ran through my schedule for the next week, trying to think what I could have possibly—
Oh.
I groaned and sat back in my chair, pushing away the sketch I’d been working on. “Dude, seriously? This again?” I was so not in the mood for this shit. Not after being up all night thinking about Darren. Again.
He glared at me. “Yes, this again.”
“For fuck’s sake, man. There’s no reason it should be an issue for me to work on him. Do you have any idea how many of your clients are HIV or Hep positive?”
He shifted his weight. “None of them have said—”
“Do you make them bring in documentation showing recent negatives?”
“No,” Lane growled. “I don’t.”
“Then who’s to say you’re not inking people who are positive for either one?” I pushed myself up out of my chair. “At least I know this guy is positive.”
“Yeah?” He watched me get up and cross the shop as he said, “And I haven’t seen you do fuck all in the way of taking extra precautions when you’re working on him.”
I raised an eyebrow, then leaned down to riffle through a drawer for some pencils. “I take the same precautions with him as I do with any other goddamned client”—I withdrew the pencils and slammed the drawer—“because I tattoo all of my clients with the assumption they have HIV or Hep. Don’t you?”
“Of course I do. But that’s….” He fidgeted again, tightening his arms across his chest.
“Lane, think about it. I do the same thing with him as I do with any other client.” I dropped the pencils beside my sketchpad and ticked off the points on my fingers. “I wear gloves. I sanitize everything. I use new, sterile ink cups and fresh ink that’s never been touched and will never be used on anyone else. Just like I would do with anyone else because I assume—just like you should be assuming—that anyone who walks through that door could be positive.”
“Still, I’m just not comfortable with word getting around that we tattoo people who are positive.” He pointed sharply at my workstation. “Or you inking them with the same gear you use on everyone else.”
“You’re serious. We sterilize the hell out of everything we own, above and beyond the state regulations, and you still want me to get an entire set of equipment just for using on those clients.”
“What would it hurt?”
“Lane.” I gestured at the room around us. “Where would we put extra equipment? Seriously. If we had the space, we’d have brought in another artist fucking ages ago.”
“We can’t afford an extra artist in here, even if we had room.”
“Ditto with the equipment.”
“Don’t you think it’s more important to—”
“I’m not going to keep going around and around about this, dude. If you want me to schedule him when you’re not here, I will.” Muttering, I added, “God forbid I expose you to a leper.”
Lane grumbled something I didn’t understand, and for the sake of us not coming to blows around all this expensive equipment, I didn’t ask him to repeat it. I was tired of this same old argument, and there was no point in dragging it out again. It was one of the few things we butted heads over, and it didn’t come up often. Otherwise we worked fine together.
I rubbed my eyes. One of these days we’d settle this dispute. Hopefully out of earshot of our clientele.
Right about then, fortunately, the front door opened. I glanced at it, then did a double take.
A kid who couldn’t have been more than sixteen sauntered in. Lip pierced, eyebrow pierced, hair bleached. Punk shirt and torn jeans. Radiating attitude from every adolescent pore on his broken-out face.
I saw kids like that in here all the time, so he wasn’t the reason I did the double take.
“Something wrong?” Darren asked as the door banged shut behind him.
“Uh, no, I….” Didn’t expect to see you tonight. I shook my head and moved toward the counter. “Just wasn’t expecting you.” And I’m not sure
how to breathe around you right now. “How is the, um, is the tattoo still healing okay?”
“Feels fine,” he said. “Itches a little.”
“That’s normal.”
“Yeah, that’s what the card said. And actually, that tattoo is the reason I’m here.” His eyes darted toward the kid he’d brought in. “This is Max. He saw the tattoo through my T-shirt, and now he wants one.”
My head snapped toward him so fast I damn near broke my neck. “And he’s how old?”
Darren’s cheeks colored a little. “Um, sixteen.”
My jaw dropped. “You want me to tattoo a kid who—”
“He’s going to get one anyway,” Darren shot back. “I brought him here because at least then I can be sure he’s getting it at a clean, reputable place.”
Max eyed me as if to say “What of it?”
I narrowed my eyes at Darren. “And no clean, reputable place is going to tattoo a sixteen-year-old without his parents’ permission.”
“He’s emancipated. He doesn’t need his parents’ permission.”
I let my head fall forward. “You’re killing me here, Darren.” I raked a hand through my hair. “Jesus. He… he’s just a kid!”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I know this is putting you in a bad spot.” He nodded toward Max. “But he’s got emancipation papers. For all intents and purposes, he’s an adult, which means you’re not liable for—”
“It’s not the legality I’m concerned about. Eighteen-year-olds are impulsive when it comes to ink.” I glanced at Max. “But sixteen?”
Max snapped his gum, making the audible crack convey go fuck yourself, old man.
Darren kept his tone even. “What choice do I have?” It sounded more like a plea than a question. “He wants one. He’s determined to get one. There’s no way I can stop him, so I’m bringing him to you to make sure he at least gets it done safely.”
I silently watched the kid for a moment. There were plenty of shady artists in this town. In any town.
“Please, Seth,” Darren said, almost whispering.
I gnawed the inside of my cheek and finally nodded. “Okay. Fine.”
Darren exhaled. “Thank you. I owe you big-time.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I came around the counter and approached the kid. He had his arms folded across his chest, and his brow was furrowed as he scanned the art on the walls.
“See anything you like?” I asked.
“Eh,” he said with a half shrug. “It’s not bad.”
“Thanks.”
He sniffed derisively, and his gaze slid toward me. “This all you got?”
“Depends. What do you have in mind?”
“Something tribal.”
I eyed his stringy bleached hair and very nonnative blue eyes. “Which tribe?”
“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Whatever.”
I arched an eyebrow at Darren in what I hoped came across as a loud and clear What the fuck, dude?
He shrugged apologetically but didn’t say anything.
I turned to the kid again. “Let’s check out some designs. See if anything catches your eye. Come on over here.”
I led him back to the counter, and then I went around behind it. I pulled the tribal portfolio off the shelf and let it thud heavily on the counter. “Here you go. All our tribal work.”
Max muttered something and pulled the portfolio toward him. He flipped it open and thumbed through it with all the interest of someone reading a book of tax codes.
“While you’re doing that,” I said, “do you have a copy of your emancipation?”
Without looking up, he dug the wrinkled and folded paper out of his jacket pocket.
“How about some ID to go with it?”
He huffed as only a teenager could huff, then pulled out a wallet that had both a Velcro flap and a chain. Then he smacked a state ID down on the counter.
While he went through the portfolio, I photocopied the documents. I gave him back the originals and slipped the copies into a folder, which I’d file later. Even if he didn’t get any ink, that shit stayed here just in case anyone ever asked questions.
“I want this one.” He tapped a wide tribal armband. “All the way around my arm.”
“All right.” I put the consent form and Hold Harmless waiver on the counter. “Read that over and sign at the bottom.”
“What’s this for?” He glared at me. “I already gave you my ID and stuff.”
“Yeah. And this is the Hold Harmless.”
He rolled his eyes. “This is way too much paperwork. I want a tattoo, not a car.”
“And I want to stay in business long enough to retire as something other than a bum.” I pointed at the form. “No ink on there? No ink on you.”
“Why? I know what I want.”
“Yeah, but how do I know you won’t sue me if it gets infected, or you wind up with hepatitis?” I gestured at the form. “I close in an hour, buddy. You want any ink tonight, read it and sign it.”
“Max,” Darren said to the kid. “This all means he’s running a responsible, safe shop. That’s why I brought you here. Just fill out the forms.”
“This is the guy that did yours, right?” Max asked.
Darren nodded. “Yeah, he did. And I had to fill out the same form.”
The kid sighed but then started reading the form.
I turned to Darren again. He gave another apologetic shrug. He had to know as well as I did that this kid was nowhere near mature enough to get inked, and he sure as shit hadn’t given nearly enough consideration to his design.
“Here.” The kid slapped the paper onto the counter. “Now can we do this?”
“Ready when you are. Have a seat.”
He followed me to my workstation behind the counter. His sleeve was loose enough and the desired location low enough I just pushed up his sleeve and clipped it into place. Then I prepped his skin and put on the stencil.
Once the stencil was on, I pointed at the mirror. “Go take a look. Make sure it’s exactly where you want it.”
He got up and went to the mirror. Grinning at his reflection, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I want.”
“Before we get started,” I said, “why don’t we see if you can handle the pain?”
Max laughed. “It ain’t that bad.”
“Isn’t it?”
He smirked at my sleeve. “If it is, then you’re an idiot.”
“Or I just have a higher pain tolerance than most.”
He turned toward Darren. “Yours wasn’t bad, was it?”
Darren shrugged. “I told you it was pretty intense.”
Our eyes met briefly. His face colored a little, and I shifted my attention back to getting my equipment ready. Yeah, his tattoo had been intense, but the pain had nothing to do with it.
“Whatever.” Max sniffed derisively again. “I can take it.” He gestured at the piercings on his face. “Bring it on.”
“All right.” I picked up the needle and turned it on. “No ink this time. Just seeing how well you handle the pain.”
“Whatever, man.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I brought the needle up to the inside of his upper arm, ready to press the tip against his skin. He wasn’t the first invincible punk to come wandering into my shop, and he wouldn’t be the last. He also wouldn’t be the first to run out crying, which I predicted in three… two….
“Ow!” he shrieked.
One, motherfucker.
He recoiled, pressing his arm to his side like a broken wing and holding up his other hand.
I held up the needle, which was still buzzing. “Ready for the ink?”
“No!” He pulled back even farther. “No, I, um….” He snatched the clips off his shirt and smoothed his sleeve over the stencil. “Forget it. I changed my mind. I don’t want it.”
“You sure?” I asked.
“Yes.” He flew up out of the chair and backed away from me. “Let’s get out
of here,” he muttered to Darren.
Darren didn’t say a word. He just followed the kid toward the door. On the way, though, he turned back and mouthed, “Thank you.”
I just shook my head and laughed.
AS I was closing the shop, Darren pulled in and parked next to my truck. My heart sped up as his engine quieted down.
He opened the car door. “Hey. Um, I wanted to say thanks again. For earlier.”
“No problem,” I said. “So did you really think I was going to tattoo him?”
“Well, I didn’t know what choice you had.” He stepped onto the curb beside me. “Sorry I put you in that position, though.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.” I opened the door to the stairwell and gestured for him to go ahead. “Probably better you brought him to me than some of the shady artists in town.”
“That’s why I did it.”
“So where did you run into this kid, anyway?”
“My church has an outreach program for LGBT kids who’ve been thrown out of their homes.”
My heart flipped over. “They have a… really?”
He stopped at the top of the stairs, moving aside so I had room to join him in the hall. “Yeah. That’s why they hired me in the first place. They needed a youth pastor, but also someone to run the program. Max is one of the homeless kids who’s staying with us until he gets himself together.”
“So… the church. It actually has a program for queer kids?”
Darren nodded. “The pastor started the program when he started the church. Lost his brother after their parents threw him out, and decided it was his calling to help others in the same predicament.”
“Wow. That’s… um, that’s awesome. I mean, that you and the pastor are doing all of that.” Which is not helping my resolve to not want you, right?
“It’s a good program,” he said. “We’re trying to get some more community support, but it’s a start.”
“That’s great.”
Our eyes met and locked, just like they often did when we were in this hallway. Judging by past experiences, now we were in serious danger of talking about things other than his church’s program, so I quickly—and awkwardly—said, “Well, I won’t keep you. It’s late enough as it is.”