by MV Ellis
I turned to her, desperate to hear her speak or get some kind of reaction besides an avoidance of eye contact, a lukewarm smile, and a handshake so brief I almost thought I’d imagined it. Still nothing. It didn’t take a genius to see that the whole thing was fucked up and then some. Tommy seemed to be like some kind of hood rat Geppetto, controlling Emi’s every move. I kept glancing her way, waiting for her to meet my gaze, but she never did.
“Okay, so if you open your shirt a little, you can tuck it into your bra, and I can work that way.” I reached out to show her what I meant, only to be met with the sound of Tommy’s chair first scraping across the polished concrete floor, then clattering over onto it. He was up and standing over us faster than a jackrabbit.
“You’re gonna want to get your hands off my woman.”
I didn’t miss Emi’s flinch.
I stood up. I was almost half a foot taller than Tommy, and built as Zed always said “like a Norse god.”
“And you’re gonna want to back up and sit down, or get out. If you want the art done here, those are the terms. If that doesn’t work for you, I invite you to try one of the many other studios in the city. What’s it going to be?” The whole douche routine wasn’t my MO, but I wanted to send Tommy a clear message about who was running the show while we were in my house.
Rage bubbled in him, just under the surface, close to spilling over, and I was sure he’d have liked nothing better than to deck me. I watched him clench and unclench his hands over and over, waiting for him to make his move. He never did, which made me feel even worse; I was willing to bet he’d be taking his embarrassment and frustration out on Emi later, and I deeply regretted that I’d been the catalyst for that.
I sat back down, turning her way again. “You okay?”
She nodded. It was going to be a tough gig.
As she eased her shirt down like I’d started to show her earlier, I noticed a clutch of bruises decorating her chest and shoulder. They were a range of colors, leading me to think they’d been made on separate occasions. She looked like a human punching bag. Jesus.
I showed no reaction—I didn’t want to give the psycho any more reasons to be pissed with her—as though it was every day that I saw clients covered in bruises. However, I did worry about pressing too hard while doing the work; though the exact spot he wanted the design didn’t have any bruises, the areas that did looked tender.
I traced out the design and asked her if she was okay with it. She looked across at Tommy, deferring to him before answering. He nodded, and then she followed suit. I wasn’t sure I could even go through with it. The action left such a bitter taste in my mouth, but I really didn’t want to make things worse by pulling the pin.
Emi braced herself and silently winced again as I got started. Tommy leaned forward, watching my every move like a deranged hawk.
It wasn’t going to be a long session, even to do both pieces, but my mind raced ahead to ways I could somehow help Emi in the short time I had.
I’d gotten most of the way through her tattoo when Tommy started pacing the room.
“I need to pee,” he announced.
Jesus Christ, this guy is a piece of work.
“Okay, well the bathroom’s just down the hall, second door on the left.” I’d almost considered sending him to the supplies closet and locking him in there, but I figured that could backfire. Especially if I saw what I thought I had when Tommy lifted the hem of his T-shirt a little, looking pointedly at Emi.
Holy shit. It was times like this that I understood and respected Arlo and Zed’s decision to fit each treatment room with surveillance cameras. Not great for privacy in our workspaces but a worthwhile and apparently necessary safety precaution.
6
Spider
I watched the door shut behind Tommy, then turned my attention to Emi. This time, she met my eyes.
Fuck.
The saying was that a picture could speak a thousand words, but as she stared at me with the saddest tear-filled amber eyes I’d ever seen, Emi’s face conveyed way more than that, and knocked the wind right out of me. No, that wasn’t right. The look shattered me. It broke my heart into thousands of tiny pieces, and I knew there and then that only she could put it back together.
I also knew that if I was going to help her—and it had been clear from the moment she’d walked through the door that I would, or die trying—I had to be quick. No doubt Tommy would hurry to get back into the room, so I doubted we even had as long as it took to pee and wash his hands. Not moving my gaze from hers, I mouthed, “Are you okay?” I didn’t dare speak—I wouldn’t have put it past a guy like that to be listening at the door.
She shook her head. Of course she wasn’t. It had been a stupid question, and one to which I’d already known the answer. She reached quickly into her jeans pocket, pulling out a tiny scrap of paper and handing it to me. The words written in smudged and shaky handwriting would haunt me forever.
“Help me. He has a gun. He’s going to kill me. Call the police.”
What the fuck?
I took the piece of paper and shoved it into my shirt pocket, resuming my work on the tattoo—I had never turned the gun off to avoid suspicion—just as Tommy flung the door open as though something or someone was on fire, and barged his way back into the room.
I barely acknowledged his existence, continuing with the matter at hand, all the while freaking the fuck out. It was all I could do not to let my hand shake, and I had the worst case of cottonmouth ever.
As time ticked by, I could hear the rush of blood as it pumped through the veins at my temples. I knew I had to play it cool, but it was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. One small mercy was that my sweaty palms weren’t obvious through my latex gloves.
I finished the design knowing it wasn’t my best work, but for once, that was the least of my concerns. The drama unfolding before my eyes and what the fuck I could do about it was front and center of my mind. While I’d been completing Emi’s tattoo, I’d come up with what I hoped was a solid plan. The fact was, it was the only plan I had, so it would have to do.
I motioned Tommy over to have a look at the final product.
“What do you think?”
He gave me a demented half smile in return and then sneered, eyes on Emi as he spoke. “I like it just fine.”
“Okay, great. The two of you trade places. Take off your shirt and make yourself comfortable. I just need to go grab more gauze, then we can get started.”
As I left the room, Tommy did as I told him, pulling his T-shirt up over his head. I didn’t dare look Emi’s way, not willing to risk something in my facial expression or manner spooking Tommy. I sauntered out of the room, the epitome of laid-back cool—the exact opposite of what I felt.
Once the door clicked closed behind me, I sprinted on tiptoe to reception. I silently showed Kota the note and indicated that she needed to go outside to alert the police, just in case Tommy followed me out of the room and caught her in the act. Kota looked terrified and with good reason. An armed lunatic in the shop was bad news for everyone.
I hurried back to the treatment room, grabbing a box of gauze on the way. I wanted to get back in what seemed like a reasonable amount of time, for fear of raising Tommy’s suspicions. I knew I could trust Kota to take care of it from there, although when I left her, she’d looked like she was about to pass out—it was as though she’d seen a ghost.
When I returned, Tommy was sitting in the treatment chair, drumming his fingers on the table, impatience oozing from every pore. Emi was sitting on the spare seat, looking every bit as miserable as she had before.
“Okay, so let’s get this show on the road.” I hated that I sounded like an overenthusiastic scout leader, but it was all I could muster. Tommy looked at me as though he wanted to slap the smile right off my face.
Him and me both.
I traced the design for his tattoo onto his chest and got to work, all the while wondering what was going on out front
. It was hard to carry on business as usual with no idea what was happening.
I started drawing the outline, noting the clench of Tommy’s jaw and the way he repeatedly squeezed his hand into a fist and then released it. He was clearly in pain, which was ironic. He obviously threw his fists around with Emi, which probably made him feel like the big man, but that couldn’t be further from the truth, and here he was showing more signs of discomfort having his work done than Emi had.
The seconds dragged by, each feeling like an hour. Just as I thought my nerves were shot, Tommy sprang to his feet without warning, startling Emi and me.
The movement sent the T-shirt he’d had balled up in his lap drifting to the ground, revealing his gun. He grabbed it from his waistband, pointing it first at me and then at Emi.
Oh shit.
“Hey, what’s going on? Stay cool, man. Why are you waving that thing around in here? Take it easy.” I raised my hands in the universal sign for surrender.
“Shut up! Keep still! Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me to be cool? How’s this for cool? One more step and I’ll blow your fucking brains out. You take me for some kind of idiot? You think I’ve been sitting here this whole time and didn’t see how you’re looking at my girl? How you’re looking at each other? Eye-fucking like you wished I wasn’t around so you could do it for real right here on the table.”
Jesus, the dude was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, big style. The only time she’d met my gaze, he’d been out of the room. She’d studiously and noticeably ignored me for the rest of the session.
I mean, he was right in one way. From the moment she’d walked through the door, I couldn’t help but notice Emi, and not just in the normal artist-client way. She was beautiful, but more than that, she just had this thing about her that drew me to her straight away.
Still, I would never creep over a client, and even if there was sometimes a little light flirting with chicks who laid it down first, there was no way I’d even give a woman a second glance when she came in with her man. Especially not Captain Crazy Pants. He was fucking delusional in the extreme.
“No, man, you’ve got me all wrong. It’s nothing like that, I swear. I would never—”
“What, you don’t think she’s hot? You think you’re better than us ‘cos you’re a fucking hipster whatever-the-fuck?”
“No. That’s not how it is. I’m a professional. What my clients look like isn’t important to me. What my work looks like is, and that’s what I focus on. That’s why people come to me. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I pride myself on my attitude and my delivery. That’s it.”
“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. This isn’t Dr. fucking Phil. And you don’t have to deny it. I know this slut will fuck anything.”
What could I say to that? Obviously with a guy like him, I was damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. Pleading the fifth was the safest way to go.
Despite my height and build, I wasn’t a fighter by nature. I just wasn’t wired that way. Not to say that I wouldn’t throw down if I needed to, but it was rare, and if I could avoid it by talking my way out of the situation, I’d much rather do that. Yet with this guy, my fists were itching so bad I had to dig my nails into my palms to remind me what a suicidal move it would be to take a swing at an armed lunatic.
While I tried to figure out my next move, Tommy made his. Lunging for Emi, he grabbed her by the neck and spun around, turning her to face me. He shoved the gun against her temple, and she winced, peering out at me with big, dark, watery eyes.
I understood her plea loud and clear: “Don’t poke the bear. Don’t let him kill me.”
I made her a silent promise back: “I won’t let him hurt you.”
Pushing Emi in front of him, Tommy walked toward the door of the treatment room before bursting into the hall.
“You! Out there.” He moved the gun from the back of Emi’s head to motion me into the hall.
I did as he said. Instead of heading to the reception area as I was expecting, Tommy turned right toward the other treatment rooms, ushering me in front of him.
“Open all the doors and get everyone out. Now! And if anyone tries any funny business, she’s gone.” He pointed the gun back at a terrified Emi.
This whole scenario was turning into a living nightmare. Not wanting to drag Kian and Jorja into this mess with us, I hesitated, trying to think of another option.
“What the fuck are you waiting for, Christmas? Did you hear me say I’ll blow her brains out? Hurry. The. Fuck. Up.”
There was no alternative. I went down the hall, knocking on and opening the treatment room doors, telling the other two tattooists to join us in the hall. Neither had customers with them—Jorja’s first client had come and gone, and Kian was working a late day, starting late and finishing late. His first client hadn’t arrived yet. I thanked God for small mercies. Not that I was the religious type, but it seemed fitting.
They both came out of their rooms, clearly confused about what the hell was going on, but they caught up pretty damn quick when they saw Tommy’s gun. Satisfied that the other rooms were empty—Zed wasn’t due in today as far as I knew, which was the case more often than not these days, and Harley was meeting with Arlo, which was also becoming commonplace. I knew Arlo had been sounding Harley out about a business venture, but the details were sketchy other than that. I would try to find out more when I wasn’t being held at gunpoint.
When we reached the reception area, Kota reacted as though seeing a hostage situation unfold at her place of work was very much the norm for her, raising her hands in the air and then walking out from behind her desk as instructed, cool as a cucumber. I made a mental note to tell her she was my hero.
7
Spider
Now
Everything after the point where the police stormed the studio was a blur of yelled instructions, blue uniforms, shouting, guns, and more people crammed into the reception area than I’d ever seen before or hoped to see again.
Truth was, I was almost disappointed to see them. Not because I didn’t want Tommy gone or for Emi to be safe. Quite the opposite. Because the cops were on the scene and Tommy was being dealt with, it meant I couldn’t take him out back and break his smug face into a thousand fucking pieces until he looked like a tenderized steak, which was what he deserved.
My mind went back to Emi. I’d lost sight of her in the commotion and had no idea where she’d gone or what had happened to her. I looked out into the street in time to see the cops bundling a kicking and screaming Tommy into the back of a car, but I couldn’t see Emi anywhere. Then I scoped out the reception area—as though expecting her to jump out from behind a potted plant—before Kota came and stood beside me, stroking my arm. I opened my mouth to question her about Emi’s whereabouts at the same time a uniformed officer walked in, tipping his hat in greeting.
“Are you Christopher Williamson?”
“Yeah, that’s me, but everyone calls me Spider.” Always had, for as long as I could remember.
“Mr. Williamson, we need you and your colleague here… Miss Lewis, isn’t it?”—he glanced down at his notebook as he spoke—“To come downtown and make statements about what happened here today.”
In the back of the cop car en route to the station, I slid closer to Kota on the seat, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. Kian and Jorja had gone in a separate car; I guessed we’d see them at the station when we got there.
“Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head slowly and swiped at her eyes, chasing tears down her cheeks before fishing in her bag for a Kleenex and dabbing at her face with it.
I tightened my grip around her shoulders, and she snuggled into my side. It was unusual for her. In the time I’d known her, I’d learned that Kota wasn’t big on displays of affection. Caustic wit and sarcasm, yes. Hearts and flowers, not so much. Accepting a hug from me emphasized just how shaken she must have been by the whole incident.
We rode the rest of the way to the s
tation in silence, lost in our thoughts. Actually, I was lost in one thought. Emi. I couldn’t get her out of my head. The cogs of my mind turned like the ancient Coney Island Ferris wheel, the thoughts lingering like the ride’s cars, swaying in the breeze. I had so many questions about her, her life, him. How long had she been enduring whatever she had been going through? What exactly was that? Was she okay? Did she have help and support now that Tommy was probably going to prison?
At the station, they took us to separate interrogation rooms to give our statements. I told them every detail I could remember of what little I knew. I’d already handed them the piece of paper with Emi’s scrawled plea for help. They showed me Tommy’s gun, asking me if I recognized it. I told them yes. Truth was, every detail of both items were burned into my brain, just as the memory of each moment with Emi was forever imprinted on my psyche.
I inquired after her. I wanted to see her, speak to her, check that she was okay. The officers confirmed she was “safe” but wouldn’t divulge any more detail than that.
Damn.
When I was done, I left the station, seeing no sign of any of the others on my way out. On the sidewalk, I switched on my phone to find it had been blowing up with messages from friends and relatives. There were increasingly desperate voice mails from my mom, having tried to call me and gotten no answer. I even had texts from my dad, who loathed mobile phones with the fire of a thousand suns.
In the mix were also several voice mails from Zed, checking that I was okay and telling me to take the rest of the day off. In fact, he said he was closing the studio for the rest of the week to give us all time to recalibrate, but after that, we were under no pressure to come back to work until we were ready.
There was also a text from Kota.