by KC Decker
“That’s called a triple forward helix. It’s beautiful. You get to pick the jewelry, anything from stainless steel ball studs, to spikes, to gems. I won’t pierce you with hoops though, they are too easily infected. So, if you want hoops, come back once you’re all healed and I’ll switch them out for you.” She leaves my personal space to retrieve a black velvet display with different sizes and shapes of jewelry. She needn’t bother, I already know what I want.
“I want the clear jeweled ones, as small as you can get away with at the top, and increasing in size toward my ear canal.” I’m happy to have made a decision, but now—now the fear of pain sets in and my palms slick over.
***
I’m so relieved to have made it through three piercings without my face bouncing off the floor, that I hardly flinch at the exorbitant cost of such a thing. The sharp pain of a needle passing through my cartilage, once, twice, and a sadistic third time has dulled to the heat of a fire-breathing dragon. In fact, I think it’s the pain endorphins that cloud my judgment and make me walk toward the buzz of a tattoo machine.
When I look into the room, Gavin is on a rolling stool facing me, but his client is between us, so he doesn’t see me right away. The burly man has earbuds in, and his eyes closed against what must be the searing pain of the tattoo machine. He is sitting on the adjustable leather chair with his back to Gavin and a stoic look on his face.
“How did it go?” His question follows the abrupt halt of the buzzing machine and takes me a sec to realize he is asking me about my appointment. He must see the throb of the piercings radiating off my ear like a flashing emergency beacon.
Before I gather my wits enough to answer him, he addresses his client who has just plucked the earbuds from his ears, “This is Alabama, she just had her clit pierced, so that’s why she’s arbitrarily standing there shifting her weight. She’s trying to stave off the orgasm that her jeans are trying to create by rubbing up against her swollen little girl.” He delivers his statement as if he were announcing his tax deadline or something equally banal, then goes back to his work.
“Your clitty, huh?” the man asks. I ignore both him, and Gavin’s dismissal with more shifting of my weight, and then go over the falls in a barrel.
“I’ll go to your convention with you.”
Gavin abruptly rolls back from his canvas, spinning the casters of his stool in a sharp and uncharacteristic motion. He puts his tattoo machine on the surgical tray and then stares at me while holding both gloved hands up—possibly in a defensive boxing position. He doesn’t say anything, he just cocks his head and squints his eyes at me, the gesture clearly saying what he won’t. What the fuck did you just say?
“Yeah, text me what I should pack. And a list of things I’ll need to do while I’m there. And you have to handle my flight, I’ll cover my hotel room, but you have to pay for the last-minute flight.” I finish speaking before I have fully processed what I just committed to, and then spin around to leave before I can recant the last minute of meandering speech.
Thirty minutes later, right before I pull in to my parking garage, I hear a chime from my purse indicating an incoming text. It took Gavin all this time to chew on it, but he swallowed it just the same. It makes me smile because I know he has accepted his fate. He needs my help. He had to respond.
Once I hike up three flights of stairs and collapse on my couch with a bag of frozen peas—normally reserved for puffy eyes following a night of drinking, I read the text.
Arrogant Dickhead: We fly out this Friday at 6:55am on United flight 5290. Return Monday 10:05pm, flight 7518. Pack clothes, a toothbrush, and a ball gag. I’ll go over your responsibilities on the flight, it will mostly be consent forms and post-care, you won’t be sterilizing anything like Christy normally does.
Then, after further consideration, he shoots off another text.
Arrogant Dickhead: I appreciate it.
He doesn’t exactly say thank you. Or concede that I’m saving his ass at the risk of losing my position at work because of the horrendously important meeting I will have to miss on Friday. The meeting is with a potential client that has such deep pockets, you can hear the wind howling through the caverns. It’s an account I have been courting for the last six months, and missing it is akin to jumping straight off the career ladder and breaking both ankles. Between you and me, I was hoping convention this weekend, meant this weekend—as in Saturday and Sunday.
Fuck.
Wait.
Did he say, pack a ball gag?
Chapter 10
I had to work late tonight to salvage my potential client by suggesting dinner instead of the agreed upon office sit down tomorrow. But the true test of my gall will come when I submit my expense report. In my defense, this account is huge and had to be handled with what the US government would consider shock and awe, especially because I had to jockey our meeting around just so I could meet with them before I leave. If they sign with us there won’t be a problem, if not—I shudder to think.
Right now, Miles is strewn across my bed like a snow angel but the peaceful, serene imagery that may invoke stops there. He happens to be a very demanding snow angel and has some very clear ideas of how this weekend should go. Namely, me being a hussy and working my way into Gavin’s good graces by way of his penis.
“See? Look at this,” he insists, as he tosses his phone to the end of my bed and then sits up on his elbows. I pick up the phone and see a picture of a group of scantily clad women, all covered in tattoos, one completely topless—unless you count the ink coverage across her chest. Never mind that it happens to be a Bald Eagle with each of her boobs clutched in its talons.
He seems to think this weekend will be one long seduction, but he is grossly underestimating how badly I pissed Gavin off. That, or he possesses a really inflated idea of my ability to seduce someone.
When he empties my lingerie drawer onto my bed and begins rifling through it with his big ole’ man hands, I jump in.
“Miles, I will have my own hotel room. When do you propose Gavin would see any of this? Plus, I was planning on sleeping in period underwear and sweatpants.”
“No, Ma’am.” He crosses his arms over his chest as if he actually needs to tell me not to pack period underwear. “You will do this my way. I mean it, Alabama—Down to the l-e-t-t-e-r. Now, where is your leather halter-top?”
“You mean, my ninja-assassin Halloween costume top?” I ask incredulously, but the bite is softened with my yawn. When I think back to how the other women in his shop were dressed, they were hip, yet professional. Sexy, but understated. I guess my leather halter top would work if I wear it with jeans.
“Yes—And Oooooh, get your roller derby costume too! Fishnets and hot pants, yes please,” he says, excited by the dress-up possibilities enabled by my Halloween bin. I’ll let him have his fun because it is futile to fight him on this right now, but if he thinks I’m going anywhere with Gavin dressed as Harley Quinn or a Viking warrior woman, he needs to adjust his dose.
“Miles, I’m tired, and I have to get up in five hours. I’ll take the ninja-assassin top, but leave everything else in my suitcase alone.” He nods, one quick motion to say he is taking my request under advisement, but I’m not delusional enough to think he won’t get his way by adding some fishnets and vinyl.
“Trust me, ok? He thinks you are a high and mighty, judgmental, bitch with a vanilla sex life. I think he might be wrong about the vanilla sex though—because, I’m not gonna lie, I did play with the Ben Wa balls that I found in your underwear drawer for a minute or two—you dirty little slut.” He arches an eyebrow that could be misconstrued as condescension, except I know him well enough to read it for what it is— pride.
“And I still have a vivid memory of you hocking a loogy into the drink of that guy who called me a Faggot—so, I’m relatively sure you aren’t overly judgmental. But you are high and mighty.”
“Miles!”
“Just calling it like I see it.”
; “Yeah, thanks for that,” I say with a laughing eye-roll that belies the derision I should feel.
“Any-hoo, it is our job to remind him how compatible you really are. But you won’t have much time or many opportunities to change his mind, so get the fuck on board.” Then he asks without pausing, “You have a garter belt, right?”
***
The whir of the plane’s engines is enough to taunt me with the fact that I am flat exhausted, but somehow pre-programmed to not be able to sleep on airplanes. Also grating on my nerves, is the fact that I am sitting in a cloud of Cheetos dust because of the fervor in which the aisle seat occupant is bulldozing them into his mouth.
To make matters worse, Mr. Isle Seat keeps trying to make polite conversation, which is made less polite by his artificial cheese breath. It isn’t enough to simply not inhale when engaged in conversation with him, I actually have to turn my back to the guy as though Gavin desperately needs my attention. To make matters much worse, is the fact that Gavin has earbuds in and doesn’t give two shits about my distress signal.
He has already covered my responsibilities, which include checking IDs, getting release forms signed, and going over the post-care instructions with the finished clients. He also showed me his scheduling software, informed me how to book time slots based on the size of the piece, and how to collect deposits for those appointments.
As an afterthought, he also covered Christy’s usual responsibilities that I will not be trusted with, including the use of the Autoclave, and prepping his space and instruments with barrier film.
He had explained the importance of a sterile environment and used terms such as bloodborne pathogens, biohazard containers, and germicidal solutions. All with the evangelical zeal of a prophet. Then, promptly ignored me to watch the vastness of the sky out his window.
In another attempt to send up a rescue flare, I try again to engage him in anything that keeps my back to the Cheetos guy. “Gavin,” I say with exaggerated seriousness, “If you are thankful at all for my presence, you will get up to use the restroom and then come back and ask for the middle seat.”
“Nobody actually wants the middle seat, Alabama.”
“So, am I to understand that you are not grateful that I dropped everything to come help you—out of the pure goodness of my heart?”
“Not enough to take the middle seat.”
“Ok. Then give me your earbuds.”
“No.”
“Slip this guy a Xanax?”
“How about I slip you a Xanax?”
***
The next time he speaks to me it’s in the Uber, and his words make the back of my neck hot enough to melt down my spine.
“Where are you staying? We’ll drop you off first,” he says without even glancing up from his phone.
“What do you mean, where am I staying?” There must be visible blotches of anxiety across my face, as his meaning sinks in. Now, he does look up.
“Which hotel should we drive you to?” Realization is starting to prickle at him too. “Alabama, please tell me you booked a hotel room.”
“Why would I book it? This is your deal. I don’t even know where the convention is….LA is a big place, Gavin.”
“You told me you would cover the hotel. Did you not?!” Now he is kind of pissed, and I’m not sure he has any right to do anything except convey his utter gratitude in every word and action. I did harpoon my career just to help him out.
“As in, I will PAY for it,” I over annunciate each word. Since when does covering something mean setting it up?
He lets out a huge sigh and then tells the somewhat impatient Uber driver to stick with the original plan and take us to his hotel. “It’s probably better to book rooms in the same hotel anyway,” he says reasonably. Then adds, just to be a dick, “Jesus, Alabama.”
Things go from bad to worse when the overly chipper woman at the front desk says, “I’m sorry Mr. Rhodes, there are multiple conventions in town, we are all booked up.” Then she adds, with a flirty smile and lipstick-smeared teeth, “Although, I do have some openings on Sunday night.”
“No worries. We are in a sprawling city, I’ll find something online,” I say diplomatically, then turn to him, unclench my teeth and say, “Just text me where and when to meet you.” Without letting out my breath, I turn and roll my suitcase toward the swanky hotel bar. It’s not yet ten in the morning, but I need a fucking drink.
***
After perhaps an hour of pure frustration and no availability under $500 a night within a twenty-mile radius of the convention center, I do the only thing left to do, I place my forehead against the bar and hold my breath so I don’t cry.
I wanted to do something nice for Gavin because I’m still really ashamed of how I treated him, but all I’m doing now is coming off pathetic. I brought him lunch, I ran to his shop to get pierced, and I all but threw myself onto a plane with him. And now, now, it looks like I’m trying to share his bed too. My only options at this point are to cut my losses and go home, or pony up almost two grand for a last-minute room.
“Ready for another? You look like you might need one,” the sweet bartender asks the top of my head. He is a part-time actor with thick, luxurious hair—and handsome without the distraction of his overly hairy knuckles.
“I don’t think you have enough liquor back there to make me feel better.” My voice is muffled, but I’m not ready to sit up yet, not without having made a decision.
“Couldn’t find a room?”
“Nope. Not without paying a King’s ransom for it, or picking up hepatitis.”
“You could stay with me. I’m sure that sounds skeevy as hell, but my roommates won’t mind.” I finally sit back and process his words. Is it bad to admit I’m actually considering his offer? Do other violent crime victims have this same moment when they wonder if this is the bad decision that will turn them into a statistic?
“I mean…we only shoot gang-bang porn on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he says with a deadpan delivery, as he drops a skewer of green olives into my fresh martini. “So, you should be good.” When I slowly meet his eyes, he is grinning from ear to ear.
“Gang-bang porn, huh?” Gavin says from behind me as he pulls out the heavy, regal stool to my left. Of course, that is the part he heard—not the part about Sam moving out here from Minnesota so his ailing mother could live in a warmer climate before she passed away five months ago. Or the part about him chasing his dream of becoming a voice actor.
“Uh. Sorry, man. I was just playing—I didn’t mean any disrespect to your girl,” Sam says as he takes a half-step back from me like he’s about to get punched.
“It’s all good. I like a good gang-bang as much as the next guy,” Gavin says with a smile in his voice. He doesn’t happen to correct Sam about me not being his girl though, so Sam is still cautious.
“Did you find a place?” he asks as he reaches for my dirty martini and takes an entitled sip before placing it back in front of me.
“Yes?” I say. It sounds like a question because it is. I’m looking at Sam for confirmation as he carefully nods his head after looking away from Gavin and then back to me.
“Great. I need to go get everything set up over there and get back with enough time to shower before the doors open at 3:00. Want to come with? I could use some help hanging up the banner.” Sure, now he is nice, but only because he wants my help.
Interrupting my indifferent shrug, he spits out, “Oh, crap. I forgot our wristbands in my room. I’ll be right back.”
It’s not until he is fully out of the bar before Sam breathes again. I save him the torment by saying, “He’s not my boyfriend. In fact, he is not even my friend.”
“Thank, Christ. I thought he was going to crack my jaw. And, Alabama, seriously, my face is too pretty to be decked by a man with guns like that.” We both laugh, and for the first time I give some serious thought to Gavin’s guns. With his muscles and tattoos, he must be intimidating to strangers, but I don’t think of him
as ferocious because I saw his tender side when we had coffee. Not since, mind you—but I know he is a good man.
He puts my mobile number into his phone and then shoots me a text, so I’ll have his. Though he is clearly serious, I give him an out anyway. “Are you sure this is ok? I feel really weird about it because I don’t want you to feel obligated in any way.”
“Believe me, it’s fine. I’ll even text my roommate ahead of time so he can wash some dishes first,” he smiles, and I weigh the fact that he took care of his sick mom against the fact that Ted Bundy was really charming too.
“You can have my room, I’ll take the couch,” is he trying to entice me? “Come on, don’t look so conflicted, my door has a lock on it,” he winks, but it’s not in a skeevy way, it’s more disarming than anything. Kind of like Ted Bundy.
“Thank you, Sam,” I say as I put some cash on the bar for the drinks that I should be charging to my room.
“Just drop your luggage at the bell stand on your way out, they will store it until you’re ready for it. Otherwise, text me when you are finished up over there.”
“It’s really sweet of you to help me out. I’ll search for a room again tomorrow, so hopefully I’ll only put you out one night.” What I don’t say is that I will be searching again in five minutes, and if I have my way, I won’t be putting him out at all.
Gavin’s back now, but his face is so entranced in the artificial glow of his phone that I’m not even sure he notices me make my way toward him. My feet feel heavy, kind of like they are full of needless bullshit—oh, wait…they are.
***
His booth is just big enough for a portable massage table with a rolling stool for him, a cabinet for his supplies, a tiny table for me with his laptop for scheduling purposes—no chair, and an eight-foot table where I am currently arranging autographed prints, promotional stickers for his shop, and some very egotistical hats and t-shirts with his name on them. He has already shown me how to use the appointment software and explained how to use the little square device on his phone that you insert a credit card into to pay for merchandise sales.