Hide: Downunder Ink Book 2

by Bronwyn Stuart

  “I am so sorry about what happened back there, Jen.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’m used to it.” I try my best to shake it off or at least sound like I’m shaking it off. My stomach is a pit of writhing snakes and I feel like I might throw one up.

  “I will worry about it and you should not have to get used to it. My parents are snobs who associate tattoos with drugs, bikies and prostitution.”

  “They’re old, that’s probably all they know.”

  “It’s because of Ian,” he tells me in a soft voice.

  I don’t want him to make excuses for his mother. I don’t need the explanation. “Whatever. Let’s just get out of here. Take me home.”

  “I can explain this to you. They’re not completely horrible people.”

  I turn towards him a little in my seat. “I said it doesn’t matter, Ben. You don’t think I’ve been called worse by better people? Everyone has their judgements. They’re welcome to them.”

  He’s more insistent this time, his voice firmer. “My brother, Ian. He was running with some bad guys. We didn’t know he’d contracted hepatitis, likely from drug use but it could very well have been the dodgy tattoos he was forever getting. That’s certainly what killed him in the end.”

  “What?” My heart stops crashing against my ribs and my humiliation turns to dirt in my mouth.

  “I told you my brother died but I didn’t tell you how.”

  “That’s why you don’t like tattoos?” It all starts to make sense but there’s a buzzing in my brain and it’s blurring his words, his meaning, even his face.

  “That’s why I want my patients to wait a bit longer. Give themselves more time.”

  “That’s bullshit. You can’t hold me responsible for your brother’s life choices and I thought we were past this?”

  He’s grim and he’s angry when he says, “I don’t hold you responsible for anything and we were never past this.” He chooses that moment to pull out onto the highway.

  I think about it for three full minutes. “The people you bring to me, they’re damaged but they’re not dumb. They know what they’re doing. They know what they want.”

  “You’d think that but they don’t. They have no idea the risk of infection in those early stages. We’ve given them the information but they don’t understand. Ian wasn’t dumb either but he didn’t understand. Not fully.”

  “But you do?” I ask him, growing even more furious with every solid thump of my pulse.

  “My brother was seven when he lost his arm. Seven. Osteosarcoma. He was only twenty when he died. Thirteen years after his limb removal, he attempted to cover it up with a tattoo that went septic and killed him. Thirteen years later and you want to ink them in the first six months?”

  “So, this is less about making snap decisions and more about infection control? Have you never heard of antibiotics? Disposable needles? Hand sanitiser and antiseptic washes?”

  “It’s about both, damn it. Tell me you have no tattoos you don’t regret. Look me in the eye and tell me you love every single one of your tattoos and wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “I do love every tattoo. I’d never say I wouldn’t change anything but I don’t regret any of them. Not from the first and not the last. There’s something you don’t understand about adults who get tattoos. We don’t regret them. We know they’re permanent. We know what we’re doing.”

  He laughs and there’s no humour in it at all. “You can’t speak for everyone, Jen. My brother was an adult.”

  “He was not. Twenty isn’t an adult. Being high also doesn’t count for thinking things through.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he says and there’s intention there.

  My stomach sinks and I know he’s referring to my accident. The one I only regret because I put my sister in danger, but I also saved her life. Losing my foot to drink driving is nothing compared to losing Jo to domestic violence. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Look we’re both saying stuff in the heat of the moment, stuff we can’t take back. Let’s cool off a bit and-”

  “I’ll catch you later,” I tell him, cutting him off. We’re at my place and I jump out and race up the path before any of my neighbours can see me like this. Lucky it’s dark now. Late. I’m tired.

  “Jen?” he calls after me. “We have to talk about this.”

  I don’t turn back. I don’t want to talk about any of it because if we do, I’m going to ask him if he’s also looking after me, protecting me, controlling me.

  Ben wants to control people’s decisions in an effort to protect which is kind of noble but also extremely inappropriate. And is it creepy? I can’t work it out. I slam the door behind me and throw both locks. I lean against the panel and tears fall down my cheeks. Ugly, hot, pathetic tears.

  Is that what the last week was about?

  Was Ben trying to get in my good graces to sway me on the whole tattoo thing? Is that why he agreed to surfing lessons? To…to…to having sex with me?

  I pace the living slash dining room with jerky steps. I take out my phone and text Jack.

  Me: can u cum over? pls. i need u.

  Jack: Bring a bat need me or wash your undies need me?

  I chuckle and choke on a sob. Before I can text a reply, another message comes.

  Jack: B there in three.

  I sit down and unlace the pink shoe from my prosthesis. I just manage to throw on a pair of shorts when the door is thrown wide open. Jack has her own key.

  “Where is the fucker?” she demands, searching the shadows of the room. “What did he do?”

  She takes me in, steps forward. I fall into her arms, sobbing on her shoulder like an idiot who fell in love with a stranger and had her heart broken. Even though I’m not an idiot and I didn’t fall in love with Ben and my heart is still in one piece.

  “I just feel so stupid,” I cry. “He was playing with me but I don’t know why.”

  Jack smooths my hair and says, “And people wonder why I don’t date.” Then she adds, “Are you going to tell me what happened? Who you’ve been seeing?”

  Despite my anger and disappointment, I’m still hesitant to share, but I have to talk it out with someone or I’ll go mad. “Ben,” I tell her. “It’s Ben I’ve been seeing.”

  She pushes me away but then pulls so I’m at arm’s length. Her grip bites. “Wait? What? Who’s Ben? We only know one Ben, don’t we? It can’t be our hates-tattoos-and-people Ben?”

  I try to break eye contact because the condemnation there stings. At least it’s not pity. Not yet. I nod.

  “I don’t get it?” Jack says. “How do you go from screaming at each other in the laneway to BJ’s and bed? Is this like a hate-to-fuck thing?”

  I resume pacing. With every step my sock pinches because the skin was still slightly damp when I rolled it on. I don’t mind the pain. “I thought we liked each other. It was his idea to hang out but it seems like that was only because he wanted me to change my mind on tattooing his clients.”

  Jack frowns. “Why would he go to such extreme lengths to do that? Why not just stop coming with the clients? Didn’t you tell him to use a taxi service?”

  “Yeah, I did but then he was nice. He didn’t cringe away from my…” I hide my face. This is the type of conversation I hate having with my sisters. I don’t want them to know how much my injury still bothers me. I need the brave face so they’ll stop treating me differently.

  “He didn’t cringe away from your leg?”

  I don’t say anything. There’s no point.

  “So let me get this straight,” Jack says. “You hooked up with a medical professional because you liked him or because you thought he could handle your damage?”

  “Both,” I admit, coming to a standstill. “I guess.”

  “And then?”

  “Then his mother accused me of being a sex worker, Ben introduced me as a client and told me about his brother who died from a septic tattoo-”

  “He what
?” Jack explodes. “Is that his problem? How long ago did that happen?”

  I never asked. “At a guess, I’d say ten years? He was twenty when he died.”

  “And he blames all tattoo artists for that I suppose?”

  My cheeks flame as I sit. “He blames people who were under the influence and tattoo artists.”

  “Arsehole,” Jack swears. “Does he know times have changed? Disposable needles, one use ink, that kind of thing?”

  “I told him all that. Fat lot of good it did.”

  “Sounds like you should cut your losses, say sayonara to Ben and move on.”

  I nod. Jack is right. Smart. But… “So, was he sleeping with me to sway me? It’s all so controlling and creepy.”

  “What does it matter, Jen? Cut your losses. You jumped back on and the dude was a dud. There’s other guys.”

  “I just…I…” What? Need to know? Do I though?

  “You like him,” Jack says, her voice flat. “Not really sure why. Seems like more hassle than it’s worth.”

  I take some deep breaths. Really think about it. I mentally shake off the sex worker accusation by his mother because I meant it when I said I’d been called worse by better people. And I’m not insulted because everybody has to make a living. You do you, kind of stuff.

  I think what cut deeper was Ben introducing me as his client. But what was he supposed to say? ‘This is Jen, my fuck buddy.’ I shudder. But that’s what we are. I’m using him and I have been from the start. Using him for sex. For the confidence boost. I don’t feel bad because he probably knows and he doesn’t seem to mind helping me out. Do I even have the right to be angry?

  “Fuck,” I wail. “I’m so confused right now!”

  Jack sighs, stands up, motions me to stand up too. She hugs me so tight, it’s hard to breathe. “Sleep on it. See if it looks any better in the morning.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep,” I tell her. “Not with my brain going a million miles an hour.”

  Jack shrugs. “I’m going to head back to the loft unless you need me to wash your undies?”

  I chuckle. “Did it myself but thanks.”

  I walk my sister to the door and then double deadbolt it after her. When I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth, my eye is drawn to the bottle of painkillers. Strong ones. I take two with a cupped handful of water from the tap. I need some sleep. I need some clarity.

  I need to go back in time and not get mixed up with Mr Better-Than-Everyone-Else.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ben

  I’m up early the next day. I call in sick for the first time in this job. How can I focus on my clients when all I see in my mind is Jen and the look of horror on her beautiful face when my mother called her a prostitute. Seconded only to the confusion filling her eyes when I introduced her as my client.

  I slept like shit. I tried to text Jen but no reply. My messages sit unread. She’s ghosting me completely and I kind of don’t blame her but I do want to explain. Not to make myself feel better but because I don’t want to leave it like this. I genuinely like her. She’s refreshing and…different. I’ve never had any kind of relationship with someone like her, not even friendship. I spent the past decade moving a lot so making meaningful connections wasn’t on my to-do list. I focussed all my energies on work, on helping people, on their journeys. I have done all I can to help other people. I’m a good guy. I’m not the guy Jen now thinks I am and I have to clear that up so we can move forward. Even if she never wants me to touch her again, our paths will cross professionally and we can’t leave it like this.

  I slam my fisted hand down on my breakfast bench. My coffee cup and teaspoon rattle.

  I pushed her too hard. I should have slowed things down. Set a steadier pace. But I’m greedy. Once I had a taste of her, I wanted more. Once I witnessed her pain, I wanted to help her. Sure, it wasn’t all in the name of selflessness. I’m selfish enough to know what I was getting out of the deal. Just thinking about our dining in the dark experience is enough to make me hard. Enough to make me want to take myself in hand, run the shower and beat her out of my system.

  But I don’t do that. I gulp down the last of now cold coffee, get dressed, put my shoes on and get in the jeep. It wasn’t Jen’s idea to hang out. It wasn’t Jen’s idea to start anything with me and now I’ve added more pain to her daily life and I hate that. It was never my intention.

  What were your intentions? my subconscious screams.

  I pause as I turn the key in the ignition. She did start this. When she asked me for the full service massage. When she kissed me, naked from the waist up, her breasts pressed into my chest. When she wears those tiny bikinis just to tease me. When she swears knowing full well I’ll spank her later and I know she looks forward to it. She started this and she sure as hell shouldn’t be the one to call time on because my mother is a raging bitch to anyone who doesn’t look, dress and act like her. I just need to explain it all better, apologise, see where it leaves us and then work it out from there because I like Jen and she’s been challenging me and I didn’t even realise it. Challenging my ideals, my principles, the limits to my own self-imposed sexual leash.

  I just need her to do one thing for me. One thing. And if she agrees to it, I’ll do anything she asks me in return.

  It’s early so it’s not hard to find a park at her apartment but when I knock, there’s no answer. I call out, plead, just in case she’s just ignoring me but then a cranky neighbour opens his window and tells me she went out already.

  I apologise and jump back in the jeep. If she’s not at the studio, I’ll come back and wait for her. She has to show up eventually. Damn, I’m a stalker. I’m not this guy either. I send her another text.

  Me: Please can we just talk. I need to apologise. In person.

  This time all my messages pop up as read by her and the three bouncing dots appear, disappear and then reappear.

  Jen: l8r. dealing with something more annoying than u rite now.

  At least she didn’t tell me to fuck off. I leave the Jeep and walk the short distance between her apartment and the studio. There’s a police car in the alley out the back and Jack is talking to a uniformed officer and a very tall, very solid guy all dressed in black, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Jack sees me and grimaces. I hang back with only a small wave in her direction. I don’t want to interrupt but my gut tells me the cops never just pop in for a cup of tea and a friendly hello.

  She stops mid-sentence, squeezes between the two men, and stomps over to me. “If the police weren’t here, I’d punch you right in the face, you fucker.”

  I raise both my hands. “I’m just here to tell Jen I’m sorry. I don’t want any trouble with you, her or them.”

  She doesn’t look convinced. I gesture to the uniform. “Everything all right?”

  Her scowl is fierce. “Someone tried to break into my apartment last night while I was comforting my sister after some dead-shit upset her.”

  I look up to the door above a set of stairs and even from here I can see the black around the frame and handle. The cops must have dusted for prints. I don’t think they usually do that for an attempted break in. “Did they catch the guy?”

  “We don’t even know if it is a guy. A little while back, the shop was broken into and there’s been some damage here and there, graffiti tags and stuff. Don’t change the subject, Ben.” She says my name with venom dripping from the words. “You upset my sister and I want to know what you’re going to do to fix it.”

  The big guy all dressed in black comes over to us and stands behind Jack, dwarfing her already inconsiderable size. “Everything okay here?” he asks.

  “We’re fine,” she tells him over her shoulder. “Don’t you have some more cameras to install?”

  He looks me up and down and then leaves.

  I wonder if Jack has her own personal watch dog but I don’t say a word because that is none of my business. “Is Jen here? I’d really like to talk to
her. Please.”

  Jack’s blue eyes are wary and her lips are a thin, grim line and just when I think she’ll tell me to take a hike, she nods in the direction of the studio’s back door.

  “Thanks,” I tell her and then I’m through the door and into the main tattooing area.

  Jen’s not here but I can hear music coming from the back room. I stop in the doorway and there she is, long, wide jeans, tiny, revealing halter top, ink on display and more.

  “Hi,” I say to her back without stepping into the room. I don’t want to scare her or make her feel trapped.

  She whirls and nearly trips, her runners squeaking on the tiled floor. The same floor she got knocked on her arse by Trevor last week. God, was it only a week ago? Feels longer.

  “What do you want?” she asks after a brief, telling hesitation.

  “Can we talk?”

  She scoffs and turns back to whatever it is she’s doing. “Words are being exchanged, Ben. I’d say we’re talking already.”

  I risk taking two steps into the tiny room so I can close the door behind me. Not helping the trapped-in feeling I was trying to avoid, but we don’t need an audience. “I need to apologise for my mother’s behaviour-”

  She cuts me off with, “You already did that.”

  “Well then I need to apologise for my behaviour.”

  That gets her attention. “Damn right you do, but what behaviours are we talking about? Specifically?”

  I get a warning in the lifting of the hair at my nape that we’re treading a thin path between forgiveness and all-out war. “I’m sorry you thought you were being manipulated.”

  She tips her head back and laughs. “I’m sorry you thought you were being manipulated?” she repeats, her eyes flashing fury. “That’s what you’re sorry for, Ben? You deliberately got close to me to stop me from tattooing your clients. You didn’t just manipulate me, you attempted to control me and used sex as a means to get my undivided attention. That is so fucked up.”