by Anthology
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” I smile, trying to keep her from glancing back in his direction.
Even though my apartment isn’t more than a few blocks away, the distance between him and us is diminishing quickly. I decide it’s better to find somewhere safe as fast as humanly possible. Since it’s freezing out, I can use it as an excuse to get Meg off the street without letting her know what’s really going on. I just pray we can find somewhere open this late.
“We should find a place to duck out of the weather for a bit,” I suggest, trying to keep my voice composed and steady.
A glacial gust of air plays through her flaming hair, framing her lightly freckled face. She must be frozen; her naturally pale skin virtually white, like the patches of snow lining the sidewalk, the rosy blush of her cheeks gone.
“Yes, please,” she says, between chattering lips. Even after growing up in Boston, she still isn’t used to the cold. “Where?”
I search the street ahead for any sign of hope, finding only darkness. Suddenly, a neon sign lit warmly in the night appears from behind an awning, its electric colors reflecting off the glass-like cement.
“There.” I point down the sidewalk, tugging her along with urgent strides, widening the gap between us and him, almost slipping a handful of times on the icy pavement. When we get closer to the neon, she must realize it’s a tattoo parlor because she hesitates. I’ve passed it several times before, but never really gave it a second thought. I read the sign, probably for the first time since it opened in the neighborhood six years ago.
“Warped Ink,” I mumble under my breath, visible in the air.
“I don’t know about this,” Meghan gripes.
“The sign says open and the lights are on.” I gesture up and down the street to indicate it’s the only place, realizing the faceless lurker is skulking closer one elongated stride at a time. “It’s this or freeze our butts off.”
“Alright,” she whines with a groan.
When I push on the door, it gives way, sounding off a high-pitched ding as we enter. The warmth hits me immediately, seeping deep under the skin to my chilled bones. I become uneasy when I notice the place looks completely unoccupied. I lock the door anyway, ensuring the shadow stalking us can’t follow us inside. Luckily, the windows are tinted, so he won’t be able to see us either.
We take a few unsure steps inside, looking at the artwork displayed all over the navy blue walls. Taking off our jackets and scarves, we toss them carelessly over the waiting chairs lined up against the front window.
“You lost?” a rough male voice questions.
I glance over my shoulder at the deadly hot specimen of a man bathed in ink, drying his hands off with a rag.
“Yeah—I mean, no. Sorry. We needed to get out of the cold for a bit. Do you mind if we hang in here?”
He has a pitiless expression on his face, which is far too good-looking for any one man. “If you want to stay here, you have to get some ink. Those are the rules, sweetheart.”
What is his problem?
“Do you speak to all your customers like this?” I inquire. “I can’t imagine you do very well if you do.”
“You aren’t a customer, yet,” he retorts with a condescending tone.
“Let’s just go,” Meghan insists, tugging on my arm.
I gently remove it from her grasp, staring him straight in the eye, and say, “You only live once, right?” I glimpse over the wall of art and then at him. “I want that one.” I point to a design of three delicate roses on a thorny vine.
“You sure?” he asks, impressed. Honestly, he’s hard to read.
I walk up to him, standing only inches away, and smell his distinctly masculine musk. I also realize something I hadn’t when I was across the room. His eyes, they’re two different colors. The left is like an Irish ale, rich and dark, the right, a cloudy English sky, distinct and bright against the other. When he notices me ogling them, he becomes agitated. “Are we going to do this, sweetheart?”
“Where do you want me?”
With a flare of his nostrils and a twitch of his mouth, he walks over to one of six small rooms in the back, a blue velvet curtain hanging in the doorway and slides it open.
“I want you on the chair,” he says, his words roll out drenched in sex.
I give my sister a glance. She has a pleading look, shaking her head and mouthing, “Don’t do it.”
I shrug and enter, standing next to the chair with my arms crossed.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks and nods to the black leather chair. I slide on, resting against the sloped backing. He washes his hands in a sink in the corner before putting on a pair of latex gloves. “Where do you want it?”
Trying to figure out where it’ll be hidden if I dress up for a nice date or event, I decide on my hip. “Here.” I point.
He picks up a remote and with the click of a button, my chair begins to layout flat.
“Turn on your side,” he orders, “and roll down your jeans to about mid-hip.”
Once I’ve done as instructed, he tucks tissue paper, like the kind laid out across the examination table at a doctor’s office, into the folded band of my jeans. Next, he preps my hip, shaving and cleaning it with a cold, solution soaked cloth. He picks up the tattoo gun and turns it on.
“Aren’t you going to use a stencil or whatever you use?”
“I don’t need one.”
The shrill buzzing of the gun sends a nervous tremor up my spine.
“Will this hurt?” I ask, an undeniable waver in my voice.
“I won’t lie.” He looks sincere for the first time since I walked in. “It’s going to feel like cat scratches, intense cat scratches.”
“Okay.” I nod my head and shut my eyes tight. “I’m ready.”
He places his hand on the mound of my hip, below the line of my pants, and it does little to ease me. I’m now extremely turned on. Then the sharp sting of the needles puncture my skin over and over, permanently etching the design, and all I feel is pain. My teeth bear down on my bottom lip, attempting to place my focus elsewhere. I whimper shrewdly at a particularly unpleasant stab.
What was I thinking?!
Not wanting to look like a coward in front of him, I do my best to fight through the raw agony.
“How long have you worked here?” I probe, figuring it’s fair game since he’s doing it to me. Literally.
He doesn’t look up at me, keeping his eyes pinned on the task at hand.
“Ever since I opened the place six years ago,” he answers, but I can sense the distance in his voice. It was mechanical.
“You own it?”
“That would be the idea,” he replies, paying attention to my hip. “Now, stop talking. You’re moving.”
I’m pretty positive that isn’t why he wants me to stop talking. But I use the opportunity to my advantage, studying him. The blue neon sign on the wall behind him reflects off his slicked black hair. His sizeable muscles flex under a plain gray t-shirt. I wouldn’t call him brawny in stature, but he certainly isn’t someone you’d want to mess with either. His old jeans, the same faded blue as my irises, look so dang good on him. His unique eyes focus on my hip, partially squinted with concentration; his stubbly jaw clenched.
“I’m sorry about earlier, when I was staring at your eyes. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just—they’re really interesting and unusual. You don’t see it often.”
He continues working, his concentration concrete. After a painfully prolonged period, longer than acceptable for a response, he mumbles, “Heterochromia.”
“What?”
“The thing with my eyes, it’s called Heterochromia. It’s a pigmentation defect.”
“Whatever it is, I like it,” I confess. “It makes you unique.”
He glimpses up at me, his discomfort apparent, his lips tightened into a not quite smile. It’s more of a grimace actually. He doesn’t like compliments or maybe it’s at
tention he dislikes. Before I have time to ponder this notion, he announces, “All finished.”
“Really?”
I realize it’s been over an hour when I notice the clock on the wall.
“Take a look.” He holds up a handheld mirror, angling it for me until I catch the reflection of three blood-red roses mimicking the curve of my hip.
“Do you like?” he inquires.
I’m amazed by the detail and quality. They look unbelievably realistic, as if they’re budding from my skin. “It’s—perfect.” I glimpse at him with a satisfied smirk. “How much do I owe you?”
He pulls the latex gloves off his hands and dumps them in the barrel. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“But I thought you said…”
“If you want to stay here, you have to get a tattoo. I never said you would pay for it.”
When he smirks at me for the first time, revealing deep dimples, and a lump forms in my butt. It sounds strange, I know, but it happens when a guy makes me nervous. And this guy makes me feel like a ball of nerves.
“Are you sure?”
“The owner said it was cool. Consider it a birthday present.”
How did he know it’s my birthday?
Until then, I’d forgotten I’m wearing one of those ridiculous HAPPY BIRTHDAY crowns, with pink glitter and everything. My face heats up with embarrassment.
After he’s explained the aftercare and placed clear plastic over the sensitive skin, he sees me back out to the front with everything I’ll need. Meghan sits in the waiting area by the front window, texting away, completely oblivious to me. We’re practically standing over her before she finally spots us approaching. “Well,” she says with a flat, displeased tone, “how did it go?”
“Fine.” I pick up my coat and scarf from the chair beside her, bundling up for the nastiness outside, and then my bag. Setting the strap on my shoulder, I ask Meg, “You all warmed up?”
“Yup.” She slips the phone into the rear pocket of her jeans when she stands. “I am so ready to get home.”
I turn back to the brooding stranger. “It was nice of you to let us stay. And thanks for the free ink.”
“No problem,” he says simply.
I stand there staring at him for a lingering moment, confused why my feet, like two huge slabs of granite, refuse to move away from him. I tuck a wild piece of my chestnut hair behind my ear and clear my very dry throat.
“I should be leaving,” I state stupidly.
Because he really cares, dumbass.
“Yeah, you should,” he affirms.
It sounds like a warning or maybe a threat. However it was meant, it hurt. What did I want him to say? Whatever I was expecting, it certainly wasn’t that.
I walk toward the exit, disappointed, glimpsing back when I realize I don’t even know his name. I feel dumb not asking him sooner as we just spent the last hour together.
“I’m Abby,” I introduce myself, hoping he’ll be polite and respond with the appropriate exchange of information.
“Jamison,” he replies with the corner of his mouth curled up, creating a single dimple.
“It was nice to meet you, Jamison.”
I walk out without waiting for a reply, braced instantly by the frigid chill of early spring.
“Where did you last see it?” Meghan asks.
I tear through my apartment, leaving no crack or crevice unsearched. Poor Prudence, my fat Himalayan housecat, wasn’t too pleased with the ruckus, jumping up and scurrying down the hall to find refuge in my bedroom.
“I don’t remember,” I answer, flipping my couch cushions up, my cordless house phone pinched between my shoulder and ear. “I’ve been trying to remember all week.”
“The last time I remember seeing it, you were messing with it at the tavern on your birthday.”
“You’re right.”
Unfortunately for me, the past week was extremely busy at the restaurant. I hadn’t had a moment to need my phone. By the time I realized it was missing, I forgot where I last had it.
“Then I have to go back and see if anyone found it. I might’ve left it in the booth or something.”
“Want me to come with you?” she offers, even though she’s in no condition to endure this weather. She sounds terrible.
“No, I’ll be fine. And you should probably sleep. You don’t sound too great.”
“I don’t feel great,” she confirms. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Alright, well, get some rest. I’ll come check on you later with some chowder from the restaurant.”
My sister and I co-own a small home-style restaurant, Delaney’s, on Hanover Street in North End, which I happen to live above. We inherited it from our nana when she passed three years ago. It was always her dream that we’d carry on the business.
“That would be sweet.” There’s relief in her voice. She says my clam chowder is the best in Boston. It always makes her feel better, but I think that’s because it reminds her of our grandmother.
I hang up and get ready for the quest of my missing phone.
Feeling defeated, I step out of the Green Dragon Tavern, a landmark as historic as the city itself. Trying to retrace my steps from last night, I even checked the Union Oyster House next door with no avail. We had dinner there before heading to the tavern for the celebration. There was only one other place we went that night, the tattoo shop, his tattoo shop. My stomach flutters at the possibility of running into Jamison.
When I arrive, a petite woman greets me, running her fingers through her vivid fuchsia hair, chopped into a faux hawk. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, ah, I might’ve left my cellphone here about a week ago. You wouldn’t happen to have seen it, would you?”
“Let me check,” she says. Walking behind the semi-circle front desk, she crouches down so only the top of her brilliant messy hair shows. I perform a visual sweep of the waiting area, but I don’t see it anywhere. When she pops back up, she shakes her head. “Nah. There’s nothing in the lost box. Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s alright.” Now that I’m here, I begin to wonder if he is too. “Is Jamison here?”
She stares at me curiously. “No, he doesn’t come in on Sundays,” she informs me. “Does he know you?”
“No—Yes—Sorta.” Embarrassed, I turn on my heels and walk toward the door hastily. As I’m about to leave, my hand on the door, she asks, “Do you want me to tell him you were here?”
I freeze in place.
“Oh, ah, no. I was just curious. Um, thanks for looking.” I scurry out of the shop, praying she doesn’t rat me out to him. He’d probably think I’m a creeper.
Crushed about my phone, I head to Delaney’s to grab a fresh batch of clam chowder for her. I scoop some into a to-go container and stroll to her place a few blocks away.
When I arrive, I don’t bother to knock. Taking out the key she gave me, I unbolt the lock and enter, finding her huddled up on the couch under a blanket. Her nose is red and raw. The bags under her green eyes are puffy like two pink pillows. She looks like death warmed up.
“Hey,” she groans with a wheezy voice.
Entering her living room, a blast of boiling hot air hits my face. It’s stifling so I remove my jacket, laying it over the back of the chair. “Hey, babe.” I set the container down in front of her on the table and place a plastic spoon on top. “Eat up.”
She sits up, wrapped snuggly in her oversized comforter. She looks like a child, helpless and small. I flop down next to her and pick up the cup, peeling off the lid. I dip the spoon inside and scoop out a mouthful, bringing it up to her lips. Her jaw drops open and I slide the shallow bowl of the spoon inside. She praises me with an appreciative moan. Except for the occasional satisfied noise, we don’t speak while I feed and nurse my sister back to health. By the time she’s eaten the last bite, she looks better.
“That was heaven,” she murmurs, licking her lips to make sure she didn’t miss any.
“F
eel better?”
“Yes actually.” She throws the blanket off her shoulders. “Did you find your phone?”
“No.” I stand up and take the trash into the kitchen, throwing it away. “Would you like some tea while I’m up?”
“Yes, please.”
I prepare us both tea with honey and bring the mugs back over to the couch, handing her a yellow one with bees on it.
“I even went back to the tattoo shop to look for it,” I comment, hoping she won’t probe further.
“And how did that go?” She has an overly curious sparkle in her eye. “I talked to some girl, but she told me he doesn’t come in on Sundays.”
My disappointment is palpable.
“He seemed like an asshole.” She looks into her mug of tea and honey, “I don’t get it,” shaking her head to herself before taking a sip.
Preferring the clean-cut type, she doesn’t understand my attraction to him. She thinks he’s a disaster waiting to happen. I think he intimidated her.
“What does it matter anyway?” I rest my head on the back of her couch. “He wasn’t there.”
Hugging an arm around me, she sets my head on her shoulder and holds me. “You like him, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that. There’s just—something about him,” I acknowledge.
“It’s like there’s a sensor in your brain that triggers when guys like Jamison come within a hundred paces of you.” She turns to me, curling her legs into her chest. I know this position well. She’s about to get serious with me. “But he’s the man you screw and leave. You need to look for something substantial.”
“You think I’m going to make the same mistakes.”
“You’re a better person for the mistakes you’ve made. You were lost, but you’re different now. You’re ready to start putting yourself out there again, in a healthy way.”
“And by healthy, you mean avoid Jamison.” I tap the pad of my finger on the tip of my nose.
“I mean, be careful who you give your heart to, Abs.”
“I will,” I assure her, “I promise.”
We talk a bit more, mostly about the restaurant, before I tuck her into bed and head home. I need to feed Prue and call it an early night. I have to go in early the next morning for a health inspection of the restaurant. I’m going to need all my energy for that.