Ink Slapped

by A. M. Jones

  “What about hardcore and mysterious like Slash?” Milo gets out between his snickers.

  “Slit would work.” At Crockett’s suggestion, they burst into new laughter. “He was always thinking of signature names for himself in high school,” Crockett explains.

  “A different name every week.” Eli grins at Jack. “We’ll never let him live it down.”

  Jack flicks his cigarette butt to the ground, not amused. “All of you can blow me. My axe is in the truck. Right here, right now.” His challenge goes ignored when Milo and Crockett continue with their debate of dumb aliases for him.

  “I see why you guys can’t decide on a band name.” I snap the lens cap on my camera and laugh.

  Eli rests his elbow on my shoulder. “Well, I’ve been thinking.”

  “That’s dangerous,” Jack says.

  “You'll probably think it’s cheesy, but the photo shoot at the old plant gave me an idea.” He peers at everyone. My heart beats in anticipation. “District Nowhere.”

  “District Nowhere.” I try it out and think about their fused sound, which is rock—with a distorted Southern lilt, other times alternative, and most times a bluesy gothic rock. Their lyrics… I need more of their lyrics. They need to get their shit together. I focus on the group chatting about it. “I like it,” I interrupt their discussion. They stop debating and glance at me. “I do. It has a ring to it and fits your vibe. It’s up to you guys though.”

  “But it sounds like we'll go nowhere,” Milo argues. “Like we don’t even want to try.”

  Eli’s posture deflates as though he’s giving up. The others don’t pay Eli any attention as the arguing starts all over. Their singer left them, leaving a hole in her place. A broken hole that seems to spread, leaving the band ruined? Spoiled? Infected? Wasted? Damaged?

  I gasp as a name comes to me. “Tainted District.” They blink and turn to Eli. I suddenly feel as if I stepped on toes. “Just an idea.”

  Later that evening, I’m editing band photos when it dawns on me to Google Eli. I want to smack myself for not thinking of it before because after all, that’s what I planned on doing with the band name. What kind of writer am I? The first thing that pops on my screen are images of Madison and Eli, arm-in-arm. I click the web tab and the various celebrity websites are endlessly focused on Madison Hart-Gregor and her arm candy husband. There’s nothing on the separation, so maybe it’s all hush-hush. I’m assuming Madison has PR people for this kind of stuff. I Google Maddie and the Rebs and an old Weebly website shows in the search results. The website itself has no social media or review links. There isn’t a custom domain or anything remotely professional about it. Old dates and small venues of long passed gigs are listed. If the page titles are any indication, sample tracks might’ve been able to be heard at one point in time, but they’re gone now. And of course, an infinite number of pictures show in a gallery—mostly of Madison—red-faced, sweaty, and smiling with an acoustic in her hands.

  I linger on a picture. Eli’s clasping a harmonica between his lips close to a microphone. His large hand engulfs the thing. His eyes are closed and he’s half-cocked smiling like he’s in on some joke the rest of us aren’t privy to. I send it to my printer to print.

  The only thing I’ve gathered from this tiny investigation is confirmation that Madison left them in limbo. And that the band really is all about the music because it’s obvious he doesn’t give a shit about an online presence. My phone chimes with an incoming text.

  Tainted District it is. I grin so big it hurts my cheeks. Another chime. For the record, I think it’s genius.

  I exit the browser and study the next photo from the band shoot, feeling weird about this whole thing all over again. The picture is of me and I’m caught in mid-laugh at something Crockett is saying. I skip to the next and keep flipping. Eli took several photos of me. Then there’s one of me saying something to Milo, and Eli is behind him with his eyes on me—a complete contradiction of my inner debate in Eli’s bathroom.

  I jump when my phone rings. Glancing at Adrian snoring next to me, I grab it and hurry outside to my balcony. The pool below glitters in the moonlight. The smell of someone’s late-night barbecue floats in the air. Eli’s name remains on my screen, and I realize in my editing frenzy, I forgot to text him back.

  “Eli?”

  “Hey.”

  I take a second to compose my state of mind. “So, you decided on Tainted District, huh?”

  “Yes. Listen, I wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?” There’s no mistaking the confusion in my voice.

  “Madison. I should’ve told you before.”

  I close my eyes against the wind. “There’s no reason for you to apologize. At least you’re being honest. Frankly, it’s not my business.” Jiggling a cigarette out of its box, I light it with a trembling hand.

  “Taylor.” His tone is scornful. “Of course, it is.”

  The low timbre does something to my insides. I bite my lip as my eyes sting. Could he be just as confused as I am? “We’re friends, right?” I ask with a whisper.

  His response is automatic. “You kidding? The best.” I know he’s smiling. I hear it clear as day.

  Our comfortable silence stretches as we listen to each other breathe.

  “I’ve decided on the cover.”

  “Which one?” Enthusiasm laces his voice.

  “The one you picked. I’ve set the reveal in two weeks.”

  “Reveal?”

  “When I reveal you and the cover to the world.”

  “Wow. When you put it like that it sounds exciting.”

  “It is, but I’d like to reveal it with your band photos before the official Internet reveal. Maybe make a party out of it or something,” I blurt the sudden idea. My heart trips. What have I done?

  There’s a long pause. “That’s a great idea. Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow and talk about it.”

  My stomach drops. I’m playing with fire doused in accelerant. “Sure.”

  I smoke another earned cigarette before going back in. Adrian is sitting up, looking at my laptop.

  “T, are you finished with this guy yet?”

  I roll my eyes at him and tug off my sweat pants. “I’m shooting pictures of them rocking out on Friday.”

  He watches my shirt follow the pants. Shuffling into my bathroom, I remove my glasses and grab my toothbrush and toothpaste.

  After a few minutes of scrubbing, his voice drifts from the bedroom. “Wait… Friday? We’re going to my parents’ house this weekend, remember?”

  “Shit!” I wince as toothpaste spit splatters the mirror.

  Adrian darkens the doorway in a blurry blob. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  After rinsing, I give him an apologetic look and bury my face in a hand towel. “Can we leave early Saturday morning?”

  A scoff echoes and I’m sure he crosses his arms. “To spend time with Eli?”

  “No, to take pictures of Eli.” I tease with a wry grin and push past him. “He’s married, Adrian.” I catch myself from saying married to a famous country pop star.

  We climb into bed. “He is?” The blatant relief in his voice grates on my nerves, but I let it go.

  “Yes, they’re separated, but he loves her. Sings songs about her. It’s romantic. I know they’ll work out whatever they’re trying to work out.” I really don’t know this, but the expression on Eli’s face as he gazed at Madison’s picture is unforgettable. The pictures of their band together show a lot of tenderness between them. The heartbreak that softens his demeanor sometimes speaks volumes on what he feels for her. She is attempting to see him since she went to Jimmy’s this past weekend. The evidence of their affection is boundless even if they’re split.

  Adrian’s arm snakes around my waist, and he kisses my shoulder. “I’m sorry. You know anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend.”

  Now that I think about how romantic it is, it’s also inspiring. My mind turns on a new idea for a book. Not my us
ual thing, but… Before long, I’m seeing scenes play out. I know how I want it to start and know the major conflict. This is one of the worst and greatest things about being a writer—once an idea turns on, there’s no turning it off until it’s on paper.

  Adrian’s breathing is even, and I scoot from the bed. Grabbing my laptop, I settle in for a long night. This is when I do my best writing.

  Sometimes I can be stupid. Real stupid. I’ll never forget the look on Taylor’s face when she found out about Madison. I should take Adrian’s advice and cut this friendship off, but my life is better since Taylor wiggled her way into it. I’m writing songs again. Lyrics I’m proud of and have nothing to do with Madison. The burst of productive creativity only gives me hope to continue—I stop this thought short and snort to myself. Fucking artist superstition also known as the muse. Something way too romanticized and also an overused excuse when the creativity is at a standstill. I’ll tell myself anything to keep from admitting Taylor’s my new muse.

  Unlocking the shop, I get to work on a Ford that needs a new timing belt. I fucking loathe timing belts. There’s no telling the damage since the car was towed here over the weekend. I have to push it into the garage. After a half hour of investigating, I had to call the owner with terrible news. The snapped belt left a lot of destruction in its path. Timely and costly destruction.

  Several hours, a suspended engine, and strings of curses later, Milo shows and looks a little worse for wear. Finally. “Where the hell have you been?” I question from the cavity beneath the hood and look over my shoulder at him.

  He shrugs. “Late night.”

  “You’re fired.”

  “No, I’m not. Where’s Mick?” he asks, as if Mick will appear underneath the hood.

  “Who knows? Probably a late night, too. No wonder I can’t make any money.”

  “Huh. You should fire him.” I scoff, about to retort, but he plows on, “And you can’t make money because you don’t hound people on their bills.”

  I groan. “Shut up and go do something productive.” Having an idea, I straighten. “I know. Go out to that 4Runner and get the emblem from the hatch.”

  His face screws up. “Why?”

  “It’s for Taylor’s 4Runner.”

  “Man, don’t you remember the last time we were out there? Big. Ass. Snake that rattled. Ring any bells?”

  That’s why I want it to be him and not me. Grass and weeds grow thick in the dense junkyard since I can’t afford anyone to take care of it. “For one, you don’t have to crawl underneath it this time. For two, Taylor is most likely doing a superb job of making your ugly ass look good.”

  “You have a point. Fine, but you need to get someone out here to mow that shit and clear the brush around the back building.”

  I ignore the last. Maybe I like the back building hidden with brush. Out of sight, out of mind. He grabs a flathead to pry the emblem off and strides out the side door. He seems to have a second thought because he comes back in and grabs a shovel. I chuckle. Sucker.

  “And hurry. I’m taking off for lunch.” And while I’m gone he can hone this goddamn cylinder, too.

  I end up doing some investigative work. After finding her address in no time flat, I’m convinced I should be a detective.

  Taylor’s not answering her phone and no answer at her door. I keep knocking and put my ear to it. Nothing. Not even a TV. I wipe my face with my hand, hoping nothing happened to her.

  I dawdle down the hall, thinking about alerting a neighbor, when a door opens. I turn as Taylor peeks out. Her hair is all over her head in a jumbled mess, and her face scrunches behind huge nerd glasses. "Eli?”

  Relief courses through me. Her voice is thick with sleep. “Shit, Taylor. You must sleep like the dead.” I pause when her bare legs catch my eye. A huge tie-dye t-shirt falls to her thighs, but as far as I can tell, that’s all she has on.

  Her face softens a little. “I’m sorry, I was awake all-night writing.” She waves her arm inviting me inside as her eyes take in the black grease on my shirt and pants. I scan the room when I enter her apartment. Excited to get a glimpse of Taylor Dabney’s real world, I’m sure this is what it feels like to enter Hogwarts. She smiles. “Adrian always complains there should be a support group for the family and friends of writers.”

  “Up all-night writing, huh?”

  “Yeah—”

  “I know.” I hand over the bag of sub sandwiches. She doesn’t need to explain. “Being in the flow can make time nonexistent.”

  She stares a moment and takes the bag. “Thanks. Let me get a pot of coffee going first.” She moves into the next room, but I’m frozen to the spot. Her soft voice echoes from what I assume is the kitchen, “I’ve never had anyone understand that.” Beyond a path of various shit-kickers and Converse shoes, the living room seems untidy at first. Upon closer inspection, it’s just paper on every surface—not just paper, but artwork. There are pens, colored pencils, and paintbrushes in several containers on her coffee table and desk in the corner. A wall of cork boards showcases beer bottle caps. Closer inspection tells me they’re all different as if she collects them from every beer she tries and/or likes. Everything is in a peculiar, chaotic order. Interesting.

  A familiar sketchbook is open to an ink drawing of Jaxon. Plucking it from the coffee table, realization strikes. It’s not Jaxon but me. Deep in my bones, I know it. It could be Jaxon with a guitar, but he wouldn’t have a pussy-whipped look on his face. My expression holds sadness and concentration as I stare into space. I can see Taylor as she drew this—her soft fingers holding an ink pen as she sketched out whatever was in her mind’s eye.

  The sketchbook gets ripped from my hands. Taylor’s face is tomato-red, if tomatoes had blotchy spots. Guilt floods me for prying. “Don’t be embarrassed. You should be proud of your talent.”

  Her smile is not so reassured as she closes the book. “Would you like something to drink?”

  I’d rather dig through the treasure trove of T.M. Dabney. I haven’t even scratched the surface. “I’ll take some coffee, too. It’s been a long morning.”

  “Looks like it.” She observes my grease monkey stains, but not like it bothers her.

  “Not everyone can make money doing what they’re passionate about.”

  She studies me. “Are you kidding? Look where you are.”

  I peer around her place again. “I know. I feel like I stepped through the wardrobe and into Narnia.”

  She laughs. “I mean, Nashville. A city of dreams. Believe in what you want and it’ll happen. Do you know how many people, musicians, would kill to live here and play in a bar like you do? Even if it’s just for pennies?”

  I nod, knowing she has a point. “Time to step it up.”

  “Yes, and I have a plan.” The gleam in her eye makes me curious, but also fills me with apprehension. She gestures for me to follow her to the kitchen, luring me with her hips swaying in front of me. I doubt she’s aware of it, but when she turns with a sly smile, I’m sure she knows what she’s doing or maybe it’s her plan—or both. It’s hard to get a read on her.

  I sit at the breakfast bar as she grabs two coffee mugs and fills them. Placing one in front of me, she slides over cream and sugar. Next, she hands me a plate holding a sub sandwich. The sub rolls, but I steady it.

  “I’ll be right back.” She lifts a finger and leaves. I can’t help but grin when I spot prints of her book covers on the fridge, including the one adorned with yours truly. Photos of a boy and a girl in various stages of adolescence are on display as well.

  By the time I fix my coffee to perfection, she’s back with neater hair, sweat pants, and her laptop.

  “Who are they?” I ask, tipping my head toward the pictures.

  “My half brother and sister when they were younger. Twins. They go to Berkeley now.” She sighs, glancing at them with fondness. “Brats. I rarely get to see them because of the distance.”

  “I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I know how you
feel. I don’t have any siblings.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  Saying nothing else and sitting beside me, she dumps a profane amount of sugar in her coffee and without stirring, gulps it from her zombie head coffee mug.

  I watch her pale throat move with her swallow. “Easy there. I have my own. I’m not going to take it away from you.”

  She squints before taking one last huge mouthful, trying not to laugh. Holding her hand to her lips, she swallows. “Okay, let’s get started before I spit coffee all over you.” Opening her laptop, her fingers dance across her keyboard to type out a long password. “Now that Tainted District has a name, we can establish social media pages and a website. This gives your fans a way of interacting with you beyond watching your shows.”

  Social media? A website? “We have those, but I never get on my computer beyond shop business.”

  “You guys can use your phones to manage your accounts. No problem.”

  “We can do that.” The “we” will most likely be Crockett.

  She goes about updating our social media accounts with fascinating precision, using some band photos as profile pictures and header photos. Somehow, this woman has already found time to edit and splash our band name on them. She captured our personalities instead of some posed sulky pensive shit that band photos normally consist of.

  “Awesome,” I say, pointing to the lettering on the photos.

  She smiles. “We can talk logo. I have ideas, but we should talk to the guys, too.”

  I nod and watch as she opens some kind of program and navigates it like a pro. “I doubt we’ll get far.”

  “My degree is in graphic design, so I know how to tread those waters. How about I create a few mocks and let you guys decide?”

  Her tongue peeks from between her lips with her focus on the screen. “Sure,” I agree, keeping my tone as casual as possible. Her t-shirt hangs off one shoulder and the beginning of a tattoo is visible. Something sweet smelling hits my nose and goose bumps form on her skin. She freezes, and her tongue disappears. I realize I’ve leaned in too close with my breath hitting her skin.