“Uh, hi,” I choke. “Can I talk to Beckett? I was just there.” Shaking my head at my own idiotic words, I feel like an ass at my explanation.
“Reconsidering that apa, huh? I’d love to do it for you,” she coos into the line, making me chuckle at her useless flirtations.
“No, really. I’m good, Lexie. Just wanted to make an appointment for the tattoo, that’s all,” I explain before asking, “So, is Beckett there?”
“Just left for the night,” her words are mixed together with the sounds of paper being moved around in the background. “But, it looks like he has an opening in two nights. Friday at eight work for you?”
After penciling me in, we end the call and a bout of nervous excitement settles in the pit of my stomach.
Burying down those feelings, I figure the best way to pass the time is to just go back to the routine. Make dinner. Spend some time with Chloe. Maybe go for a walk on the beach. Go to bed.
Routines are funny like that. You resent them at first, feeling confined by the expectations and rules set by others, but after a while, you begin to embrace them. There’s comfort in knowing what to expect.
Later that night, as I lie awake in bed, my mind wanders back to the days right after I enrolled in the service. Even over the crashing of the waves filtering in through my bedroom window, I can still hear Mom’s shriek of disbelief. Structure was what I craved at that point, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t join in order to escape my reality as well.
Nothing more than a nineteen-year-old college drop out at that point, I had no clue what I was getting myself into. Lucky for me, neither did anyone else.
Exhaustion falls heavily, spinning me back to some of my earliest memories of those days.
After a grueling day of boot camp, all I wanted was to crash back on my bed and pass the fuck out. My stomach grumbling loud enough to draw the attention of my drill Sergeant was a clear indication that a meal might not be a bad idea.
It was the end of my second day and already I loved the anonymity being a soldier provided. Everyone was too tired to ask questions, or too scared to care. As we filed away from the training grounds, I marched in sync to the footsteps surrounding me. There were so many times in my life I wished for the ability to simply be like everyone else. To fit in and not feel as if I stood out like a sore thumb.
Yet, there I was. Uniformed in clothes meant to blend in, and in was still the most foreign feeling of all.
Wondering why the other men had joined distracted me from my task at hand. A finger poked into me from behind. “You’re up, man.” The same finger pointed over my shoulder to the gap I had caused in the line.
Wordlessly, I moved up and held out my plate. Grumbling again, my stomach made it known how hungry I was. I wouldn’t necessarily call the food in front of me slop, but it was most definitely far from home cooked.
With my tray in hand, I scanned the cafeteria, hoping to find a seat quickly—and preferably somewhat secluded. The last thought proved pointless. We were crammed in like sardines in a can. Walking through the narrow aisle dividing the two rows of school-style bench seating, I found an open spot and dropped my ass down before I was caught holding things up again.
Over the course of the five meals I’d had here, I never uttered more than two words. Seemed like it would be the same for the sixth meal as well. Sore muscles and empty stomachs make for lame conversation.
After shoveling a few forkfuls of some kind of beef dish into my mouth, the empty seat next to me was taken. Greeted by only a grunt, I slid down the bench a little. That’s when the seat on the other side was taken as well. Cushioned between the two men forced an awkward silence that was only filled by the sound of chewing. That was until Delaney sat in front of us. I knew him from roll call. Since we were always next to each other in line, it didn’t take much for me to look at his face and place the name together. We all learned quickly that you didn’t look up when someone else’s name was called. Only your own.
With a mouthful of food, Delaney looked up and broke the grunt-filled meal, extra careful not to draw the attention of the sergeant. “You guys are a sorry crowd. It’s not like you ran twelve miles today,” he joked, dropping his fork next to his plate. Wiping his face with over emphasized care, he scratched a hand over his chin. “Oh, wait,” he snapped his fingers as if he’d just had a life changing epiphany, “We did do that today. Bet walking will be a real problem tomorrow.”
His joke caused me to nearly spit my water out across the table. Not that it had been all that funny or anything like that, but it was the first time someone spoke in two days. I guess it was just nice to hear another voice and not only the ones inside my own head.
“Good thing we won’t be walking, then,” the man next to me joked. “McCallister,” he pointed to his shirt where his name was embroidered.
“Anders,” the guy on my other side introduced himself as well.
Okay, so last names it was. “Daxton,” I announced, nodding at the other men who had just done the same.
We didn’t have much time together after that as meal time was over. Sleep came easily that night, as it had the night before. The next morning, I thought maybe the Sergeant paid much more attention to us at meal time than he let on, because McCallister, Delaney, Anders, and I were teamed up during our training sessions the next day. Sure, it could have been completely random, but I figured not much here was left to randomness.
Sometime around mile eight, Delaney jogged up alongside me, seeing I was lagging somewhat. “Come on, man. You’ll piss him off something awful if we don’t all make in under time.” Angling his head, he indicated the drill sergeant hovering around the middle of the pack. “Pick it up, Dax. Only two miles left.” After a brief pause, he laughed and added, “This morning anyway.”
He spurred me on the rest of that run and for the rest of the runs while we were there. Until the last run we ever had. The one where he couldn’t keep up . . .
Bolting upright in bed, I wipe a shaking hand over my sweat-covered face. Images of running at training camp twist and turn, morphing my dream into a nightmare. A final glance over my shoulder and Delaney is gone.
My heart is racing and my breathing is erratic. Focusing in on my panic only makes it worse. The room is filled with oxygen, but none of it makes its way into my lungs. The walls close in, making everything feel smaller, more confined like the inside of a tank. But rather than moving toward a battle, I’m right here, stuck in the middle of it.
Somehow, my legs decide they want to work and I make my way into the bathroom that’s attached to my room. Bracing my hands against the cool tiles of the countertop helps bring me back to the here and now, if even just a little bit.
Focus on today, not yesterday. The words of my VA counselor play over in my head.
Squeezing my eyes shut until I see spots, I try my best to focus on what I have, rather than what I’ve lost.
“You can have this room,” Chloe said, showing me what used to be her room, the hot pink dresser in the corner told me as much.
Looking down at her with a confused look, she repaid me with a look of concern. I was beginning to think that was the only look of which she was capable. “It has an attached bathroom,” she explained, smiling compassionately at me.
I’d told her about my panic attacks and how, even though I felt like I could control them most of the time, they were the worst at night. I was worried about waking her up at night having to trek through her apartment to get to the bathroom to calm myself down. This was her solution. One of sacrifice. Born out of friendship. One of which I’d hoped I’d deserve–one day.
“Okay,” I agreed tentatively. Arching an eyebrow at my uncertainty, she folded her arms over her chest.
“I feel a big but coming. Care to share what it is?”
“That,” I pointed to the hot pink monstrosity sitting in the corner, “has got to go.”
“Really?” she whined. “I painted that just for you. Maybe I should hav
e done camo.” Pulling a face at me, she stifled her laughter. “Or oh, I know, rainbows. You wanted rainbows, didn’t you?” Unable to contain it any longer, her giggles bubbled out, filling the room. “No shit, you don’t want that in here.” She pointed to the current topic of conversation. “But if you think I’m moving it, you’re crazy. That, my dear, is all up to you.”
Doing a little furniture rearranging seemed like a small price to pay for a friend who was willing to help me out in my time of need, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel guilty not knowing if I’d ever be able to repay her.
With the more pleasant memory filling up the space that was just occupied by the horrific nightmare, I’m able to calm my breathing enough to stand upright.
Watching in some kind of detached stare, I rub a hand over my face, surprised by the rough feel of the stubble under my fingers. Smooth as a baby’s ass was the order in the Army—in training at least.
Yearning for routine once again, I reach for the shave gel and razor on the counter. After a few pulls against my skin, my heart calms even more. The drag of the razor makes me focus on the simple task rather than the larger picture. By the time I’m done, the panic has passed and the sun has risen.
Choosing the beauty and stillness of the shining sun above the ocean over the frenzied panic I know will be waiting for me if I return to sleep, I slide on my running shoes and quietly trek out of the apartment. Not many people would choose five miles on the pavement and sand over the comfort of their own bed, but not many people find demons like mine waiting for them in their sleep.
“Hey Lexie,” I call back down the hall where she’s busying herself in the supply closet.
She struts up to the counter, a carton of ink in hand. “What’s up, buttercup?” She winks, smiling at me.
“When did this happen?” The this to which I’m referring is Dax’s name, written neatly at the tip of my finger in my appointment book.
“Oh, he called after you left the other night. Seemed like he wanted to make the appointment right away. Maybe he was afraid he would chicken out.” Her eyes go wide in mock fear.
Not having been into the shop since I left on Wednesday, this is the first I’m seeing that he’ll be here today. Call me crazy, but there’s a twinge of nervousness that flows through me thinking about touching him.
Touching the hot clients is definitely an occupational bonus and I usually cover my delight over it with a well-played business face. Hopefully, the same thing happens tonight. In three hours, to be exact.
Good luck with that, Beck. Coaching myself seems fruitless, because I find I’m already counting the minutes. One-hundred and seventy-six to be exact.
Well, then. Might as well keep myself busy for the time being. Hopefully, I don’t get stuck with any walk-ins. Chuckling at my own idiocy, here I am hoping I don’t have to make Dax wait, yet, my fingers are itching to touch his skin.
Now, that’s two very different sides of a not-so-professional coin.
When I sit down in my station, I blast some music, letting the bass drown out my mixed feelings. Though everything is already clean from my last shift, I scrub over the counters and machinery like it’s about to be inspected by the Queen of England. Lexie even gives me the side-eye when she sees me with the broom and dustpan. Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything, though. Honestly, I’m not really sure what I would say to her anyway.
After playing around with a few different colors, I finally figure out the perfect color combination for the family insignia Dax brought in. Making sure to get it right when he comes in, I write down the precise mixture on the bottom of my sketch. Wanting to go above and beyond for some reason, I even print out an extra stencil that I color in with the ink. This will give him a much clearer idea of what the finished product will look like. Plus, it keeps me busy.
Looking over the finished product, I think Dax will be happy with it. But, then again, what the hell do I know. Only met the guy for like an hour, yet I am going leaps and bounds beyond what I would normally do. Maybe it was something about the nervous silence that surrounded him while he was here, but I know I want to make this a good experience for him. The memory deserves that honor.
Tucking the sketch away over on the corner of the counter top, I want to make sure it doesn’t get all smeared up. As I take one last look at it, I think about what his reaction will be. Another thought swirls around my head as I pull out my ink and tattoo gun: is Dax gay?
Like some foolish teenager, there was an immediate attraction to him, but then again Lexie reacted similarly. The man is built like a God, after all. But just because I thought that about him, doesn’t mean he felt the same about me.
Such is the life of a modern gay man, I guess. Sometimes I feel unless a man is wearing assless chaps at a gay bar, there’s no way to tell for certain he’s gay. And even the assless chaps aren’t always a dead giveaway.
And he’s a soldier. Not that there’s never been a gay soldier in the history of soldiers, but for some reason in my mind that limits the possibilities.
Not like I haven’t faced this situation before—a tattoo on a man I find attractive. Certainly straight tattoo artists have to fight the urge all the time. Especially those who have to touch their client’s hip, or side of her tit—I’m sure they dread their job that day.
As one song transitions into another, I laugh inwardly at my own sarcasm. Hopefully, I’ll be able to bite my tongue when Dax arrives. Glancing over to my phone as it sits face up on the counter, I do the math.
Forty-five minutes.
Holy fuck! That went way too quickly. Might have scrubbed my machine one too many times as I counted the minutes.
At least I still have a few minutes to get my head on straight. Ozzy Osbourne’s “Mama I’m Coming Home” fills the space of my station, and thoughts of a previous client filter into my brain.
I begin flipping through my sketchbooks. Seared into my memories, I know exactly where the page is. There’s no reason to look for some more inspiration for Dax’s piece, but I find it in a pair of dog tags I had sketched for a widowed soldier a few years back.
When he walked into the shop, a tingle ran along my skin. My God, I thought to myself, He’s fucking gorgeous. After successfully rolling my tongue back into my mouth, I greeted the olive-skinned man standing before me.
“Hey, man,” we shook hands, “what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to get these.” Dangling from his hand were two silver dog tags on a simple silver beaded chain. “They were my wife’s,” he explained. He introduced himself as Marcus. All I saw was a slim built and attractive man, talking about his dead wife. With who I assumed was his friend at his side, he handed me the actual dog tags that once hung around his wife’s neck.
Choking on my words, I listened numbly. Sure, in all my years in this business, I’d done my fair share of sentimental pieces, but this, to hold the actual metal in my fingers, to feel the cool steel against my warm skin and know he’d never hold her warm body next to his—that was something else entirely.
And to know I had a physical reaction to the grieving man here with me, well that was something I wasn’t comfortable with, at all.
To be entrusted with something of this magnitude was the real meaning of the job.
“Okay, I can do that,” I finally managed through my own rising emotion. “Let’s sit and talk about it.”
He was young, not much older than me. Late twenties, maybe earlier thirties at the most. His friend, who still hadn’t mentioned his own name, was standing solidly by Marcus’ side, a source of support unlike any other.
“So,” trying for my best professional voice, but wanting still to be in tune with the emotions of the piece, “tell me about her.”
I hated that when he walked into the room, I thought he was well-built—strong and attractive, with a beautiful face that made his features stand out among the rest that I’d seen in recent history. But denying it would be pointless.
Reachi
ng into his wallet, Marcus pulled out a picture of him, his wife, and two daughters on the day of her last send-off.
If I thought he was beautiful, his wife was something else entirely. Sure, she didn’t rouse the same reaction out of me, but no one, gay or straight, could deny her beauty. Oddly, there was no sadness in their goodbye, none that I could see in the picture, anyway. The girls clung to their mother, but their smiles were as bright as the sun shining in the sky.
“She was a pilot. Helicopters.” Marcus pointed to the gigantic helicopter in the background of the picture. “Loved her job. Loved the girls, too. It was supposed to be her last tour, and then she was going to be home.” His friend’s hand clapped down on Marcus’ shoulder, a silent source of support.
“Thanks, man.” Marcus looked up at his friend and apologized for not introducing him, “This is Tony, Amber’s brother.”
I shook Tony’s hand and offered my condolences, but the hollow space in my chest as I listened to Marcus talk about his dead wife made my words feel empty, like sawdust in my throat. Not wanting them to see me as anything but capable, I swallowed the emotion down and asked, “So where did you want this?”
Marcus shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it . . . everything’s just been so . . . I don’t know . . .” he stammered over his own words, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes tightly.
Tony’s voice cut through the silence, “We only just buried her yesterday.”
Involuntarily, my hand dropped to Marcus’ knee. “She belongs on your heart, then.” He looked up at me. Though they were glassy and bloodshot, his eyes shimmered with tears he didn’t want to shed. Marcus nodded and I excused myself to sketch something up for him. With the dog tags and the family picture in hand, I made my way to the back room where the light box was and silently hoped I would do his wife’s memory justice.
When I came back twenty minutes later, he was noticeably calmer and anxious to see what I had come up with. My stomach twisted a little, hoping he wouldn’t hate it.
On Solid Ground Page 3