by Arden Powell
“Okay, I’m set,” he finally announced, sliding onto the chair. Jiao took up her position at his side, snapping her gloves into place, and her gun buzzed to life. Kris pulled a nearby stool closer and settled in to watch.
Whatever Rayne said about the pain, it didn’t show on his face. His hair fanned out over the chair’s headrest, and he chatted back and forth with Jiao and Kris like he was out for coffee, rather than getting a tiny needle dragged repeatedly over his skin. Kris winced for him, but couldn’t look away. The fingers of Jiao’s gloves turned black with ink as she wiped away the excess, moving slowly and methodically over her design. The snake came to life under her hands one scale at a time, and Kris stared, transfixed. Rayne didn’t watch. Occasionally something else leaked over his skin besides ink, and Kris leaned in closer, intrigued.
“Is that blood?” he asked.
“Yep.” Jiao swiped it away with her cloth. “Inner bicep has thin skin. He’ll bleed more here.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It’s not that bad right now,” Rayne said, “but I guarantee I’ll be bitching about it tomorrow.”
“Adrenaline,” Jiao said wisely. “He likes it though. I gave him his first piece six years ago, when I opened my shop in LA. He’s been coming back ever since.”
The black ink was smoky and rich against the brown of Rayne’s skin, and Kris wanted to touch the healed ones, just to see if they were as smooth and indistinguishable as they seemed.
Maybe later he could ask.
“Benji is free this afternoon,” Jiao said, “if you’re interested in a small piece. Her appointment canceled, so she left the slot open for walk-ins.” She didn’t look away from her work.
“No pressure,” Rayne said. “Your first tattoo, you should know for sure.”
Kris wet his lips. “Isn’t your first tattoo supposed to be something meaningful? Because I’m feeling pretty impulsive here.”
“Tattoos can be whatever you want,” Jiao said. “Get one if you want one. You should be sure you want it, but it’s only ink.” She shrugged. “Not the end of the world.”
Kris was saved from answering when his phone buzzed with an incoming call from his brother. “I’m going to take this.” He patted Rayne’s knee. “You keep at it, champ.”
He crossed to the emptier side of the parlor and sank onto the couch. “Hey, Bradley.”
“Hey, Kris. Sorry I didn’t call earlier. I heard you joined a band.”
“Yeah, I did. It’s going great. How’s work?”
“Good, good,” Brad said absently. “Listen—I’ve seen some of the concert footage.”
Kris picked at his nail polish and waited.
“You doing okay?” Brad asked. “Mom and Dad told me how plans fell through with Marty; you must have been really stressed trying to find something. I get if you just grabbed the first thing that came your way, but there are always other options, you know? You can always come home.”
“I like the band, Brad.”
“I know you like playing guitar, but you’re a country kid, Kris. This—what you’re doing onstage—you know that’s not you, right?”
“Pretty sure it is,” Kris said, a thread of annoyance winding through him. “And I never played country. I played bluegrass.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Well, don’t be,” Kris shot back. “I’m happy. I’m having a great time.”
“They’ve got you dressing up and wearing makeup like some kind of a—”
“Bradley,” Kris warned.
Brad let out his breath. It came across as a crackle of static over the line. “You can do better than this. Don’t change into something you’re not just to fit in.”
Kris ended the call, his fingers shaking, and shoved his phone back into his pocket with more force than was necessary. A girl with short rainbow hair was sitting at an empty station, flipping through her phone and pretending not to hear to his conversation.
Kris raked his hands through his hair before approaching her. “Hey, are you Benji?”
“That’s me.”
He smiled, still shaky. “Can I make one of those walk-in appointments Jiao was talking about? I think I need a tattoo after all.”
Benji walked him through the paperwork, and he scribbled his signature swearing he wasn’t drunk and wouldn’t blame them for any complications or change of heart later on, and she led him to her chair, sat him down, and handed him a thick portfolio of flash designs.
“They’ve all got their prices marked, or if you want something not in the book, we can make a deal,” she said. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”
Kris flipped through the pages of artwork. There were death’s-head moths, skeletons, hearts, and daggers—all the classics, all with their original spin. The art was flawless. He chewed on his lip as he thought it over, his heart racing. “Can I just get a star?” he finally asked.
“Like an outline?”
“Yeah, just a five point star, right here.” He pointed to the inside of his left wrist, just below the joint.
“Sure,” Benji said. “Our base charge is eighty bucks, and a star should only take a couple of minutes. I won’t charge you more than that.”
He handed her the portfolio back and tried to calm his heartbeat. She pulled a marker out, took his wrist, and drew a perfect freehand star on his skin, the lines straight and the points sharp. “Like this?”
He examined it. His pulse still felt like it was going to burst out of his skin, but he nodded and tried not to grin like an idiot. “Yes, please. Do that.”
She donned her gloves, fitted a new needle to her gun, and he gave her his wrist. The first bite of the needle didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected, but he still went tense from it. It felt like a hard, biting drag against his skin, but Benji’s hands were steady, and he was more excited than uncomfortable. She paused to wipe away the ink and he watched a bright-red drop of blood well up in its wake.
“So it’s like scarring, right? That’s why it bleeds?”
“It needs to go deep enough for the ink to set permanently,” Benji said. “It’s technically an open wound until it scabs over; that’s why aftercare is so important.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, and wiped the last of the ink away with a smile. “But not gross enough to stop people. You’re all done.”
His wrist now sported a perfect five-point star. The lines looked puffy and tender.
“I’ll wrap it up for you, and then you can pay Alicia at the front desk. All good?”
“Perfect. So perfect, thank you so much.”
She covered the tattoo in a plastic medical film that stuck to his skin, explaining what she was doing as she worked. He nodded along, unable to take his eyes off his wrist.
“Alicia will give you a pamphlet with everything written down,” Benji added at the end, “but it’s pretty easy. Leave this on for twenty-four hours, and then replace it whenever it gets dirty over the next week.” She handed him a few sheets of the medical product, already cut to fit his tattoo, the plastic waiting to be peeled from its paper backing. “This isn’t plastic wrap from the kitchen,” she warned. “They’re not interchangeable. This stuff is breathable and antibacterial, and using regular plastic wrap will leave you open to infection. Okay?”
Kris nodded emphatically. “Special medical wrap, no kitchen supplies. Got it.”
“After a week, you can leave it uncovered. Keep it clean and moisturized, and you’re good to go. A little one like this should be healed in no time.”
After paying at the desk, which was decorated with sugar skulls and tiny statues of samurai warriors, Kris wandered back to Rayne and Jiao. The snake didn’t have a head yet, but it was coming along.
“You got one!” Rayne said, clearly torn between delight and accusation. “I wanted to watch.”
Kris thrust his wrist out, bursting with pride. The star was blurry under the ink and the blood, which collected in the wrap’s c
reases, but he didn’t care how gory it looked. It was perfect.
“Nice,” Rayne said. “You decided, just like that?”
“It’s my body,” Kris said. “I get to do whatever I want with it, right?”
“Course,” Rayne agreed, but he caught Kris’s hand and held it. “You good?” He glanced at Kris’s phone, which was sticking out of his shallow pocket.
“I’m fine,” Kris promised. “It was dumb family stuff. Your snake is awesome though—you still bleeding?”
“He’ll keep bleeding till I’m done,” Jiao said.
Rayne gave a dismissive wave. “Who cares about that. Did yours hurt? Your first tattoo on the inside of your wrist—that’s brave.”
“Nah, it’s only little. And this plastic stuff is really cool. I thought I was going to get all wrapped in gauze or something, but now I can keep an eye on it the entire time.”
“It’s the same wrapping they use on burn victims,” Jiao said. “It’s less work for you than cleaning and moisturizing it every day as it heals. You leave it on for a few days, and when you peel it off, you’re all done.”
“Burn victims,” Kris said. “Don’t they use baby foreskins in that stuff?”
Rayne froze. They looked at each other.
“They have amazing medical properties,” Jiao said with a shrug. “Try not to think about it.”
Kris glanced down at the plastic film. Underneath, the excess ink blotted and welled. “Yeah, you know what? Pretend I never asked.” He patted Rayne’s knee reassuringly. “Just pretend I never said anything at all.”
“Right,” Rayne said faintly.
“I’ve been using that stuff on you for years,” Jiao said. “Don’t be childish.”
Kris sniggered and Rayne smacked him. He deserved it.
It took another hour for Jiao to finish the snake. Rayne talked less as time passed, the discomfort finally catching up to him, but Kris stayed by his side until it was done. His own wrist started to sting as the adrenaline wore off, but Rayne was right: it was the good kind of pain. It felt like commitment. No matter what happened on tour, or where he ended up after, he had a piece of it under his skin now, and even if he never wore makeup or girls’ jeans or dyed his hair again, his star would stay with him. He rubbed his thumb along the perimeter of the wrap and smiled to himself as Jiao’s gun buzzed away, etching the snake into Rayne’s arm. Soon the snake and the star would both be healed, smooth and indistinguishable to the touch, and when they were hidden under shirts and jackets, no one else would know they were there.
They had three back-to-back shows in Texas, and each show ratcheted the sexual tension between them up another notch. The night after their tattoos, Rayne set himself on Kris like a dog on a rabbit, and twelve thousand people screamed their approval. Dizzy from the taste of fame, Kris couldn’t tell whether it was the roar of the crowd or Rayne’s lips on his that had his blood pumping so hard, but he didn’t question it. It was good—the lurch of his stomach, the weakness in his knees, the way he saw stars when he closed his eyes, listening to Rayne’s voice soar above the music. Every show, Rayne pulled his hair and petted his chest and stalked him, intent and predatory, radiating want. The crowd’s screams always reached their crescendo when they kissed, almost as loud as when they played their encore, and Kris, breathless and drunk on the music and the smell of Rayne’s cologne, lapped it up like he was starving.
He knew how they looked together. Cassie sent him the videos afterward: the same kiss from a hundred different angles, the reverent gasps and shrieks from a thousand different mouths. Backstage after the shows, Kris’s whole body tingled with phantom touches. He could remember every brush of Rayne’s skin against his own—hand to hand, or at his throat, against his scalp, inside his collar and down his chest, a slow, dragging tease—
He was more of an exhibitionist than he had thought, but then, the stage was the stage. If he wasn’t up there for the attention, what was the point?
“Just don’t get arrested,” Brian said, when it became evident that their public petting was only going to get heavier. “Keep all your private bits private. If this leads to public indecency charges, that’s on your head, Kris. You’re still on a trial run here. And Rayne? You know what happened last time, and none of us want a repeat of that mess.”
“That’s not happening again,” Rayne said firmly. “I have this under control.”
Brian seemed skeptical. “And what we talked about in New Orleans—”
“I know,” Rayne said. “I said I’d tell you when I decided.”
Kris looked between the two of them, not wanting to get on anyone’s bad side by asking for clarification.
Brian sighed and waved them away. “Fine, okay. Other than that, go nuts.”
Passionfruit joined in on their antics immediately following Brian’s reluctant blessing.
“Don’t you guys have fiancées?” Kris asked before the first of their newly sexually charged shows.
“Yeah, and they’ve both given their very enthusiastic permission.” Jay held up his phone; on the screen was a text message that consisted of nothing but exclamation marks, followed by a second one that read GOD YES SEND PICS.
“Huh,” Kris said. “Well, whatever works, right?”
“Just a couple of straight guys being dudes,” Billie agreed, fixing his makeup with a handheld mirror. “Do you think red eye shadow is too much?”
“What is this, 2005?” Jay asked.
“Too late, I’m doing it anyway.”
Passionfruit approached their new stage play with the same aggression they poured into their music: raw and desperate, as compared to Rayne’s simmering sensuality. Still, it seemed to work for them. Jay and Billie dragged each other around the stage, hands fisted in one another’s hair, and Billie dropped to his knees to scream his lyrics out to Jay’s guitar from below.
Kris watched from the side. He couldn’t deny it was hot, in a feral way. Whatever chemistry Jay and Billie had before—and he was pretty sure Billie had been joking when he’d said they were both straight—it came boiling over now, frothing at the mouth and leaving the crowd hoarse with lust. The band came backstage invariably soaked with sweat and brimming with energy. Jay thumped Kris appreciatively on the chest as he passed.
“Great idea, man. The best.”
“It really adds something to the performance,” Billie added, watching Jay strip off his sodden shirt and upend an entire bottle of water over his head.
“Happy to help,” Kris said. “Hope the girlfriends like it.”
“They’ll be so jealous they can’t see it in person,” Jay said.
Kris nodded and elected not to pry any further.
The thing about life on the road, Kris decided sixteen days in, was that it was fucking exhausting. When he stole naps during the day the bus rocked him to sleep like he was a toddler, and at night he passed out cold, impervious to every outside stimulus, from snoring to traffic to blown tires, but he never seemed any better rested. The bunk wreaked havoc on his back, and he longed for a single night without his mattress moving under him. When Brian announced after their Austin show—two stops away from Purple Sage—that they were staying in a hotel, Kris nearly cried from sheer relief. A real bed, in a real room—he was going to sleep for twelve hours straight and there wasn’t a force in the entire universe that could stop him.
“So, there’s been a slight mix-up,” Brian said apologetically that night.
“Please tell me we have a room.”
Everyone else had already shuffled off to their respective suites for the night; it was only Kris and Rayne left in the hotel lobby with Brian.
“You do,” Brian said. “But you’re sharing.”
“Not a problem,” Kris said quickly. “No problem at all.”
“There’s only one bed.”
Kris glanced at Rayne.
“They can bring up a cot though, can’t they?” Rayne said.
“I’m not sleeping on a cot,” Kris said.
“I might as well stay on the bus.”
Rayne, the diva, gave him a look that said he was most certainly not sleeping on any cot either.
“Forget it. I don’t care. We can share a bed, right, Rayne?”
“It’s queen-sized,” Brian said, seeming like he wanted to crawl straight into his own bed, and damn their sleeping arrangements.
Kris poked Rayne in the arm, careful that it wasn’t the tattooed one. “Your call, big shot. Are we sharing or not?”
“We can share,” Rayne said. “As long as I can lay down within the next ten minutes, I really don’t care.”
“Make it sound like such a chore,” Kris grumbled. Rayne reeled him into a sideways hug, and Kris dropped the act, ducking his head with a grin and hugging him back.
“Good. Perfect. Here’s your key; we’re checking out at eight. Don’t be late.” Brian dropped the key in Rayne’s palm and departed without a backward glance. Kris couldn’t blame him. He and Butch had been taking turns driving, and if Kris was tired, they must be nearly comatose.
“Dibs on the shower,” Rayne said, pushing Kris toward the elevator.
Reaching their floor a minute later, Kris stumbled along, dragging his bag down the corridor. As soon as they arrived at the room, he face-planted into the pillow. He melted into the mattress as Rayne started the shower; the pipes rattled and the suite filled with the familiar hum of running water. Kris rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, absently listening to Rayne move in the bathroom, the spray shifting as he stepped into the stream. Kris had never lived this closely with anyone before, not even his own family. Touring was like living on top of one another for every minute of the day, a constant crush of forced intimacy, yet it felt good: there was always someone in touching distance, always someone to talk to, no matter the hour. Kris had taken to it like he’d been waiting all his life.
He understood how it could be overwhelming. Maki disappeared on a regular basis, slipping away to rebuild her personal space without a dozen eyes on her. Stef wore noise-canceling headphones nearly constantly unless they were onstage. Sometimes Kris needed room to breathe too, but he found reassurance in never being alone. He was so comfortable with his bandmates already, and Rayne in particular, like he’d known him a million years.