Carnal: Pierced and Inked

by Simone Sowood

  “I see it,” she says from the next room.

  “See what?”

  “The meaning. I see what you’re doing. It’s genius.”

  Patting dry the brushes in my hands, I walk back into the room she has converted into a studio for me. It’s mostly empty, and light floods through the large windows onto the easel standing in the middle of the room. Ava is a few feet away from it, staring at it with her hands on her hips.

  “What do you see?” I ask, knowing there’s no way she sees the real meaning, which is my lack of a sex life.

  “The movement in the water represents the movement of money. It’s all gathering over here,” she says, pointing to the top corner, “in a sort of whirlpool. I assume that’s the one percent?”

  “Is it too obvious?” I’m not about to tell her the whirlpool is actually my poor pussy, and the movement in the water is all the action I’ve never experienced.

  Instead of going out and socializing like everyone else in high school and college, I spent every waking second studying and practicing different techniques. Twenty-three and never been kissed. It’s pathetic, even if I do know a zillion different ways to lay paint on a canvas.

  “Not in the least. Remember, I have the benefit of knowing you and knowing your themes. It’s perfect the way it is. You really are amazing, I hope you see that. To most people, this is a beautiful image of the seaside. It would look pretty on any wall.”

  “You really think so?”

  She turns and grabs the tops of my arms, shaking me gently. “Stop doubting yourself. You’ll drive yourself crazy!”

  “Thank you. For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without your support.” Especially without my parents in my life. Ava’s now the closest thing I have to a mother, even though she’s nearly old enough to be my grandmother.

  “Stop being silly.”

  “I have to get ready for the money-making job now.”

  ***

  Late for my Saturday night shift as usual, I rush into Johnny’s Roadhouse, making my way as fast as I can to the staff changing area. I say changing area, it’s more or less a big closet lined with hooks to hang our stuff on.

  I grab my apron out of my bag, and tie it around my waist. The dress code is pretty boring: black pants and a white T-shirt. At least I don’t have to wear any buttons or flashing lights.

  “You’re late,” my boss Kevin says, his overgrown eyebrows narrowed and his gnarled finger pointing at me.

  “Sorry, Kevin, won’t happen again.”

  “Two customers just sat down at table six. I was going to give it to Melanie, but get on it.”

  “I’m going.”

  I grab two menus, plaster a smile across my face and make my way through the rows of tan wood booths in my section of the restaurant until I spot the table that’s just arrived.

  “Good evening and welcome to Johnny’s Roadhouse. I’m Skye, and it’s great to see you both here tonight. The specials are on the first page of the menu.” I say this so many times each shift that I practically go into a trance now I pretend I’m looking at them, but really my eyes are scanning the license plates on the wall behind them.

  When I finally do look at the couple, the woman sticks out. She doesn’t seem like she belongs in here. This isn’t exactly the kind of place where you wear an evening dress and sparkling earrings that hang to your shoulders, but clearly no one told her that. I want to ask her if she got lost on the way to the mansion party, but don’t. Wouldn’t want to mess up my tip.

  I pass her a menu and turn my attention to the man. For a moment, I’m speechless as I take him in. He doesn’t look like he belongs with the woman. He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt that’s pulled taut over his broad chest, with two full sleeves of tattoos on display. His dark hair is intentionally messy and there’s a day’s worth of stubble peppering his strong jaw. He’s most definitely appropriate for this joint. Or any joint.

  He pulls the menu from my hand, and I realize I’ve been frozen in place instead of handing it over.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “No problem,” he says. He looks at me, and when we make eye contact a jolt rushes up my spine.

  I let go of the menu and hurry to my station. It’s a cramped spot hidden in the back corner of the dining area; a place I can watch my tables without them seeing me. Normally I think of it as my jail cell, but tonight I use it to spy on the hot guy.

  Drawn

  (Lawson)

  My eyes fix on that fine waitress’ ass as she walks away from our table. Skye, she said her name was. Appropriate for such a heavenly body.

  Despite what my sister Julie had promised, my date had turned out to be yet another gold digger.

  I hadn’t intended to bring Freya here. But when I picked her up and she was dressed that way, and she had giggled, actually fucking giggled, at every little thing I said, it had become pretty fucking obvious that she was more interested in my money than in me.

  Why did I let my sister set me up on a blind date? I knew it would end up like this.

  Normally I show them a good time for the evening — in and out of my bed — but Freya annoyed me from the start and I thought I’d have a little fun with her.

  When I saw the glowing red Johnny’s Roadhouse sign, I slammed on the brakes of my Maserati and pulled into this place. Freya’s mouth had hung open in shock when I told her there’d been a change of plans. Yacht party out, low-end restaurant in. If she handles herself well here she might — and that’s a very big might — get a second chance.

  This place is perfect for Freya. I’ll bet it’s her first time sitting in a booth. Or the first place she’s ever been with license plates on the wall. Why am I wasting my time with her?

  Skye returns to our table and asks, “Have you decided yet?” Her big brown eyes shine as she says it.

  “Where are the salads? I don’t see any on the menu,” Freya says.

  “There’s chicken Caesar in the chicken section,” Skye says, pointing to the menu.

  “That’s it? Where are the healthy ones?”

  “I can do it without the chicken if you prefer.”

  “Do you have any idea how many calories are in Caesar dressing?” Freya’s lip curls into a snarl as she says it, implying Skye is the dumbest person alive.

  “Would you like the dressing on the side?”

  “No, I would not. I’m not about to eat plain romaine lettuce.”

  Skye glances at me, a look of exasperation on her face. I can’t help but smile; it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud at Freya.

  “How about a burger?”

  “No! I haven’t eaten a burger in years, and I’m not about to change that now.”

  “I can do it without the bun.” Skye looks at me and winks.

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Okay, chicken strips in a basket?”

  “What is wrong with this place?”

  “Bread, then. How about some bread?” I’m liking Skye more by the second.

  “I do not eat carbs.”

  “How’s the Caesar with dressing on the side sounding now?”

  “Fine. I saw fruit salad on the dessert menu, I’ll just fill up on that after my lettuce.” Freya says, huffing.

  “And for you, sir, what would you like? Another salad?” My dick twitches at the way she calls me sir. That’s something I’d like more of.

  “Fuck no, I want a burger.”

  “How about I add bacon and cheese to that?”

  “Perfect, Skye.” She goes to take my menu but I hold onto it tight, not quite ready for her to leave the table. And leave me alone to forced conversation with boring Freya again. What was my sister thinking, setting me up with her? Why couldn’t she have found someone like Skye?

  “Did you want to keep your menu?” She holds my eye contact as she speaks, something most people can’t do.

  “Nope, it’s all yours,” I say, releasing the menu.

  Skye turns and walks away from the
table, and once again I’m enjoying watching the sway of her ass.

  “Why did you bring me here?” Freya’s voice is halfway between disgust and tears.

  “I wanted a burger.”

  “I thought we were going to a yacht party.” And that’s what she’s all about. I bet if they served burgers on the yacht, she’d eat one. She strikes me as the kind of person who would do whatever it takes to get to play with the moneyed folk.

  Ten long minutes later, Skye returns with our food. Freya’s nose turns up as Skye puts the plain lettuce on the table in front of her. My mouth waters when she sets the burger in front of me, as much for the glimpse I got of her cleavage as for the smell of the bacon.

  “Can I get you anything else?” She asks. Yeah, your lips around my dick.

  “That’s great, Skye. I think we’re good.”

  Freya’s saying something, no doubt complaining about her lettuce, but I tune her out as I bite into my burger. I don’t feel the least bit guilty for ignoring her, she can fuck off while I enjoy this juicy meat in my mouth.

  While I chew, the thought of taking out Skye crosses my mind. But she’s a waitress. What are the chances she wouldn’t turn into a gold digger when she found out about my money?

  When I finish my burger, I lick the last bit of grease off my fingers. Freya is sitting, staring at me, her arms folded across her chest. I’d bet anything she’d spring back into fawning-all-over-me mode if I showed her the least bit of attention.

  “I’ll be right back, I need the shitter.” That should shock her to her gold-digging core.

  I walk in the direction I’ve been watching Skye’s ass move all night. The place is a maze of wooden booths, but I turn a corner and spot her as she moves behind a partition.

  It’s a waitress station, and Skye busies herself by wrapping forks and knives in red paper napkins. She starts when I appear in her cramped station.

  “Hey, Skye,” I say, propping one hand on the partition.

  “Can I help you?” Her voice is sultry, and for a moment I wonder if it’s a proposition. I bet she wants to get on her knees in front of me right here.

  “I just wanted a favor.”

  “What’s that?” She stops her cutlery wrapping and turns to me. My eyes rake over her tight T-shirt and the swell of her tits underneath. I figure she’s early twenties, and they’re nice and perky with a good dose of cleavage on show. She probably gets the most tips in this place.

  Her eyes are fixed on my arms, examining my tattoo sleeves. I wonder what she’s noticed.

  “As you may have seen, my date for the night is a real piece of work. When you come back, tell her you’re sold out of fruit salad. I need to get out of here.”

  She laughs, a wicked, sharp sound that bounces around our little cubby hole and lands straight on my cock. If she can make a sound like that so easily, what would she sound like when I made her come?

  “She’s something else, that’s for sure. I can’t say we get people like her in here every day, or ever. This is a good, honest place for regular people to eat. We don’t get many rich bitches like her. Wealthy people have no place in here.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, those rich fuckers have too much as it is, there’s no need for them to set foot in our territory.”

  “I see.” She’s so young and idealistic. It’s cute.

  “This is what I think of her,” Skye says. She hands me a small piece of paper.

  It’s an empty sheet from her orders notepad. I turn it over. On the back is a drawing of Freya. It’s so lifelike it looks like a photograph, except this Freya has dragon fire coming out of her mouth and pointy horns on her head.

  “You just drew this picture of Freya?”

  “Yeah, I was bored while waiting for another table.”

  “This is amazing. Can I keep it?”

  She shrugs. “Sure. And don’t worry, I’ll tell the dragon lady we’re out of fruit salad.”

  “You’re a star,” I say and kiss her cheek. Her eyes widen and her hand flies to where my lips have just been. Before she has a chance to say anything, I turn and walk back to my table.

  Skye appears at our table a few minutes later and, as promised, tells Freya there’s no fruit salad. Instead she lays the check on the table, halfway between me and Freya.

  Of course, Freya makes no move to look at the check. She doesn’t even glance at it. I pull my wallet out of my jeans pocket. As I open it, the drawing Skye did falls onto the table.

  Freya stares at it, her eyes wide and body rigid. “What’s that?”

  “Just a little picture Skye drew me.”

  “Who’s Skye?”

  “Our waitress.”

  “She should be fired! I’m going to complain to the manager!”

  “Relax, no one is getting fired. Now, if I’m calculating this right, your half of the check is fourteen bucks with tip.”

  Back Again

  (Skye)

  That night in bed, I slide my hand between my legs and remember the hot guy at table six. After he left, I kept messing up orders, kept taking the wrong drinks to the wrong table. I even undercharged one table by twenty bucks, which got me in deep shit with Kevin.

  It’s a good thing I’ve never made a single mistake before tonight. Even my first day went by without a mistake. In the end Kevin just chalked it up to a bad day. I wasn’t about to tell him that the real reason was a bad boy who wouldn’t leave my head.

  My lungs heave at the memory of him. I wish I’d been able to look closer at the art on his arms. It tells so much about a person. From what I saw, the art on one arm was all clever geometric play; shapes that morphed into one another. The other sleeve was a mix of so many styles and subjects, I didn’t have time to even begin to appreciate it.

  I’d bet any money they all have deeper meanings. I tremble at the idea of him wrapping those inked-up arms around me.

  My fingers continue to work around my entrance.

  When he’d kissed me, my cheek burned in heat. That same spot is burning now, a feeling now radiating through the rest of my body.

  The memory of him saying my name pops into my head, as real as if he were standing in the room saying it now. It sends me crashing over the edge. My body pulses with the first orgasm I’ve been able to reach in months.

  All the tension, all the worries about money and my parents and my career vanished that night, and I had the best sleep I’ve had since leaving Michigan.

  In the morning, feeling fresh, both physically and mentally, I head straight to my studio and start on a brand new canvas. I try to explore the themes I thought I saw on the arm I had a better look at.

  “Oooh, are you moving in a new direction?” Ava asks, bringing me a cup of tea.

  “I thought I’d explore basic linear shapes today.”

  “It’s fascinating. I can’t wait to see where you go with it.”

  “Thanks,” I say and take a sip of the tea, inhaling the peppermint smell.

  “I’ll leave you, I don’t want to disturb creative genius at work. I just wanted to bring you something to drink.”

  I stand back from the canvas, sipping my tea and examining it. I can’t go down this little self-indulgent path any further; it’d never sell. Not that my other stuff is flying off the shelves, but at least it has potential.

  I whitewash over the canvas and put it aside. In my sketchbook, I draw out a few ideas about the woman the man was with, and all the places she would be out of place in. I run with the idea, jotting and sketching everything that comes into my mind.

  Soon I’ve come up with a concept for a series of paintings on out-of-place wealth, and how money detaches a person from the rest of the world. An evening gown on the beach. Dangly diamond earrings on a tree in the woods. A tiara on top of a scarecrow’s head.

  I immerse myself in the project for four days, spending every waking hour on the paintings. Ava brings me food and drinks, and I break to eat, but otherwise spend every second of my time o
n them.

  Thursday meets me with dread I have to work at Johnny’s tonight.

  The three canvases are lined up in a row in my studio, and I fiddle with the green of the trees in the forest, trying to make the leaves appear as natural as possible.

  Noticing my hunger for the first time in days, I put down my brush and make my way to the kitchen. As I approach it, I overhear Ava speaking on the phone in the living room.

  “I don’t understand why you won’t remortgage my property,” she is saying.

  My heart sinks. I pause to listen to her conversation, I can’t help myself.

  “Yes, I know I’m over retirement age, but I have a pension that covers the payments.”

  My heart is now pounding in my chest, and I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. Not wanting to hear anymore, I rush into the kitchen. I try to unwrap the bread bag, but my hands are shaking so much I give up and grab a banana instead.

  It doesn’t matter what Ava says, I’m going to have to take on extra shifts at Johnny’s. And I’m going to start painting more mainstream projects. Enough of the self-indulgent museum pieces, I’m not having a kind woman fritter away her house and pension because of me.

  While I finish my banana, I scan the commissions available on a local artists’ website. I send my details off to a handful, then decide fuck it, I need anything I can get, and send my details to all the current postings.

  Most are for things like portrait paintings. A few are for things like ‘paint my house’ or ‘paint my dog’. Some people have way too much money on their hands.

  With Ava’s comment about remortgaging echoing in my head, I put up a profile of myself with photos of both myself and some of my pieces, as someone looking for work. Until now, I’d always viewed the artist profiles as people who weren’t being true to their art. Now I’m one of them.

  Throwing myself back into my paintings, I decide I need to finish this project as quickly as possible, even if the quality suffers. By the late afternoon I’m absorbed in making the diamond earrings shimmer. I lose total track of time and only realize I’m late for work when Ava comes in and tells me.