Stepbrother Inked

by Violet Blaze

  He sat back and I finally took a chance, glancing down at him as he snapped black latex gloves over his tattooed hands and pulled out a disposable razor from a nearby drawer. The scrape of the blade against my skin seemed loud and I prayed inside my head that Flor would turn on music when he got to work. I didn't think I could sit there in silence with him and not scream.

  When he was done shaving me, Florian grabbed a small plastic tub and opened the lid, switching out his gloves for a new pair. For all his faults, Flor was a professional and he knew what he was doing. I waited with a thumping heart while he dug out some of the clear cream and then reached up to my hip, sliding his fingers along my skin as I crackled and burned inside. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, not because I was sad, but because the sensations were almost too much to bear. Florian's hands were too much, the heat of his breath against my skin was too much, the smell of his hair, the hardness of his muscles, the color of his eyes … ugh. My stepbrother was a never ending set of stimuli for me.

  When he finished, giving no indication that touching me was affecting him quite so much as it was me, he pressed the tracing paper to my hip and pushed it flush, running his hand over and over and over it.

  Torture. Sheer torture. What was I thinking? I couldn't go through with this. We'd just started and already, I was swollen and desperate downstairs, panting like I'd just run a marathon and shaking like a leaf.

  “Relax, Abi,” Florian told me, peeling the paper back and tossing it into the silver trashcan near his chair. “Hell, you're even making me nervous.” Flor pushed his chair back and stood up, tilting his head to the side and focusing on my hip. “Looks just about perfect to me. Why don't you take a peek and tell me what you think of the placement. Don't be afraid to adjust it. This is permanent, so make sure you're happy with it.” He took off his gloves again and stepped back, giving me room to move to the mirror on the back of the door.

  I stared at myself, pupils dilated, lips parted and moist, the mocha color of my skin shining bronze under the lights from above. I didn't look half bad, I guessed. And the stag? It might seem weird to put a deer on your hip, but it was perfect. It was Flor. It was me. In a way, it was us.

  This is symbolic, Abigail, I told myself, turning side to side as I examined the lines of my future tattoo and avoided meeting Flor's gaze in the reflection. You and him, together, forever, but in a way that's safe, in a way that nobody has to get hurt.

  I took a deep breath and jumped in feet first.

  “Let's do this.”

  The first prick made my eyes water, but I kept my focus on Flor's hand as he moved the needle across my skin with an expert's touch, starting with the darkness of the sky behind the stag. For a few minutes there, I wondered how I was going to make it through several hours of this but slowly, the pain started to fade away, turning into a numb buzzing sensation, like someone was drawing on my skin with a vibrating ballpoint pen.

  I watched him work, let himself get drawn into that artistic zone that I'd never understood but had always wanted so desperately to attain. I was too logical, too analytical, to get there and really create. I blamed it on my dad; sharp logic and undeniable reason were at the basis of his DNA.

  “How are you feeling, Abs?” Flor asked me after a while, silence reigning down around us like king. I wanted to make conversation, carry on the friendship routine we'd been practicing for the last few months, but the closeness of the room, the nearness of his skin, the fact that he was literally marking me, none of that made it easy.

  Last time, Abigail, I told myself, vowing to make a clean break after this. If I couldn't be around Florian without losing my mind, then maybe I shouldn't be around him at all. It was hard to even think about that with him sitting so close to me.

  “Fine,” I said, which was only half true. The physical discomfort I could deal with no problem; it was the emotional discomfort that was getting to me. “You?” He looked up at me and raised his eyebrow, the one with all the piercings in it. Three silver balls sat above the dark curve of his brow and only one below. I had no idea how he got them in there like that; was it just one piercing or three? I'd never had the courage to ask.

  “You're asking me when you're the one getting your first ink?” He snorted and I felt my lips turn down at the corners.

  “I was only asking because when you came back from smoking, it seemed like you were having a really good time.” The words came out sharper than I intended them to and I cringed. Flor sat back and put a hand on my belly, like he was trying to hold me in place. If he hadn't been wearing gloves, I might've melted from the touch.

  “Hold still,” he barked and then, narrowing his eyes at me asked, “and what the fuck do you mean by that?”

  “I mean,” I said, hating that I'd even brought this up, trying to look away and failing. His eyes were just too damn perfect, too astute, too sharp. “If you're going to hook up with one of your groupies between breaks, at least hide the evidence.” I stared at his brightly colored hickey for emphasis and watched as he reached a black gloved hand up and wiped it away. Flor stared at the smudge of pastel pink on his fingers and then shrugged, sitting back and laying his machine on a silver tray next to his chair. He peeled off the gloves and stood up.

  “I started dating that girl you met last week,” he mumbled, like it was no big deal. My heart turned to ice, just like it always did when Florian got a girlfriend. Actual girlfriends, not just fuck buddies were few and far between. He was only twenty-one, but the idea of him settling down and having kids with someone made me feel ill. I was not ready to be an aunt to the children of my biggest crush.

  “The drag queen?” I asked and he snorted again, grabbing one of the blue medical wipes he used to clear away the ink and blood while he was tattooing. I watched as he stared at his reflection and methodically wiped his throat clean. “The one with the big hair and the orange and pink flower?”

  “That's the one,” he said, like he didn't give a shit about how I felt. Maybe he had no clue? This is definitely it. Time to make a clean break. He's got a girlfriend and you've got Dorian. One date in and you can already tell he's a nice guy. Plus, Addi vouches for him. That has to count for something, right?

  “She was cute, I guess,” I mumbled under my breath, leaning back and wondering what sort of nastiness my stepbrother might've gotten to in the past week with this girl. All these little touches he was giving me, inadvertently turning me from ice to liquid magma and back again, and I was sure she'd probably had dozens. In fact, I was certain of it. Florian didn't hold back, didn't save those beautiful eyes and that gorgeous body for any one person, at least not for extended periods of time.

  I still hate you, I thought miserably while I waited for him to come back to the chair and start again. Yet again, he grabbed a new pair of gloves and started up the needle with a faint buzzing sound that I actually found relaxing. Better than talking to you, you asshole.

  “What about you? Anymore dates with Mr. Nice Guy?” Flor leaned in and focused all of his attention on the needle burrowing into my skin, wiping my hip every couple of seconds or so to clear the ink away. “Planning on losing your virginity to him?”

  I swallowed hard.

  “I'm not a virgin, Flor.” The words came out in a whisper, like I was ashamed of that fact. I wasn't, but it didn't make it any easier to tell him about it. He seriously stopped tattooing, pulling the needle back and lifting his face up to mine. It was frustratingly unreadable and I found myself regretting the admission almost as soon as I'd uttered it. “What?” I asked, trying to play the offensive. “It's not like you are either.” And that I knew for a fact. I'd seen Florian having sex with girls. More than once, actually, and the memories were burned into my brain.

  “Huh.”

  That's it, all he said. He put the needle back to my skin and I yelped. I swear, it felt like he was pressing harder that time.

  “Chin up, little sister,” he said, lifting his black gloved hand and tapping me under the
chin. Even though his cocky, self-assured smile and the glint in those sharp as pine needles green eyes of his should've pissed me off, they didn't. I felt my body make another coup in an attempt to subvert my brain. He's such a slut, I could probably have him if I wanted, at least for one night. I blushed and looked away. “Just a few more hours to go,” he whispered, like he was already chomping at the bit to be finished with the whole fiasco.

  More time passed though I'm not sure how much; Florian didn't turn on any music nor did he speak to me. I started to wonder if I'd made a terrible mistake in coming here.

  “How long ago?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence. It took me a while to piece together what he meant and then I found myself blushing again.

  Six months ago, just after my eighteenth birthday.

  “None of your business,” I blurted, not wanting to tell him I'd only been with one guy and only a handful of times. Oh, and that I'd slept with his best friend and business partner. “Why do you care anyway?”

  “Because I want to find the guy that deflowered by baby sister and beat the ever living shit out of him.”

  I groaned.

  “Would you stop it with the big brother act? You are not my brother, Florian.”

  “Our parents are in love and they've been together for over a decade. What the hell does that mean?” he snapped back at me, sounding almost like he was trying to convince himself more than he was me. I stared at his dark hair, tousled and beautiful and oh so sexy. He'd always used to dye the very tips, sport red or blue or purple hair; it drove my dad nuts. As soon as he'd graduated high school though, he'd let it go back to its natural black and it'd stayed that way.

  “It means that I don't have to tell you anything about my sex life, just like I don't want to know anything about yours.”

  “Whatever,” he snorted back at me. I tried to sneak my phone out of my pocket, so I could text Addi to come rescue me when he started talking again. “I'm going out of town next week. Can you take care of my cat?”

  Not exactly the heart pumping, coma inducing string of lust riddled words I wanted so desperately for him to spout at me.

  “Where are you going?” I asked and he snorted, yet again.

  “I thought your business wasn't my business and vice versa? Can you take care of the cat or not?” I glared at the top of his head, hating how luxurious and thick his hair was, how good it smelled.

  “Six months,” I admitted and then took a deep breath that almost perfectly synched up with one of his. “Where are you going?”

  “I've got a tattoo invitational up in Portland,” he said and just as I was about to release the breath I was holding, he added, “I'm taking Rhonda.”

  “Rhonda? The drag queen's name is Rhonda?”

  “Oh, I can assure you, this is no dude in a dress.”

  I squinched up my face and closed my eyes. Okay, yes, this was a mistake. A big one. Huge. Of gargantuan proportions. I hate you, I thought again.

  “Fine, I'll take care of your stupid cat.”

  Florian wrinkled up his brow but said nothing.

  We suffered the rest of the evening in silence and small talk until he finally sat back, rubbed his arm across his sweaty forehead and announced, “I'm done.”

  He helped me up and out of the chair and although I pretended not to care that his fingers on my arm burned like fire, I was trembling by the time I stood up. Or maybe that was because of the tattoo. I'd like to believe that instead.

  I moved to the mirror and looked down at my skin, colored with a brilliant wash of rich purples and blues, a gray-yellow moon and a white stag standing proudly before it all.

  “In some cultures, the white stag is portrayed as a symbol of transgressing the taboo.”

  My spine curled as I glanced over at him, sticking a cigarette between his lips and acting like he hadn't just thrown out a non sequitur worthy of wracking my already fragile brain.

  “I'm gonna go have a quick smoke and then I'll be back to talk about aftercare.” He raised his eyebrows at me, moved out the door and left me alone with my thoughts and a stamp on my hip that would forever remind me of the crush I was never supposed to have.

  Two weeks later and I was finally feeling like I had somehow cracked my Flor obsession. Three more dates with Dorian, and I hadn't seen my stepbrother once except to listen to a ten minute lecture about his cat and all of her special needs. I'd seen him dump girls over that cat. If he had one, true love in his life, it was probably her.

  “So,” Addi said, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against the fridge. “I have tickets for the Ducks game this weekend. You should invite Dorian and we should go.” I shrugged, stirring the pot of soup I'd thrown together, ridiculously proud of myself for having made a home cooked meal. Eighteen years old and my shit was much more together than most of my friends' ever would be.

  “I'm not really into sports,” I said and listened as Addi sighed. I knew a pout was coming on.

  “I agreed to go to your stuffy family dinner thing on Friday. The least you could do is go on a double date with me. I mean, Dorian and Patrick are only in town for a few more days and then it'll be a month again before we get to see them.” I listened to her whine with a smile curling my lips. She knew I wasn't particularly stubborn when it came to these sorts of thing. Some puppy dog eyes and a little pouty lip and my resistance was broken.

  “Don't act like Dorian and I are on the same level as you and Patrick, Addison. He might be moving out here, but that's because his brother's chasing you. It has nothing to do with me.”

  She slid up next to me and put her elbows on the counter, giving me a puh-freaking-lease look with her big, brown eyes.

  “He talks about you like it was love at first sight.”

  I snorted, and then somehow, that reminded me of Florian, and I was shaking my head. Love at first sight? I definitely didn't feel much when I met Dorian for the first time, but I was trying to see if it would grow as I got to know him. He was sweet, responsible, and good-looking. Oh, and I wasn't related to him. These days, that seemed like a pretty big bonus in my book.

  “Come on, Abigail, live a little,” she groaned, turning around and leaning back far enough that her hair brushed against the tiles on the countertop. “I know you don't like football; I don't like it either. But you're the one that wanted to be a Duck, remember? Besides, much as I hate to admit it, the Ducks are just … I mean, it's amazing what these guys can do. Not to mention there are some real cuties on the team this year.” She elbowed me and I elbowed her back until we'd both devolved into twelve year olds, screeching and tossing various cleaning supplies at one another.

  “Alright!” I shrieked as the toilet brush skidded across the floor near my feet. I held up my hands as Addison backed up and looked inside the box marked Cleaning Crap. “Alright, fine.”

  “And you'll invite Dorian?” she said again, staring straight at me, like her eyes could punch right through my stoic expression and straight to my face. But only Flor could really do that to me, the jerk. “And stop thinking about your stepbrother.”

  “I am not thinking about my stepbrother,” I said, reaching a hand down to touch my hip. While my tattoo was mostly healed, it was still dry and needed fairly regular attention with a bottle of lotion. Each time I touched it, my mind was whisked away to that day, to Florian's fingers untying my bikini bottoms. Grr. I shook my head to clear it, only further confirming what Addison already knew: I was obsessed.

  But I was making a clean break. It would work eventually, like I was going through detox or something. Imagine that, detox to clear the brain of one's brother and his perfectly sculpted abs. Ugh.

  I grabbed the spoon and stirred my soup, scooping up a small mouthful to test. It was hot, but good. All it needed was a little more pepper.

  “Whatever,” Addison said with a sigh, straightening out her black and white striped dress shirt. She was always so fashionable and I was always so … all over the place. I had a nose ring, a tattoo
on my hip and a red tank top that was too short, exposing the ring in my belly button. Addison said I looked hot, that I had a good body, but she was straighter than the I-5 and I didn't believe her. “So what time's this dinner thing?” she asked, scooting onto a stool at the breakfast bar and reaching out to grab a stalk of celery. She stuck it in her mouth, leaves and all, and chewed loudly, eyes focused on the ceiling in thought. “Is Satan's Spawn going to be attending?”

  “Don't call him that,” I said as I opened the oven and bent down to check the French bread. It was one of those 'buy and bake' things, not homemade; if only I was as good as my stepmother. “River's really nice. It's not her fault her son is a complete asshole.” Okay, so maybe it was a little bit her fault, but she'd always been – if not exactly a mother to me – nice, like a favorite auntie or something. I didn't blame her for not stepping in and taking the mother role completely; my father wouldn't let her. While they did their best to raise Flor and me as their own children, their whole 'my kid, my problem' routine often extended to good times as well as bad. Some people might not have agreed with the way Florian and I had been raised, but it had worked for us, for our family. Our family. Ech. I really needed to get him out of my brain permanently. “If you're going to call him anything, it can just be Satan, okay?” I stood up and closed the oven, smiling at Addison over my right shoulder. She dropped her eyes to mine, fluffed her curly hair and shook her head.

  “Sure thing, Abs. Just promise me, if he's there, don't play his games with him.”

  “Games?” I asked, looking up and out the window. Across the street a guy was painting a mural in the alley between two large brick buildings. I hadn't had the time to examine it yet, but from here it looked like a bunch of naked women running through a field of organic vegetables – don't ask how I knew that they were organic, this was Eugene, Oregon; of course they were organic. “What are you talking about?”