The Sexy Tattooist

by Joey Bush

He raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m just kidding,” I said. “I’m not going to go in a baseball cap and sunglasses. I am going to go, though, but Tara knows it. We’ve talked about it. I’m going to sit at a different table. I’ve met Michael before, but I highly doubt he’s going to recognize me. Not with my new hair, anyway.”

  Graham gave me a skeptical look. “And where is all this private eye stuff going down?”

  “Stacatto.”

  “When are you going there?”

  “I think she said she’s going to meet him at six.”

  “You girls should find a better way to spend your time. The guy sounds like an ass.”

  “He is. Which is why I feel the need to go, to make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

  The skeptical look turned into one of amusement. “Do you have secret kung fu skills you never told me about?”

  “I might.”

  “Just be careful. I know Tara’s all about making him jealous, but jealous people can do stupid shit, and you don’t want to get caught up in that, trust me.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything will be fine.”

  He nodded and took another sip of his coffee, but I could tell that he was bothered by the whole thing.

  *****

  I wasn’t, though. And when six o’clock rolled around, I was ready.

  I waited a few minutes, able to see them through the big, plate-glass window. Michael looked the same as I remembered, which is to say stunningly handsome, but in a very icy sort of way. It was hard to describe, other than there was something about him that had always made me uneasy. Which was why I was here to begin with; not that I thought Tara couldn’t handle herself, but just in case.

  I strolled in and went over to the counter and got a hot chocolate and a peanut butter cookie. There was an empty table in the corner, near where Tara and Michael were, so I sat there, with my back to them. There was enough chatter and background noise in the café that I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation, but not the whole thing. I kept my phone in front of me and periodically swiped at the screen, even though I wasn’t looking at anything.

  “... glad you decided to see me ...” That was Michael. I turned my head ever so slightly, just enough that I could glimpse them out of the corner of my eye. Tara had definitely dolled herself up for the occasion—she looked good, in a fitted, red dress with white polka dots. I didn’t quite catch her response, but it was something along the lines of, “I’m pretty busy, but I did at least manage to fit you into my schedule.”

  I drank my hot chocolate and ate my cookie. The minutes ticked by. It sounded like Michael was trying to get her to come back to his place.

  “I don’t think so,” Tara said. “I told you—I’m busy.”

  I leaned back in my chair a little so I could hear them better.

  “When have you ever been too busy for me?” he asked.

  “Plenty of times. Ever since you decided you were going to leave me and jet off to Paris.”

  There was a scraping sound as Tara pushed back her chair and stood up. “In fact, I’m leaving right now.”

  It seemed as though she’d forgotten that I was there, or she just didn’t want to break my cover. She hurried out, her spiked heels click-clicking on the brushed concrete floor. Michael stalked after her and I got up and followed.

  I was only a few seconds behind him, but when I stepped outside, he had his hand on her upper arm and was yanking her toward him. Her ankle rolled gruesomely under her and she let out a yelp as she fell to the ground. He didn’t let go of her arm, though, and tried to jerk her back up.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Stop it!”

  He turned right as I reached him and tried to pull him off of her.

  “What the fuck?” he said. He let go of Tara’s arm and shoved me. “Chloe? Is that you? Are you fucking kidding me? Get out of here; this is none of your business.”

  “Ow, my ankle!” Tara was still in a heap on the ground.

  “Chloe, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here, okay? This doesn’t concern you; this is between Tara and me.” He looked down at her. “Get up.”

  “I twisted my ankle, you fucking asshole!” she screamed at him.

  I tried to get around him to help her up but he blocked me. When I tried to push his arm away, he shoved me again and I stumbled back.

  “I mean it, Chloe, if you don’t get out of here—”

  “I think you’re the one who needs to get the fuck out of here.”

  I turned my head and saw Graham walking over to us.

  “Does it make you feel good, pushing women around? You the kind of guy who gets off on that sort of thing?”

  Michael sneered at him. “This is not any of your business,” he said. “I don’t know who you are—wait a second.” He tilted his head to the side and looked at Graham. “Wait a fucking second, I know who you are!” He looked down at Tara. “Looks like your fucking boyfriend has shown up to save the day.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” Tara snapped.

  “Yeah, right. I saw those pictures you put up of the two of you at the beach.”

  I went over to Tara and pulled her up. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I really fucked up my ankle,” she said, looking down at it. “Shit, it’s already swelling. Dammit! This sure as shit isn’t going as I planned it.”

  I hunched over a little so she could throw her arm across my shoulders and take some of the weight off her injured leg.

  “If he’s not your boyfriend, what the hell is he doing here then?” Michael asked. “And why the hell did you tell me he was your boyfriend? Why the hell would you post fucking pictures of the two of you on Facebook together?”

  “He’s my boyfriend,” I said. “And he’s here because I asked him to be because I know how much of a scumbag you can be.”

  “I think it’s time you hit the road, bro,” Graham said. “There’s really no reason for you to be here.”

  Michael gave him a defiant look, but we all knew he wasn’t going to try to fight Graham. There was no way in hell he’d have any chance of beating him.

  “You’re a piece of work,” he said to Tara. He started to walk down the sidewalk. “You really are. Don’t ever get in touch with me again.”

  He turned and walked off.

  “What a dick!” Tara said. She looked at Graham. “I didn’t know you were part of our covert operation, too.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “But I had a feeling I better make an appearance.”

  “We were handling it,” Tara said. “But we do appreciate you showing up.”

  “Right.” Graham nodded slowly. “You can barely even walk.”

  “I rolled my ankle. Just give me a minute.”

  He looked at me. “And what about you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine!” I did, in fact, feel fine, probably a whole hell of a lot better than Tara felt with her swollen ankle.

  “Help me over to that bench,” Tara said. She hobbled over and sat down, gingerly stretching her leg out in front of her.

  “That’s not looking so great,” Graham said.

  “Forget about my ankle.” Tara grinned at me. “Let’s talk about the most exciting part of tonight.”

  “And what would that be?” I asked. “You nearly getting an abducted by your ex-boyfriend?”

  “No! I’m talking about you referring to Graham as your boyfriend! You might’ve thought you snuck that one by me, but no way!”

  “Oh,” I said, barely remembering that I’d said it. “Well, I only said it because Michael was trying to say that Graham was your boyfriend, not because he’s actually mine ...”

  Graham laughed. “Am I being fought over? I don’t mind being your boyfriend, you know. I’ve never actually officially been someone’s boyfriend, but I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. For you.”

  Tara squealed. “Ahhh, I love it!”

  “You would?” I asked.

  “Of c
ourse I would. You’re worth it.”

  I felt my face start to get warm. “Really? I mean, yeah, of course I would love it if you were my boyfriend!”

  “Oh, you two are so cute,” Tara said. “Give him a kiss!”

  “Well ... okay!” I said, going over to him. But instead of just standing in front of him, I jumped up, wrapping my legs around his waist, his arms around my neck. “I’m supposed to kiss you,” I said. “Since you’re my boyfriend and all.”

  He grinned. “Be my guest.”

  35.

  Graham

  I have a girlfriend.

  Having never had a girlfriend before, I found myself randomly thinking this thought at various times throughout the day. I might have been brushing my teeth, or getting into the truck, or even doing work on a customer—and that thought would suddenly be there.

  Such as right now, standing here behind the counter at work. I’d just hung up the phone with someone who’d scheduled an appointment for this weekend when the thought crossed my mind and brought a smile to my face.

  “What?” Helena asked, looking at me suspiciously. “You’ve been grinning like a fool since you got here.”

  “Sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry in the least. “I should go listen to some death metal and watch some Russian fail videos to make sure I’m grimacing for the rest of the day.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You know what you should do? You should go through some of that mail on your desk out back. It’s getting out of control. I’ve done what I can for you—I opened it and sorted it into piles. But I’m not your secretary, either, you know. And the pile just keeps getting bigger and bigger.”

  “Right,” I said. “I know. I’ll get to it. And I appreciate you going through it and at least getting me started. That makes it a little less daunting.”

  She smiled. “You sure as hell don’t strike me as the type to be intimidated by a pile of papers. They’re on your desk.”

  But it was intimidating, if only because I knew how long it was going to take me to go through all that shit. It would be so much easier to just chuck it all in the trash—I mean, recycling bin.

  I walked back to the office where I was confronted by that looming pile of papers. A lot of it I was actually able to get rid of, almost right away—the credit card offers, the junk mail, the grocery store circulars. That took care of a lot of it, and I immediately felt better.

  There was a small stack of envelopes that Helena hadn’t opened, with a Post-it note on top: These look official and/or finance related—thought I’d better leave them for you. H.

  I picked up the first envelope. It was from the bank that I’d taken out a loan with to start the business. I had the loan payments automatically deducted from my bank account each month, so I hadn’t received much correspondence from the bank, other than the monthly statements, which I didn’t look at but saved in a folder for the accountant. I opened the envelope, pulled out the papers, and was about to slide them into the folder. For some reason, though, I looked at the first page before I put them in, and I saw: 00.00. As in, that was the statement balance.

  What?

  I looked more closely. The loan was completely paid off, but I hadn’t expected that to happen until late next year.

  It must be some sort of clerical error. I didn’t feel like getting on the phone with the bank, but I knew if I didn’t, I’d forget about it and then this would probably come back to bite me in the ass. Even though it was clearly the bank’s mistake.

  “Fuck,” I said, probably more aggravated than I should be. But who the hell wants to spend half their day listening to shitty muzak while they’re on hold with their bank? But I’d have to take care of it. Just not today.

  I have a girlfriend.

  Today, I was feeling too good to deal with any of that shit.

  36.

  Chloe

  I was on my way back home from the art center when I got a call from Claudia, my mom’s friend and owner of the gallery where the art show was going to be.

  “Chloe!” she said. “How are you?”

  “Hi, Claudia. I’m good,” I said. “Just leaving the art center right now, actually.”

  “Oh, that’s great. How is your piece coming along?”

  “I had a few false starts,” I said. “But it’s coming along pretty well. It should be ready in time for the show.”

  “Excellent. I’m expecting a really great turnout. The last show we had went so well; this one shouldn’t be any different. It’s a really exciting opportunity.”

  “I’m definitely looking forward to it,” I said, pulling into the parking lot. “I’m a little nervous, actually.”

  “Oh, that’s entirely normal. You’re not the only one, trust me. But you’re talented, and there is no doubt in my mind that whatever you’ve come up with is going to be absolutely phenomenal.”

  It made me feel better to hear her say that, until I remembered that she’d never actually seen my work before and was just going off of whatever my mother had told her. I sighed. “Well, I really do appreciate the opportunity you’re giving me.”

  “Of course! Your mother couldn’t stop raving about your work, so it was no brainer to give you a spot. I love having the chance to help out up and coming artists. You wouldn’t be the first one that I’ve helped, you know. Think about what you’d like to price your piece at, too. Oh, I’ve got to run, dear, I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up before I could reply.

  I tossed the phone down onto the passenger seat; my head felt like it was spinning a little. I knew I should just be grateful for the chance to actually be in the show, but I felt myself starting to have doubts about the whole thing. There were probably a lot more artists who were more worthy of having a spot in the show than I was, yet just because my mother was friends with Claudia and “couldn’t stop raving” about my work, I was given the spot.

  When I got home, both of my parents were there, waiting for me it would seem. They were sitting in the living room, my father in his wingback chair, my mother on the couch.

  “Hi,” I said.

  They both had rather grim expressions on their faces. My mother also had a big glass of wine.

  “Hello dear,” she said. She took a big sip of wine. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said cautiously. “How are you guys?”

  “Chloe,” my father said. “Come in here. Have a seat.”

  I sat down, knowing that I wasn’t going to like whatever it was they were about to say.

  “So ... I can tell this is going to be more than just a friendly little chat.” I swallowed, trying to quell the anxiety that had started to build in my chest. There was nothing for me to feel anxious about; I hadn’t done anything wrong. I knew this, yet there was part of me that felt as though they were about to blame me for something. I’d disliked this type of anxiety so much that it was my main motivation as a kid to always do what was expected of me. But now, it seemed, it didn’t matter what I did; my parents would find something to take issue with.

  “Chloe,” my father started, his tone dripping with irritation, “this has all gone on long enough. Frankly, I’m getting sick of having this conversation with you. You’re a young woman who could have a bright future ahead of her if she stays on track. And as your parents, it’s our duty and responsibility to make sure that happens. We would not be very good parents if we simply stepped to the side and let you conduct yourself however you wanted. We’re not saying that you need to mindlessly follow everything we say. In fact, I feel as though we’ve given you quite a bit of freedom.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  My father looked genuinely surprised. “How so? Did we or did we not agree to let you go to that art school you so badly wanted to attend? Who’s financing that? Who’s paying for your living expenses?”

  “I appreciate all of that—you guys know that. But I kind of feel like you’re only okay with what I do so long as it’s what you want.”

  “That
’s absolutely untrue.” My father pursed his lips and shook his head. “If you were doing exactly what we wanted you to do, art school wouldn’t have been on the table in the first place. I have an appreciation for the arts, Chloe. Your mother does too. But it’s very hard to make a living as an artist, and because we want to see you do well in life, I feel as though we need to steer you in a different direction. And this path you’re headed down now, seeing this guy, that’s just got to stop. And it’s got to stop now, because I am tired of having this conversation with you.”

  My mother was quiet, staring intently into her wine glass. I took a deep breath and tried not to let my own irritation show on my face. “I know, Dad. And you’re not the only one who is getting sick of having this conversation.”

  “Yet it doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere, does it? Because I find myself saying the same thing, again and again. So I’m going to nip this in the bud, right here, right now. You are not to see Graham again.”

  My mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “You heard me, Chloe. But just so there is no confusion, I’ll repeat myself: you are no longer allowed to see Graham. End of story.”

  I looked over at my mother, who hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t she told me the night I came home and found her sitting outside that she didn’t think Graham was that bad? That he seemed nice? That we would all have to try again another time to get together? But now, she was just looking down at the fabric on the couch cushion, as though she were considering whether or not she wanted to reupholster it.

  “You can’t tell me that,” I said. “You can’t tell me that I can or cannot hang out with someone. I’m not a child.”

  “You may not be a child, but you’re living under my roof. I’m financing your education, and your apartment. Even though I don’t agree that a person can really have a future in the arts—not a profitable future, anyway. But it’s something that you always felt strongly about, and I wanted to support that. Because I want what’s best for you. And I knew how badly you wanted to go to art school. You may not realize it, but these things cost money.”

  “Of course I realize that!” I snapped. “I’m not an idiot, even though you seem to think I am.”