I know I sound crazy talking like she is some lost ghost, but if her soul is lost, well that’s the one thing I can help with.
Noah nods, seeming to understand the need for being at peace. He does understand it. Four years ago, he lost his fiancé in a car accident and it sling shot him straight into hell. He used drugs as we were kids, got into the harsh shit with heroin. Carrie and I pulled him out then, and when Candey died, we did it again. We had more help the last time. Chad, is Carrie’s husband, and the lead singer for TAT, as well as rhythm guitarist. Shamus James, the drummer, Cal Dorian, the lead guitarist and manager of all things TAT, and husband to one of my closest friends, Jenny.
What can I say? I like to hang with a bad ass crowd, and that bad ass crowd is my other family.
That crowed and a few others, were there every minute trying to save him, and it wasn’t any of us that did. He saved himself when he had enough. Now, seeing him happily in love and living sober is what inspires me to find peace as well.
There is a memory. One I keep distant. Of a drop-dead brunette with sleeved arms, who for a split second, I wanted more than anything. I keep my distance from Mya for that reason, but she was the only woman who reached inside and pulled some life out of me… for a few hours anyway. Nowadays, I see her more than I would like. She is Cal’s little sister and always in and out of the PIT dropping off Rylie and Axe to Jen.
She watches me, tries to flirt with me, and tests my restraint every time she blinks for fucks sake.
Noah rubs the salve over the script on my chest breaking me from my thoughts on the vixen that haunts my dreams. “Check it out.”
I stand and look in the mirror at the words. The powerful words that mean everything to me. He did the lettering in a beautiful script, each one multi-colored like the rainbow. A combination of the rainbow on my chest beneath her, my favorite color.
“Nailed it, brother,” I say, while I cover it with a wrap and tape.
“Listen…” Noah says and clears his throat. “I support you wanting to find that inner peace. I know the struggle of finding it because there is no path to it, you just gotta find it. No matter what I got your back with it, but don’t do this shit alone.”
“I got you, bro. I won’t.” I look at him. Healthy and at peace, and think of the storm he rode to get to this place. “Wanna come with me to look at some spots? I don’t know really how to go about this.” I hate asking him, but if anyone can even kind of understand my pain, it’s him. Noah knows loss.
He seems surprised by my asking, but not in a bad way. “Yeah? For sure I will. I am partial to where we put Cans. Place has security. Beautiful grounds with little streams and stuff.” He runs his hands through his hair and looks around the studio. Asa and Otto both are busy and tuned out with clients. Jen has the day off and Raleigh is painting his nails at the front desk, helping on Kellan’s day off. “There’s a spot there, it’s kids only. I don’t know, it has a vibe to it that’s peaceful. I walk through it a lot when I go see Candey and it’s busy near her grave. There’s some awesome beautiful spots in the children’s part. It’s a cemetery so it’s still fucking depressing, but it’s special somehow.”
I nod, understanding, and push back the sick feeling that the word cemetery brings. “I want to do a service for her, but I don’t know if that’s a thing or whatever? If I ever get the chance to bury her I have a mausoleum by my ma.”
He nods when he sees the emotion come over me. To even talk about a service for my baby makes me equal parts sick and at peace. I feel his hand on my neck and he squeezes it a few times in understanding. “First off, who gives a fuck if it’s a thing or not? If that’s what needs to happen, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t happen. Second, whatever we gotta do to make it happen, we will. The studio will back you up and so will the band. We are family, Sully, and Kace is one of us. If we gotta buy land, we will buy the land, but we will give her what she deserves. Trust me, yeah?”
I nod and step from the booth masking my emotions like I always do from the world, and look to the door as the AC/DC bells toll letting us know a client is coming in. I see the gorgeous brunette that haunts my dreams lately, holding Rylie in one arm and Axe’s hand in the other.
Mya.
My mind flickers like old photos on a projector of her clit glistening seconds before I licked it. Her and I singing as we danced on a crowded sidewalk. Shots. A ton of Patron shots. Fuck. Since that night, I only drank Tequila because the taste reminds me of her drunken kisses that night.
I keep her in my distant memory because of the feeling I get when she is near me.
“Hey…” I feel awkward and unsure of how to act. This is my business and everything about it is my brand. I am not Sully in my everyday life. I don’t dress in hipster clothes or kiss ass to a bunch of dudes wanting tribal tats, or the generics that want a butterfly. In my real life, I answer to myself and nobody else. My opinions, actions, and way of life, portray nothing of my shop. Mya is the one person who met Sully, but almost fucked Sam. She knows the difference between the two, though not fully, and that shit is terrifying.
Seeing her here in this world… confuses my two ego’s. Remain professional, says Sully. Fucking go caveman on her here and now, says Sam.
Fucking Bruce Banner shit, I know.
“Mya is here as your four thirty,” Ral says, and takes Rylie to coo over and let’s Axe up on his lap to play with his phone.
I don’t remember seeing her on my books or having a damn clue about her being tattooed today, by anyone for that matter, but I recall inviting her to get tattooed by me. I walk over not saying a word, and remove the appointment book and Ral from the computer. “Ral, take the kids back to the chill room,” I say, dismissing him as I try to find Mya on my schedule.
I see it and roll my eyes before looking at her. “Amyah D? That ring any bells?” I ask, creeped a little by the fake name shit and want to know what she’s playing at because this isn’t the place to do it.
“Yeah. Amyah is my first name. Mya is my nickname, and few know that. I knew Cal would be picking the kids up before my appointment as well. Not knowing who answered the phone when I called, I made the appointment as Amyah D, not Dorian or Mya, per my brothers request.”
Feeling like the sex goddess schooled me, I nod, but don’t apologize or make excuses. My shop, my rules. “Cool. Follow me to my booth and we can draw up what you’d like.”
I am trying to be cool, professional, but seeing her does something to me and all I want to do is taste her again.
She is a fucking virgin who will want you to love her back dickface. Move on.
I try to tell myself it’s all bullshit, but it really isn’t. Mya wasn’t a nobody to me. It has been years since I had a night like we did in DC. I had fun, and for once I forgot to mourn in my guilt. I laughed, danced, and had fun. It was short lived, but it happened. Treating her like a mistake now wasn’t fair.
She follows me to the booth as I watch Ral take the kids back to play. “You guys all got the counter since Ral’s in back?” I yell to my crew who all agree to help. Noah follows us in and grabs the line drawing he just used on me before Mya can see it.
“Hey. Thanks for the ink, my man. Wanna do that thing after I finish up here then?”
Noah looks at me for a split second confused, before realizing for whatever reason I don’t want Mya to know my past. “Yeah. I’m done for the day, so whenever, shoot me a text and I will let Ral and Bright know.”
He then looks to Mya. “You’re in good hands sweetie,” he says, and kisses her on top of the head. She is everyone’s little sister because she is Cal’s. No different than Carrie is to us all because of Noah.
Only, I don’t crave Carrie. No, there is nothing familial or innocent where it comes to Mya. I want to be balls deep and sweaty with her.
“Cal or Jen on their way to get the kids?” He asks, small talk so easy between them. Meanwhile, I’m over here sweating.
“They both are. I took them for
the day with mom.”
He nods and looks back to me with suspicion, but says nothing. “Cool. See ya in a while, Sam.”
“Yep,” I say, keeping my focus on the drawing table where I have yet to draw anything for her. I take a deep breath and close my eyes to shove down the emotional shit brewing in my chest before I spin and roll toward the tattoo bed.
“I love this song,” she says, and does this weird move with her hips to the beat of Post Malone’s, ‘Go Flex’, as she mouths the line ‘It’s never enough, cup after cup, blunt after blunt.’ “Sorry, habit. I warm up to Post Malone, so it’s natural.”
I pull her by the wrist toward the table to sit. “Don’t apologize for being yourself. Smile like the Joker when they look at you and move on.”
She smiles sweetly and sits handing me a small piece of paper with a butterfly on it as she puts a single headphone in her ear. “So, a butterfly?” I ask in disbelief. Looking at the work on her, it shocks me she would pick the most generic, yet still popular thing to be tattooed on her.
She rolls her eyes, something she does often when she wants to tell you to fuck off. She needs to cut the PC bullshit when in my presence. We both know she is the furthest thing from politically correct. “It has meaning to it, a huge one. I figured I would bring you the basics and let you get creative.”
Knowing damn well why a butterfly is ‘personal’, I take the picture and grab my drawing paper. “I’ll go draw this up and be back in a few. Where are you thinking of putting it?”
I watch the blush crawl up her neck and know this is gonna cause me some blue balls before she even tells me.
She stands and slips her hoodie off and I watch, my jaw slack as she stands there, unphased at being in just her sports bra. “I want it right here, just under my breasts in the center, with henna design, and beads coming down toward my belly button. Follow my chest line and bring it to a ‘V’.”
I give her credit to know what she wants, and the shit isn’t as generic as I thought originally, but butterflies are like that. “Black and grey?”
“Yes. Heavy with the black. Double lines, not single, in the butterflies and beads, single in the mendala.”
I make my way back to my desk beside the bed and grab my fine point Sharpie. “I’m gonna line the paper up so I have an idea for the space,” I say, sitting at the stool I scoot close as she spreads her legs for me to get closer. She somehow managed to pick the one tattoo that would have me touching her tits and too damn close for my professionalism. She fucking tests me and I hate her for it.
I place the paper under her chest and along her ribs on both sides to draw the expansion space first. Then, I draw a circle centered right under her breasts on the paper for the butterfly. “Okay. About fifteen minutes?”
When she doesn’t answer, I look up and see her mouthing the words to whatever song is playing on her iPhone. Not asking permission and out of curiosity really, I pluck one of the ear buds from her ear and place it to mine.
“Hey!” She says, and tries to take it from me, but I quickly grab the phone and roll the chair back. Phone and earbuds are now in my possession.
“Let’s see what has your attention so intently that you can’t be bothered to be involved in mapping your tattoo. Shall we, Pet?” I ignore her protests, placing the earbud in one ear and hold up a finger over my mouth to shut her up.
What I hear assails every nerve in my body and thrusts me back to a dim bar, Patron, and dancing to a crow and the butterfly. I feel chills on my neck as the song plays, see the embarrassment on her face for the song, and want to reassure her. I hand them back to her and place my hand on her knee. “Good song, that one.”
“Whatever. It’s was what was playing, so calm your ego down.”
I just laugh at that. “Bullshit, Mya. At least own it. You would have that night and honestly, you’re a shit liar.”
She stares at me contemplating if she dares to own it, but she will. She doesn’t know how to filter. She does what she wants even when she’s scared she’ll be judged. It’s sexy as hell too and she has no idea.
“So? I like that song. I have fond memories of that song.”
I just chuckle again and nod in agreement. “Me too, Pet, me too.”
I drew it up, each line in perfect detail. I added one key piece that was missing and would soon find out if she wanted this tattoo to mean something, or if it was to make me sweat. I refuse to sweat it out alone that’s for damn sure. She is young, maybe more than a little naïve where men are concerned, and it sucks for her that I would be the man to teach her, but she is earning this tat.
Otherwise, she doesn’t deserve it.
“Okay, here’s the drawing. I added a little more to it. It was missing a key element.”
I hand it to her and watch as her eyes light up at how great a piece it will be... until she sees what I added. “What the hell is that?”
I look her in the eye, no fear. “It’s a crow. Chasing a butterfly.”
“I see that. Why?”
“You know why, Pet.” I laugh.
“Oh my God! You’re serious?” She looks at me like I’m crazy and she is right. Crazy because of her and she has no fucking clue. Kinda brilliant, kinda shitty.
I decide to explain the realness behind it, no bullshit. I just want the realness from her. I crave it. Love it. “Look, we both know that this entire plot is to get a rise out of me. To remind me what happened. Rest assured, Pet, I remember everything.”
She looks like she might hit me or cry, and I honestly don’t know which. Her face is red, her breathing is choppy… I love it. It’s real. “Maybe so, but you making fun of something that for whatever reason I cherish, is bullshit, Sully.”
I scoot in close wanting for a brief moment to reassure her that she could never be a joke. “I am not mocking you, Mya. I am making it better. You are the butterfly, Pet. I am the crow. I don’t mock it, I love it. It’s bold as fuck and you are bold as fuck. I figured the image should match the woman and honor the memory. You come in here, a collector of tats, and want a Sully original? There it is. I stand by my work and the creative freedom for how I drew it up. You want to walk…” I turn from the doorway and point to the door. “Then don’t trip as you leave.”
She debates walking and I love the defiance, it turns me on. “You swear to me that I won’t leave here as a joke to you and all your artist friends?”
I could not have been more taken back by how she saw me. “You think I would tattoo you as a joke? Not my style. Neither is making a joke out of a friend who I value. So, yeah, I swear.”
“Sorry. You confuse me, and it is so off-putting. Just…. be real with me ok?”
“Pet, I am always real.”
She nods after taking a deep breath and I begin the methodical process of transferring the drawing to skin. She is as smooth as I remember and I want to touch her everywhere. “Little trivial fact for you if you are interested?” I ask, hoping to make her feel better.
She laughs nervously and nods, looking at me. She is laying down on her back and I will be tattooing over the top of her in proximity of that mouth. “You stated that night that a Sully original was something you wanted?”
She nods acknowledging her comment without speaking. “Now, when we are done you will carry it knowing it is a part of me as well. I am not only doing it, but I am in it, and that is priceless, Pet.”
By the third hour, I could tell she was burning and sore, and I felt bad. Single line work and filling in takes time. It can be painful, brutal torture on the ribs though. “How you doing, Pet?” I ask placing my glasses on my head while I wipe her skin softly, cleaning off the smeared ink. “We are almost done. Need a quick break?”
“You wear glasses?” She asks, with a shaky laugh and I know she hurts.
“For fine line work I do. It’s so I see the skin better. They are reading glasses, five ninety-nine at Walmart.”
“Sexy.” The sarcasm of the comment didn’t go unnoticed, but I let it
slide knowing she was ready to hit a wall from the pain if we didn’t break. She leans up on her elbows and stretches her neck. Her hair falls like a waterfall off the back of the bed, the blonde highlights catching the light over the bed. She looks like a fucking wet dream. Tatted, sexy, and stretched out.
“I need a break,” I say, offering the obvious need since she won’t.
I hand her the wrapping we use when we are done to place over the ink, then put my jacket around her shoulders. “Do you smoke?”
I couldn’t tell if she did or didn’t. She would steal drags off my cigarillos when we were at the bar that night, but I wasn’t sure.
“No. I will take a drag here or there when I drink, but I can’t jeopardize my dancing career by killing my lungs.”
“I feel your judgement,” I say with a chuckle, and I grab my smokes and one of the million hoodies I have in my locker beside my desk.
“Nope. Your body, your choice,” She says, while following me out the back door. It was dark out and raining so we stood under the balcony on the roof.
“So, tell me about this dancing career. What’s next for Amyah Dorian?”
The use of her real name makes her laugh. “I am under construction right now, but soon I’ll be the main choreographer for hip hop and contemporary dance. I want to hire a few more teachers for ballet and tap, add some B-boy, and pop and lockers.”
“I know like half of what you just said.”
She laughs and I love the sound. I find myself thinking about what it would be like to be a part of her life. Take her out, make her smile all the time. I know too soon though as the dreams build, they disintegrate. I see her getting fucked in the other room with some psycho without a face, stalking us, or worse, her face when she learns I failed my daughter.
Pain rolls in like a wave and I let the dreams die.
“…I figure a month or so, I will be able to start taking students. Mirrors and bars will be installed Friday through Monday, then floors and design.”
I realize I tuned out and feel like shit. “That’s pretty awesome. I know a few rugrats that would be killer students.”
5 Words: Paradox Ink Trilogy Page 3