Badd Business

by Jasinda Wilder

  All through the day, that piece of paper seemed to burn inside my bra, as if it were on fire. The corners poked into my skin when I moved and sat and stood and leaned over; it shifted further and further down inside my bra until a corner of it was poking into my nipple, a sharp pain that was also somehow arousing.

  It shouldn’t have been, but it was.

  My nipples stood on end, and stayed that way, achingly hard.

  Unfortunately, there was no opportunity all afternoon to reach in and adjust it. Daniel had me busy taking dictations, working on transcriptions, attending a meeting at the courthouse and a thousand and one other things.

  By the time I was able to collect my things and leave for the day, I was a miserable mess of knotted-up, pent-up, tangled-up arousal and frustration. Normally, I walked home with Izzy—she worked at fashion boutique just down the street from my law firm’s office—and the apartment we shared with Kitty was just a few blocks away, so we walked home as often as we could.

  Today, though, Izzy had a meeting with the owner of the boutique and wouldn’t be home until later, and Kitty was currently training with Sebastian and Zane Badd to take over as general manager of Badd’s, which meant she wouldn’t be home until super late herself.

  All of which left me with a rare evening to myself.

  Strictly speaking, most of the time I’m so busy that I don’t get up to much in terms of my own devices. Most of my waking hours are consumed with work, and what little time is left I usually spend with Kitty and Izzy. There is one thing I’d like to spend more time on, but it’s the one thing I’m not allowed to pursue.

  I’ve indulged it, in secret, over the years. It’s stupid, because there’s absolutely nothing weird or illicit about my secret passion. But considering how I was raised, and what my mom does for a living, it’s something I’ve always kept to myself. Circumstances being what they are, and my parents being who they are, it’s not worth risking my relationship with them to pursue it openly.

  So, instead of heading for my apartment, I start walking in the opposite direction, away from the wharves and docks and tourist shops and restaurants and bars. The long walk would do me good, and a visit with my cousin was long overdue.

  When I arrived, nearly an hour later, I stood outside his building and exhaled a deep breath. Just standing there, outside in the fresh air, made me feel like I was shedding a false skin. It was like taking a weight off and setting it aside. It also represented a slippery slope from which I was teetering dangerously close.

  I was still wearing my conservative legal assistant clothing: a black skirt, a white button-down shirt, and a pale gray cardigan. None of it was tight or revealing or the least bit sexy. Considering where I was, my attire couldn’t be more out of place.

  I was standing at the front entrance of Yup'ik Tattoo.

  The glass door of the shop was decorated with an intricate work of art—done with a Sharpie—all Native Alaskan tattoo designs: arrows and triangles and lines and quasi-abstract representations of animals and the natural world. The design filled the entire rectangle of the glass door, and continued across to the plate glass window beside it, where the design was still a work in progress. The work was done by my cousin and owner of this tattoo parlor—Ink Isaac.

  Ink is my cousin, and the closest thing to a brother I have. I have plenty of sisters—five. But brothers? None. Ink has been my best friend since before we could walk. We discovered tattooing together—his first tattoo was done by me, and my first was done by him. We come from very strictly traditional Yup’ik families, but we’re both engaged in nontraditional vocations. The difference is, Ink chased his dream and his passion, and I didn’t. And, deep down, I harbor a lot of resentment for that—but not against Ink. He followed our dream, and did the thing we talked about under the tundra stars from the time we were ten years old and did fake tattoos on each other with colored pens. My resentment is against myself, and my parents. But mostly, I’m angry at myself for chickening out and not following my dreams.

  I smiled to myself as “Killing In The Name” by Rage Against The Machine smashes against me in a palpable wall of sound as I open the door. The only thing Ink takes as seriously as tattooing is music. Before he even put in his tattoo chairs, or put up art on the walls of this shop, he installed a stupidly expensive surround sound system, which he always has turned up to an ear-splitting volume if there’s nobody in the shop.

  The second the bell on the door jangles, the volume is immediately lowered to a tolerable level.

  “With you in a second,” I heard Ink say, in his I’m not looking at you because I’m concentrating voice.

  “Just me, Ink.”

  “June-bug!” His low, powerful voice envelops me, filling me with the pure warmth that is totally Ink.

  He is a bear of a man. When you hear that phrase, people usually just mean a large person—in stature and in weight. Ink is more than that. He seems to physically embody a Kodiak bear in human form. Six feet seven, weighing…well, who knows?—he is a man of mind-boggling amounts of muscle with a solid layer of what he calls “insulation” over it. Darker skinned than me, he’s often mistaken for someone from India or Polynesia. Almost every inch of his skin is covered in tattoos, most of which he did himself. If he could reach it, he’d ink it—and I did everything else. Even his face—where there’s no beard—is covered in traditional Inuit tattoos, although not all of Ink’s ink is traditional Inuit tribal markings—there’s a lot of other imagery as well, in a wide variety of styles, some in grayscale, some in full color, and some a mixture of both.

  The funny thing is, Uncle Andrew named him Ink when he was just a baby, yet Ink seemed to naturally gravitate to skin marking as if his father’s choice of name had predetermined his future. It was as if he’d been inexorably drawn to the ancient art. From the time Ink was able to grab things with his pudgy little hands, he was marking his skin somehow—scratching himself with his fingernails, coloring on himself with pens, pencils, lipstick, soot, wax, food, whatever he could find to make his skin look different. Eventually this turned into making designs, which turned into even more elaborate works of art on his skin—temporary at first—with a pen. And then, at the age of eleven, we actually tattooed each other, but that’s a story for another time.

  I waited a few minutes and then he lumbered to his feet, setting aside his tattoo gun—he was working on a piece on his ankle. He towered over me, standing a full fifteen inches taller, and his monstrous arms wrapped around me, lifting me easily into the air, and he swung me in a circle, rumbling in laughter.

  “You been gone too long, June-bug.” He set me down, deep brown eyes scrutinizing me, assessing me, searching out my secrets. “I had nobody to tattoo me, and I got empty spaces I can’t reach.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wrapping my arms around his broad waist. “Work can get so busy, you know? Sometimes it’s hard to get away.”

  “Have you come to tell me you’re quittin’ that nonsense job of yours?” His voice was hopeful.

  I frowned as I stepped away from him. “You know I can’t do that, Ink.”

  As always, Ink was bare from the waist up, wearing a pair of blue gym shorts that hung to his knees, and he was barefoot—this was how Ink dressed pretty much all the time. Even in the winter, he might stuff his bare feet into a pair of winter boots and throw a coat on if it was really cold outside, but for the most part, Ink hated wearing more clothes than necessary. He lived behind the shop in a modular tiny home he built himself, so he rarely left this particular stretch of Ketchikan, especially since there was a little market a few doors down where he could get food and anything else he needed.

  Ink shook his beard at me—his beard was a thing of beauty, hanging down to his chest, always combed and clean and trimmed into a neat oval, it was thick and bushy and amazing. He tended to shift his jaw around when he was thinking really hard, and it made his beard waggle—so, if his beard did that little dance, I knew I was about to get an earful.


  “Bullshit,” he grumbled.

  I blinked at him. “Ink, come on. I just came over for a visit…can we not have this conversation right off the bat?”

  “It ain’t conversation. You tell me you can’t quit that mess, I tell you you have to. You’re goin’ to—you just don’t know it yet. Ain’t no lawyers or no courts that need you. That’s work for somebody else. Art needs you. Skin needs you.” He’s always had a distinctive way of speaking—almost spiritual—and I’m used to it, but it takes some people time to figure him out.

  I wiped my face with both hands. “You know I’d love nothing more than to quit the firm and come work for you, Ink. But you know what Mom and Dad will say.”

  His expression darkened. “They think they’re doin’ you a favor, pushin’ you into that fancy law job. You’re an artist, June-bug. And you always have been. The sooner they get that through their thick skulls, the better.”

  “They mean well, Ink.”

  He slumped heavily back into his tattoo chair, propped up his foot, twisted it awkwardly to one side, and pulled on a fresh pair of black rubber gloves. He resumed work.

  He was doing what I loved best in the world. I’m a tattoo artist. No one but Ink knows, not even Izzy or Kitty, and especially not my parents. The only people I’ve ever tattooed are Ink and myself and I would give anything to do what Ink does.

  We spent some time in companionable silence as he finished the outline of his newest ankle piece. He set his gun aside, stripped off the gloves, and shot me a glance.

  “You here to do one or get one?” he asked.

  I shrugged, smiling. “Both?”

  He nodded. “Best answer.” He gestured to the chair. “I’ll finish coloring the piece on your shoulder blade, and then you can do more on my hip.”

  I grinned at him, shrugging out of my cardigan, folding it and setting it aside. I faced away from Ink as I unbuttoned my shirt, flipped it around so I was wearing it backward, and then straddled the tattoo chair to give Ink access to my shoulder.

  He playfully snapped my bra strap as he settled on his rolling stool. “Gotta undo this, June-bug. Need to get around it.”

  I reached around behind my back and unfastened the bra strap, shrugging the straps down around my arms; I had to adjust the bra cups to stay tight against my chest, and as I did so, the folded piece of paper fell out and onto my lap. I picked it up, fiddling with it as Ink ran his fingertips along the outline of a mother bear with her two cubs. The meaning of this tattoo was very personal to me and Ink—the mother bear was art, and the two cubs were Ink and myself.

  Ink rumbled an amused laugh. “You’re weird, you know that, June-Bug?”

  I rested my cheek against the cold leather of the chair. “Well, maybe. But why do you say that?”

  “You are the most modest lady I’ve ever met. You never show off all this sexy ink of yours. You never wear nothin’ Meemaw Isaac wouldn’t wear. We two are cousins. We took baths together as kids, went skinny-dipping in the channel up till we were teenagers. You know that as a tattoo artist I view the human body as a canvas, and you know I’ve seen plenty of women naked in a professional capacity, and that if you was sittin’ there in that chair without nothing coverin’ you, it wouldn’t be weird. You know that, and I know you know, but you still cover up like you got somethin’ secret from me hidden under that shirt.”

  I sighed as the gun started buzzing—I loved that sound more than anything else. “Yes, Ink, I know. And if I were to decide I wanted a tattoo on one of my breasts, I’d be fine having you do it. When I get in the chair, it stops being weird to be naked, because you’re my best friend and my family, and you’re a professional. I know all this.” I pulled my braid over my shoulder to get it out of the way as he rested his hands on my back, and then I felt the sharp buzzing sting of the needle as he set to work. “It’s just how I am. I’m not…comfortable being exposed. I don’t know why. I just like being clothed.”

  He was quiet a few moments as he settled into the rhythm of inking me. “You know, people tend to look at us tattoo artists as shrinks.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I’ve always been a good listener. So, you know I hear some shit you ain’t sayin’, yeah?”

  I secretly relished the sting of the needle, the dragging ache of it. I wouldn’t consider myself a masochist, but I did somehow love the pain of getting a tattoo. “Yes, Ink, I know—you don’t need to say it.”

  “Tough titty, I’m gonna say it anyway.”

  “Of course you are. And you don’t have to use vulgar phrases like that. It’s not cute.”

  He snorted. “I say what I say, June-bug. You ain’t my mama.” He paused, wiped the excess ink away, and brought the needle back to my skin. “You keep covered up ’cause you’re ashamed of your ink.”

  “I am not!”

  “I don’t mean ashamed of your ink, meanin’ me. I mean your tats.”

  “I’m not ashamed of you or my tattoos.”

  “Then why do you cover ’em up even when you’re not playin’ fancy lawyer lady?”

  I sighed. “I’m not a lawyer, I’m a legal assistant. And I cover them up because…” I trailed off, not sure how to answer.

  “You can’t find the words, ’cause I already said ’em.”

  “It’s not shame, it’s…fear.”

  “What you scared of?”

  “Mom and Dad.” I paused. “Mom, mostly.”

  “They don’t know you got tats?”

  “You know they don’t.”

  “I thought maybe it was a thing you just didn’t talk about.”

  I shook my head. “No, they don’t know. I keep them covered up. Not even Kitty or Izzy know about them.”

  Ink stopped tattooing—I felt his incredulous stare. “They are your best friends, your roommates. Three ladies, you all sharin’ one bathroom, and they don’t know you got tats all over?”

  “I keep them covered up. I wear a towel coming out of or going into the shower. I dress in my room. They know I’m modest and that I don’t like being naked around other people. They just accept it as part of the weirdness that is me.”

  “What about dudes?” he asked.

  “What about them?”

  “You keep ’em covered when you’re…you know…doin’ the nasty?”

  I blushed hard. “We are not talking about my sex life, Ink Isaac.”

  “I’m just curious if you hide ’em even from guys you hook up with.” I couldn’t answer, and for someone who knew me as well as Ink did, it was all the answer he needed. “You do! You’re so scared and so ashamed, you don’t let no one but me know you got all this beautiful ink?”

  “It’s not their business,” I told him. “Just because we’re sharing a few minutes of mutual pleasure doesn’t mean they get to know everything about me. And you know damn well how personal my ink is, and you know why it’s personal. I keep the lights off, and I let them think it’s because I’m insecure about being…” I shrugged, hating to say it, knowing he would pounce on it and get mad at me for it, “…bigger,” I finished, lamely.

  He didn’t just pull the gun away; he turned it off and spun the chair around so I had to look him in the eye. “The fuck you just say?”

  I remained as I was, lying forward against the tattoo chair, twisting and flipping the folded piece of paper in my fingers. I eyed him steadily. “I’m not a dainty girl, Ink.”

  He stood up to his full, imposing height, and I was reminded that while I’m comfortable with him, and I know him as a big, sweet teddy bear, he can get up close and personal. “Juneau Isaac, you take that back right now or we’ll be fightin’ for real.”

  “It’s just the truth. I know I’m not, like, fat or anything, but I’m not a skinny girl either.”

  He continued to glare at me. “You see me?” He pounded both fists against his chest like an angry gorilla. “You take a good look at this, June-bug.”

  “I see you, Ink.”

  He shook his head. “
Naw, you don’t. Six feet seven inches. Three hundred pounds. My whole life I’ve been told I’m not just fat, but obese. They don’t see the muscle I got under this,” he said, and pinched his belly roll. “Me? I’m big. I coulda been an NFL football player. Strong, fast, tough. But I ain’t that, I ain’t no athlete. I only ever wanted one thing—this.” He gestured at his shop. “I own this, free and clear, all paid up and all mine. I paid for it doin’ tattoos from the time I was legally allowed to. I paid for it with my art. I know I’m big, June-bug. But I also know I got somethin’ to offer. I know some ladies like the way I look, and I know some don’t. I may not be a sexy celebrity with them wash pan abs. But I know I got my own way of lookin’ good, and I don’t take no shit about it from nobody—’specially not my own self.”

  “Ink—” I protested.

  “No. I can hear what you’re saying. I know you, and I know you know you’re sexy as anything. But giving off this insecure vibe—this feeling that you are too big, or whatever, when you have no reason to feel that way means, deep down, you do have some shit you need to deal with. And it ain’t just about bein’ afraid of Uncle Simon and Aunt Judy findin’ out you got tats and want to do tats.”

  I blinked hard. “Ink—dammit.”

  He sank back down on his stool, and it protested under his weight, the casters rattling as he pivoted me around and picked up the gun again. “You gotta figure this shit out, cuz. You won’t never quit that stupid law firm if you don’t.”

  “Ink, listen—”

  He cut me off. “No more listening. I heard everything you got to say. The rest is work you got to do inside. There’s nothing I can say to fix it, and there’s nothin’ you can say to me that’ll make it less true.”

  “Shut up, you big stupid bear,” I muttered, an old insult between us.

  “I told you, I’m a tattoo chair shrink. Ain’t no lie in that, June-bug.”

  I sighed and let the silence grow between us; he was right, at least, in that there wasn’t any more value in talking about it, because he’d said his piece and nothing I could say would change his mind. Once he saw what he considered to be the truth, there was no changing his mind.