Use Somebody

by Riley Jean

  I was going to do it. I was going to get a tattoo. Tonight.

  The only problem: first I had to decide what to get.

  Ricky left me alone to wander around the store and flip through sample books. I spent half an hour going through illustration after illustration. Tribal graphics. Skulls. Asian symbols. None of those were really me. The stars were pretty cool, but they seemed too trendy. I considered a simple script, but couldn’t narrow it down to one word or phrase that covered it all. How does one define themselves in a single tattoo? There was too much I wanted to say, and too much I had yet to figure out. Maybe that’s why many people never stopped at just one.

  “Don’t even think about it,” a voice snapped me from my thoughts.

  “What?” I was standing over a book at the counter and looked down to realize my fingertip was tracing the lines of a cursive letter G. My hand sprang away from the page like it was covered in a layer of spiders instead of thin, harmless plastic.

  Ricky rolled his eyes at my ridiculousness. “Okay, since you obviously haven’t made a decision, here.” He hefted a book on top of other. It was his personal sketchpad—a Ricky Storm original! My insides were giddy to see what tattoo Ricky had designed just for me.

  The image stared back at me, calculating, ready to pounce. Its long body oozed power and elegance wearing a brilliantly detailed coat of jagged stripes and soft fur over muscle. Two glowing yellow eyes held a predatory gleam, captivating and terrifying all at once. The animal was so lifelike I almost expected to hear it growl. Down to every last detail, it was absolutely breathtaking.

  I hovered over the counter for a better inspection, entranced. “Why a tiger?” I asked. Realistic was his best work, in my opinion. And it was a beautiful piece of art. But I knew Ricky and he didn’t like that kind of praise. He didn’t want me to merely admire it, he wanted me to understand.

  He stood behind me, staring at the drawing from over my shoulder. “Tigers are fierce. Strong. They fear nothing.” I could feel his eyes on my profile then. Assessing. If he was nervous for my reaction, he hid it well. “It made me think of you.”

  “I love it,” I breathed and turned to face him with the book in my hands.

  He smiled tentatively down at me. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And I know just where it should go.”

  I lifted the sketchpad and pressed it against him so the tiger displayed across his chest.

  “Right here.”

  His face twisted in wry amusement. “Very funny, kiddo.”

  “I wish I was any of those things you described. But I’m not.” He was extremely biased to believe I deserved to wear that symbol. It was all Ricky. He possessed those traits. Not me.

  “I know,” he said to my surprise, and placed his hands over mine to slowly push the book back towards me. “Which is why you need the tattoo.”

  I studied the image again and tried to see everything Ricky intended, as well as my own immediate interpretation. Strength. Fearlessness. Power. Grace. Maybe I wasn’t those things, but I wanted to be. And Ricky wanted to give that to me. He was teaching me how to defend myself and how to carry myself to be in control. Now he wanted to give me my very own protector to wear.

  It was easy enough to read when the light bulb clicked on for me. Ricky wasted no time before turning a couple pages forward in the book.

  “Then I had another thought,” he muttered. And he came upon the image of a rose at half bloom. My eyes widened on the lovely sketch, feminine and soft. It was such a polar opposite from the tiger it threw me for a loop.

  “How did you know?” I asked, unable to tear my gaze from the picture.

  “I just know,” he said quietly. “It’s like that quote. You always stop to notice the roses and shit.”

  It was true. Roses had always been my favorite flower. These days every other girl wanted something more modern or exotic, but my preference remained with the classic beauty. I loved them even though they were delicate and grieving. I loved them long before Vance mispronounced my last name and dubbed me Rosie. Believe it or not, I had even grown fond of the nickname.

  Which reminded me… Ricky wasn’t the first to associate me with the rose. I almost brought up the funny coincidence before I realized that was probably a bad idea. He put a great deal of thought in this drawing to make it personal. I wouldn’t attribute it to somebody else.

  “You didn’t choose a color,” I observed. The stem and leaves were green but the petals themselves—although shaded into velvety elegance—were without hue. I knew that colored roses symbolized different things. I wondered if he had been unable to choose one for me. “Unless…”

  “White,” he said, measuring my reaction. “I thought it should be white.”

  White… Purity. Chastity. Innocence. I blushed at the thought of how fitting it was.

  In one sense, a single white rose was right for me. But in another, it felt wrong.

  “I love this one… except…” I hesitated, “I’m torn on the white.”

  The barest trace of a smile appeared, as if my uncertainty had greatly pleased him.

  “That’s exactly what I thought you’d say. I just wanted to show you my initial thought process with these first two sketches. Here’s my final idea.”

  He flipped ahead a few pages again and landed on another image of a similar rose. Like the first, it was partially bloomed with new petals peeking out from its silky bud, and lightly kissed with droplets of glittering dew. It had the same long, thick stem that curled at the end and clusters of green leaves on each side. But this one was partially colored. The rose was still mostly white, but each petal was slashed with deep red, jagged lines, giving it a more unique and tortured appearance.

  “It’s called a tiger-striped rose.” He explained how they blend two colors to get the hybrid effect. Apparently these flowers usually had a more random, marble pattern instead of those distinct animalistic markings. So his design was one of a kind.

  “Just a little creative freedom,” he said.

  When it dawned on me what he had done—combining the two images and their symbols—I couldn’t control the face-splitting grin that took over. It was classy. It was edgy. It was elegance and strength. It was innocence and anguish. It was…

  “Perfect.”

  * * *

  I decided to put the rose over my right shoulder blade. That way it’d be easy to cover if necessary, yet not a place too intimate for Ricky’s hands. My work shirt had to go. Fortunately I was wearing a tank top underneath, so I just lowered the straps. I was too anxious about the needle to care that Ricky was going to see more of my skin than people typically saw. It was one of the more tame spots a tattoo could go, I reasoned. Besides, he was a professional.

  I wrapped my hair up in a messy bun and straddled the high back of his client chair, leaning forward to give him access to my bare skin.

  “There’s nothing I love more than a blank canvas,” he mused, slapping on a pair of latex gloves.

  “I’d never let anyone else be my first,” I replied, too nervous to be embarrassed by my inadvertent innuendo.

  He chuckled and fiddled with his supplies, testing the machine and doing whatever he needed to do to get ready. Unfortunately I’d caught a glimpse of the sharp tool lying in his work station before I sat, and I feared that seeing it in his hands would make me change my mind. The angry buzzing sound alone made me tense. So I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing.

  He rubbed some kind of gel over my shoulder area. “Relax. It’s your first time. I’ll be gentle,” he said, returning my suggestive comment.

  “Gentle?” I snorted. “I saw the size of that thing.”

  This time he barked out a laugh. “Be brave, kiddo. Like a tiger.”

  I meant to growl, but it came out as a tiny little rumble.

  “Cute.”

  “Shut up.”

  Yeah. It hurt like hell.

  But a funny thing happened while that needle was hammering away at m
y flesh. I felt myself changing, strengthening. Overcoming a past fear. Defining a little piece of myself. Letting the jagged lines pierce deeply into my skin and fill my entire being.

  Through the whole ordeal, I concentrated on all the things my tattoo stood for. Strength. Fearlessness. Power. Grace. And I tried to be brave. I refused to submit. This time I would show fortitude in the face of pain—physical or otherwise. So I gritted my teeth and didn’t cry or complain while the needle stabbed my skin for what seemed like hours. I was in control and ready for a fresh start. There was nothing left to lose, therefore nothing left to fear.

  * * *

  I stood in front of the double-mirror, twisting and turning to admire my new tattoo from all angles. My skin was a little red and swollen. But that didn’t hide the fact that it was absolutely gorgeous, a real work of art. A soft and delicate rose with edgy and powerful stripes running through each petal like veins. Wearing it immediately made me feel a newfound strength.

  “You like it?”

  To the general public, Ricky Storm had exactly two expressions: stoic and pissed. Unless the ladies were into that sort of thing, I could only assume there was a third side to him, too.

  But I refused to believe anyone ever saw this. The way his smile touched his eyes slightly more than his mouth. This look was reserved only for me.

  I looked at up him with my big brown eyes dancing in delight. For the first time he didn’t feel like just a big brother to me. He felt like a friend.

  “I love it, Ricky. This is…” I shook my head at a total loss. “You’re badass. You know that, right?”

  His lips twitched. “So the rumors say.”

  I turned back to examine the mirror. “Well, I’d like to think I know you better than the average rumor mill. And I say you’re badass.”

  Just as he was wrapping my shoulder in gauze, my cell vibrated. Who in the world would be texting me at this time of night… or morning…? I pulled it open to read.

  Vance: Just making sure you’re safe. Text me when you get home?

  I shook my head, amused. Speaking of rumors, it looked like Vance was still a little paranoid when it came to the notorious Ricky Storm and his big, bad motorcycle.

  Just as I was about to respond, the phone was snatched from my hands.

  “Ricky!” Suddenly feeling like the little sister again, I jumped on my toes, trying and failing to retrieve my cell. He used his arms and turned his body to block me while he read the text.

  “‘Just making sure you’re safe,’” he scoffed. “What the fuck? I’m safe.”

  “Safe as jamming a giant needle in my skin!” I threw at him, still trying to grab back my cell. “If you didn’t want my friends to worry, maybe you shouldn’t have kidnapped me from work!”

  He laughed and held it over my head, putting forth only minimal effort to keep it out of my reach. “Is this from the guy in the apron?”

  “His name is Vance and he’s nice! Don’t be a dick!”

  He looked back at my phone and started pressing buttons with his thumbs. “What else you got in here?”

  “Ricky! Stop!”

  “This thing is ancient! It doesn’t even have touch screen!”

  My measly little body wasn’t strong enough to bring him down. But that didn’t deter me from trying as I shoved and grumbled and grabbed for it.

  “Give me… my… phone!”

  He froze. The way he went from warm and playful to rigid in a split second told me that he had discovered my archived folder.

  “The hell?” he said crossly. His eyes darted from the screen to me. “You kept his texts?”

  I stood still, knowing by the hard set of his jaw that playtime was over.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes tightened in the corners. “Why?”

  Why did it feel like I was being scolded? I shrugged but refused to look away in shame. I hadn’t read those texts since before that night… but I hadn’t been ready to delete them either.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re pining over him.”

  I blinked my eyes in rapid succession. “I don’t know what I am.”

  He recoiled back. I think he honestly expected me to deny it. He leaned down and looked me straight into the eyes, not a hint of warmth still there. “He’s gone, Scar. He’s not coming back.”

  “I know!” I turned away and stood with my arms crossed, unable to face him. I wasn’t in denial that he was gone. It was precisely that fact which haunted me. “I just… I want to work through it, figure out what went wrong, but I’m not ready yet.”

  “You think you’re ever gonna be ready? To find all the answers? Some grand reason behind it all?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Just lay it to rest, already. And delete this shit.” With that, he tossed my phone down. It clattered and slid on the counter top as he stormed back to clean up his work station. The air emanating from him buzzed with frustration. And it seemed to me like he made a whole lot more noise than necessary.

  I released a long-winded sigh. There was something about Ricky Storm that made me feel unbelievably strong. He taught me how to read and how to fight. He protected me from my past and my present. He marked my skin with effing tiger stripes.

  But he could also make me feel about two inches tall.

  * * *

  Ricky dropped me off at Mooshi just as the sun was coming up.

  To my surprise there was something waiting for me, resting on the hood of my car—a flat, wrapped package with a big red bow.

  Curious, I climbed into the driver’s seat, holding the gift in my lap. There didn’t appear to be a card, but I had a pretty good idea of who it was from. I stared at it for several minutes before deciding to open it.

  Lo and behold, inside was a small, leather bound book with a vintage-looking cover, sprinkled with musical notes and ornate swirls in red and black. I flipped through the lined pages, inhaling the clean scent of notebook paper, filled with future thoughts and endless potential.

  A new journal.

  Some ink on the inside cover caught my attention, and I turned to the front to find a handwritten note:

  S,

  “The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is now.”

  It’s time to start again.

  Happy Birthday,

  -V

  Awestruck, I read the note twice, then flipped through the beautifully blank pages again before finally tapping out a text.

  Scar: Safe and sound.

  Scar: You didn’t have to do this. But thank you.

  Chapter 12

  Unsturdy Pedestal

  “All That I’ve Got” by The Used

  “What can I say? I wasn’t meant to be a pastry chef,” Summer answered. “But you know what I’ve really always wanted to be?”

  “What’s that?” I inquired.

  “An airline stewardess. Just think! All the cool people to meet and the beautiful places to travel… Talk about a dream job!”

  “Professional barf cleaner,” Cole teased, and scarfed down a rather large onion ring.

  “I think it’s great,” I said. “I bet you’d get tons of benefits and rewards for all the hotels you’d stay at. And you’d get to sleep in a different city every night! I wonder what kind of work experience they require for getting a job like that? You could probably start out as a waitress. That might be useful.”

  “Oh…” she said. I could see her wheels spinning as our words stole some of the glory from her dream job. I always faced these kinds of decisions with a practical approach, but as her excitement dimmed, I felt kinda bad.

  The funny thing is, I was actually just trying to help.

  “Where be Vance?” Kiki mused, spinning her bar seat in lazy circles. The four of us sat at the counter of Honey’s diner with onion rings and fried mozzarella sticks, just because. “Thought I saw his truck already.”

  Summer flicked her wrist flippantly. “Probably on the phone fighting with Evelyn.”


  Cole grunted in agreement.

  My head snapped in their direction. This was news to me. “Vance? Fighting?” Yelling, name calling, blaming? I shook the image out of my head in disbelief. “I can’t picture that.”

  “You have met Evelyn, haven’t you?” Cole asked, as if this explained everything.

  “Yes,” I responded, as if that didn’t explain anything. “Sort of.”

  Kiki continued spinning. Her orange waves fanned out around her. “Didn’t you notice? Evelyn’s kind of… controlling.”

  “Controlling is a nice way of putting it,” Summer added, then she faced me with all seriousness. “Evelyn is a bitch.”

  The two girls giggled conspiratorially. I frowned. There was no way Vance would appreciate them talking about his girlfriend like that.

  “Hey!” Cole scolded his sister. At least someone agreed with me. “If you don’t have something nice to say, then it better be funny!”

  “Oh don’t get all butthurt, Cole,” Kiki said. “I happen to find it very funny.”

  “Well I didn’t,” he argued back.

  “Well awesome possum for you.”

  Good gracious.

  Normally I hated gossip. But I was now morbidly curious about the couple I had formerly put on a pedestal. By the way Vance had always portrayed his relationship, I envisioned the perfect love and highest adoration. Fighting and controlling were not at all part of that picture.

  “I’m sure she has redeeming qualities,” I offered. “She makes him happy.”

  “Not anymore, she doesn’t,” Summer huffed. “I don’t know why he still puts up with her.”

  “Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” Kiki quipped. “History, first love, rose-colored glasses, all that jazz. Take your pick.”

  I nodded, absorbing her explanation. Been there. I recalled the day she came into Mooshi and she wouldn’t even look at me. Good to know that was nothing personal.

  “I give it another month,” Kiki added in. “Maybe two.”

  “Hope you’re right,” said Summer.

  This conversation had my head reeling. How could his best friends be looking forward to his heartbreak? “I just always thought that he was happy. That they had something special, you know?”