Bad Ink

by Megan Hetherington

  Jaz, my best friend from way back has a hair and beauty salon in this neighborhood, so I pull over. Anything to stop me going home—I need to keep my composure and going back to my two-bedroomed rental doesn’t have the restrictions for that.

  Hesitating outside the window, Jaz looks up from her current client and beckons me in with a curl of her hand.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I might while away an hour here amongst the buzzing of hairdryers and the meaningless gossip of a beauty salon. Eventually, able to pick Hope up from school as her mother; the one who has everything sewn up and life fully worked out.

  “Hey Cate, good to see you. You come for a makeover?”

  “Yeah.” I feign a lighthearted smile.

  “Sit down. I’ll be with you in a tick.”

  Taking a seat in front of a row of mirrors, I once again study my reflection. Forcing myself to remember the way I looked last time I saw Isaac—the morning he left, seven years ago.

  The joyful plumpness in my face has been scrubbed away by the harsh realities of adulthood, and parenting responsibilities have taken their inevitable toll.

  Jaz walks her current client over to the hood dryers lining the far wall; settling her with a cup of herbal tea and a magazine. Then she bounds across to me and immediately untangles my hair from the band and runs her fingers over my scalp.

  “New color maybe?” She points one of her talon-shaped fingernails at her unicorn colored hair.

  The look of horror which crosses my face has her howling with laughter.

  “Okay, okay. I know you’ve got the most serious job in the world. I’m only pulling your leg.”

  I laugh because there’s not much else to say. Yes, I have got a serious job. One where I’m expected to dress in a sober suit, medium-sized heels, and a personality draining hairstyle. It’s a job I love and hate in equal measure. My choice of career borne out of Isaac’s arrest and a desire to find out how such an injustice could occur. But criminal law was too complicated for me, so over the years my quest to be a successful Mom, sane person, and career-minded woman has led to compromise. Now, I work at a commercial law firm, as assistant to one of the most formidable lawyers in San Diego. But hey, I’m killing it there. And my daughter hasn’t been taken away from me either. Bonus.

  My attention draws back to my pallid complexion and how it drains the life from my blue eyes—making them look dirty instead of fresh.

  “Hey Jaz, you got time to do me a facial too?”

  She lifts her head to check the clock and then angles over to run her finger down the appointment book on the nearby reception desk.

  “Yeah, why not? For you honey, I’ll make time.”

  I smile appreciatively at her, not warming to the wrinkles cragging out from the corners of my eyes.

  “Ugh.” I press a finger to them. “Can you do anything about these too?”

  “You want me to get the needle out for you?”

  I shake my head. “Shit no. I’m only twenty-five. You stab me with one of those now, goodness knows what I’ll look like by the time I’m thirty.” Pulling my skin taut with my palms and sticking out my tongue.

  “They’re laughter lines. You should be proud of them.” Her saccharin smile beaming back at me through the mirror.

  “Huh? Really?”

  “Oh, come on Cate, you’re much happier now life has finally given you a break.” She picks out the scissors from the station drawer, immediately tapping them in her open palm. “You’re doing good now, girl. And shit you deserve it, after everything you went through.”

  I need reminding now and then; I don’t know how I got through those early years. A shitload of caffeine and oodles of determination, if I remember rightly. Oh, and support from my family and friends like Jaz. A reason I’m so confused right now. Everyone else thinks I’ve moved on and left Isaac in my past. Written off as a teenage mistake.

  I suppose I had. Until today.

  She spritzes my hair with water. “And now you’ve got a beautiful daughter who doesn’t want for anything. You need to make time for yourself… and not feel guilty.”

  “I can’t help it. I feel I could do more. You know?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. Some kids with both parents around don’t have as much love and attention as Hope gets. It’s not wrong to show yourself love too.”

  I nod, swallowing away my anxieties. Another moment where I need to dig deep and pull on strings which convince me—I’ve got this.

  “So how did you swing a day off work?” She drags a comb through my wet hair.

  “Had plans but they were canceled.” I fidget in my chair, adjusting the apron Jaz has tied around my neck.

  “Plans?”

  “Yeah, loose ones. Nothing certain.”

  I can tell my elusive reply has Jaz’s brain cells whirring into gear and I wish I’d said something else. There’s no way I’m admitting I saw Isaac. Shit, why would I? She’d only convince me to leave well alone; dredging up sordid details of how I was abandoned by him and had to fight to keep Hope. How I hauled myself through college and found my own feet in the world.

  These may be thoughts I share, but I don’t need anyone else to ram them down my throat. Not at the moment. I want to limit who knows he’s back until I’ve decided what I’ll do about it. Right now it’s me, Elliot, and Carlos. I doubt Isaac’s foster parents are aware—they dropped him when he was labeled a criminal.

  Jaz has my back and hates Isaac more than I ever could. For getting into the stupid situation in the first place. For getting caught. For abandoning me. For everything he hasn’t done and everything he has. But she doesn’t know he’s back in San Diego otherwise she’d have said something by now. So, I’ll do what I came here for. Relax and forget.

  “But you’ve got a date tonight, yeah? No point in wasting a new hairdo on a night in on your own.”

  Actually, a few cheeky drinks with my hookup doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. “Maybe, if I can get Mom to pick Hope up from music class.”

  “What’s the guy called you’ve been seeing?”

  “Nate.”

  “Yeah, Nate.” She stares at the ceiling, conjuring up some vision or other. Scissors slicing menacingly across her palm. “You decided whether he’s boyfriend material yet or is he still just a fuck-buddy?” She glances across to the hair dryers, to make sure her other client isn’t listening to her foul-mouthed assertions.

  Laughing, I shake my head at her. “It’s a relationship of convenience.”

  She places her hands on her hips and cocks her head. “Fuck-buddy then.”

  “You gonna cut my hair or what?”

  I text Mom to see if she can help and then sit back to watch with amazement as Jaz snips the scissors across my hair with lightning speed. It’s not long before she’s ruffling my new shoulder-length style with her fingers.

  “Okay let’s pin a few rollers in, to give it bounce and I’ll do you a quick scrub and mask while it sets.”

  This is my favorite part, her light fingers smoothing out the tension and whisking off the dead cells. I almost forget about this morning. Almost.

  She registers my smile when I read the reply which beeps through from my mom.

  “She’s a star, your mom.”

  “I know,” I breathe.

  And she is. Not only because she helps care for Hope, but how, after those initial terse months when I admitted to her I was pregnant, she’s lightened up and become one of my closest allies.

  “So, you still out on Friday night?” Jaz asks, as she unwinds the rollers and brushes rogue hairs from my shoulder.

  “Of course.” I live for Friday nights. Okay, so that’s an exaggeration, but life would be hard without one whole night of freedom every week.

  I shove one-hundred dollars into her fist and leave before she protests.

  “Great, I’ll pick you up at seven?” she calls after me.

  “Sure,” I agree, shoving open the door with my backside, so my hands are fre
e to whisk my thumbs across the phone screen.

  Me: Hey Nate! Free for a drink after work?

  Quickly, I drop the phone back into my jacket pocket and run through the heavy summer shower to the car.

  I feel better already. As if the stress of the last few years yearning after a fairytale, has been banished with a new haircut and the promise of an orgasm or three.

  2

  Isaac

  I wonder who I would have become. What mundane, safe occupation I would have pursued if my adolescence had taken a different turn or not even a turn, but carried on in an undramatic fashion.

  This is a question I asked myself many times until the day I realized dreaming of anything was futile. It didn’t take long, six months maybe a year in prison, before I admitted my destiny was not of my making. The dreams repeatedly beaten out of me until I submitted to a greater power with different plans for me. Plans to turn me into a monster with no right to expect happiness or comfort, and to make sure everyone knew it.

  My new destiny was doled out to anyone who believed they could bring me down. Making enemies was a game; a game which required me to train harder than them, to fight with no remorse, and to constantly watch my back.

  And now I’m pitched in battles, organized by a onetime friend, now prime enemy, Carlos Hernandez. Wannabe gangster. Small-time drug dealer. And serial sleaze head.

  I can’t feel the pounding on the asphalt any longer, that feeling stopped five miles back on the sunbaked streets of San Diego. Running on a hard surface is a necessity. Everything I do I need to hurt. It’s the only emotion I’m capable of.

  After a while, a sharp pain sears through my knee joints and when I drive through that my lungs wheeze in complaint. But I’ll ignore them too. This game I play, I play harder with myself.

  The rules are not to give in, never to lose, and always to make it hurt.

  The fiery-skied dawn brings other joggers onto the street; their penance just starting. But they are losers already in my book.

  My steps slow and I notice my heavy breaths. I shove open the door of the converted meat-packing warehouse and I’m reassured by the stench of sweat and encouraged by the cacophony of grunts. These guys are playing the game too. None of them acknowledge my entrance, they’re too engrossed in their own battles and for that I respect them more.

  My trainer spots me from across the expanse of rubberized flooring and jumps up to follow me into the changing room. Joe’s not fazed when I strip off my sweat-soaked running gear and step into the shower cubicle in front of him. I became used to a lack of privacy within the first month of jail. A shock at first for a vulnerable eighteen-year-old but there was no choice, unless I wanted the lice to multiply. It’s also why I’m completely shaven.

  “You shouldn’t run the day of a fight, Raul,” Joe protests. The aged veins in his temple protrude like a mattress spring. It seems everyone’s angry in this business. Too many steroids, no doubt.

  I snort. It doesn’t make a difference if I’ve run this morning. I’m not going the full five rounds tonight. Fuck, my opponent will be hot-shit-lucky if he’s still standing after five seconds.

  Unperturbed, Joe stands his ground and continues his sermon. “We've got a new training schedule. Today is minus thirty and, after tonight’s event, we’ll be switching up your diet to ensure maximum cutting, ready for the big fight.”

  His enthusiasm isn’t infectious. I rub the soap from my face and give him a hard stare. “We?”

  His lips tremble and eyelashes lower in a display of insecurity. Strange reaction, considering the line of work he’s in and the fighters he tries to tame. He folds back the notebook he’s clutching and rips out a page.

  Striding passed him, I brush my wet biceps against his pathetic book.

  “I’ll pin this on the inside of your locker.“ He turns and opens the long metal door, riddled with dents from frustrated fists.

  Ignoring him, I pull out clothes from said locker and shut it without consideration of the diet sheet he wants to attach to it.

  The grunts from the main gym puncture the tension in the changing room when the door clicks open. I throw my towel into the laundry cage and pull on my sweatpants, ignoring the entrant, Carlos.

  “Raul.” He eyes me up and down, like I’m a carcass of meat about to be carved for his entrée. Then he flicks his head toward the exit and my trainer heeds the hint and slides out the door.

  Carlos refocuses on my chest and I follow his gaze from my sizeable pecs, onto my abs. He’s drooling over my tattoos but has not asked a single thing about any of them. It’s obvious where I got them. But what they mean? It’s a question he wouldn’t like the answer to.

  The crown tattoo on my chest elicited the most surprise from him when he first saw it. Beads of sweat appearing instantly on his forehead and his Adam’s apple repeatedly scratching his throat. But the explanation he was given preceding my reappearance to San Diego allayed his fears. He bought the story I was a pawn, a mere extra on the entertainment stage in jail, now looking for a way of making a dime from my brawn and cage-fighting skill. The bait dripped through to him. By the time I made an entrance he was begging for me to join him on his quest to make a fortune.

  I pull on a tee and swipe my head from side to side, clicking out air between vertebrae in my neck. I rest back against the lockers with crossed arms and legs.

  Carlos paces the floor in between long wooden benches which carve up the room, all the time talking at me about promotors, flash fight-wear, sponsors, and betting odds.

  He loves this. It’s the only semi-legit thing he’s in to. Something to give him kudos with celebs and the mega-wealthy. Those who make their fortunes in a more legitimate way. The list he regales, goes on and on as he follows me out of the changing room and to the kitchen.

  Joe jumps up from his seat, opens the fridge door and picks out two protein drinks. I take one from him, twist and throw the cap on the counter, and drain the contents with a steady flow down my throat.

  “We need to get that stock changed out too. We’re not using that brand of shakes now,” Joe tells me.

  I look at him with bored facial muscles and shrug my shoulders.

  “Whatever.”

  Makes no difference to me, I don’t taste any of it. I turned my taste-buds off to food and drink years ago. It was the only way I could stomach the shit they served us in prison.

  “We’ll re-stock your store cupboards at home too. I’ll arrange for the supplies to be dropped off later.”

  I scrub my palm from the nape of my neck to my crown and back.

  “You gonna send someone to prepare it too?” Giving him an unflinching glare.

  He inhales an exaggerated breath. “Sure. Yeah… who do you want?”

  I chuckle, which I know puts him on edge. “You know what I like.”

  He laughs nervously and backs off into the gym, leaving Carlos and me to it.

  Carlos laughs at my bully behavior. He likes how I’ve changed from the college boy who rarely dipped into the unrestricted parts of San Diego, to one who revels in them now. So, I play it up. Even though I can tell his admiration is tinged with a little nervousness and tarnished with a lot of doubt.

  He’s not quite taken me for who I am now and the reservations still rear their head. And he has good cause to be concerned. I took the rap for what turned out to be Carlos’s first, failed drugs haul. He’s never admitted to it and I wouldn’t expect him to. Because it doesn’t matter. I know—I’ve got it on good authority and backed by plenty of evidence.

  The day which turned into seven protracted years—robbing me of my freedom at the prime of my life. And he doesn’t know what to make of it.

  “You got it tonight, hermano?”

  I fix my stare on him. I’m not his brother. But there’s no need to throw it back in his face, just yet. He thinks the term makes me feel part of a family. Something he thinks I yearn for. He’s got that wrong too.

  With no affirmation from me, he deci
des I’ve agreed. “Yeah, that’s my boy.” He smirks and playfully punches my arm. The effort behind the jab doesn’t go unnoticed.

  I smile. “I’m heading home to get some sleep.”

  “Okay.” He refuses to move, so I snag my car keys and walk around him toward the door, twirling the keys on my forefinger. He follows me outside. I pat him on the shoulder. A signal that I’m going now whether he likes it or not.

  He lights a cigar; blowing smoke so it whirls annoyingly around my shoulders.

  “Raul,” he calls after me. “I’ll send the boys to pick you up at six. Make sure you have a good rest. They’re not too friendly that side of town.”

  I lengthen my pace toward my Lamborghini. Escaping the cigar smoke and leaving behind his ill-researched threats. Not too friendly. What a fucking joke.

  ◆◆◆

  It takes thirty minutes to reach my apartment in a nicer part of town. Carlos approves of my choice of neighborhood. Keep my image at the right end of lucky. But it doesn’t help me sleep any better. I could be tucked up in a palace with armed guards surrounding my goose-down-filled mattress, set on the finest silk-draped, four-poster bed and I’d still have nightmares which regularly rip me from slumber. It’s why I prefer to nap during the day. The terrors feel less real in daylight.

  Three hours and I’m done. Waking to sweat-drenched bed sheets, I take a shower and let the rivulets of water rinse away the lingering memories of bad dreams.

  As promised, Juan and Diego pick me up at six o’clock. They’re my trusted guards, although Carlos believes he handpicked them himself. Whatever. As long as they’re loyal to me, I’m not concerned what he thinks or how many dollars he rams into their fists for the bad information they feed him.

  Their black Chevrolet SUV rolls to the back entrance of the fight club in San Ysidro. Too close to home for me and I take a few deep breaths before stepping out of the car. I’ve restricted those who know I’m back but now is not the time to worry about that. No-one needs know my fear and I’ll use every ounce of mental energy to turn it into a win tonight.