by Lane Hart
Had known early on that if I had any hopes of escaping my old man’s house, I needed wheels, so at the age of fourteen, I’d put away every dime I could find, hid it from that cocksucker until I had enough. Soon as I’d left the joint, I snuck back around to my old neighborhood and dug up my stash, right where I’d left it, safe and sound. Justine was the only one I’d ever told its location, and she’d kept my secret along with all the others I’d confided to her over the years. She was the only person I ever trusted with someone so important it meant the difference between captivity and freedom. I should have known that chick back at the house was gonna be bad news. Like I said… bitches and their bullshit.
Just my fuckin’ luck.
The old lady who rented me the place had already told me to take it easy on her, something about having a hard time in life or some such bullshit. Bitch didn’t know the first thing about hard times. She’d never lived with a man who considered himself a god. My father was a despicable cocksucker every day of the week who’d never shied away from telling me how he dealt with a piece of ass when they couldn’t cut the mustard. “Bitches want more than the good Lord meant for them to have,” he’d said to me often. “Fuck ‘em, then forget ‘em before they get their hooks into you, wantin’ you to feel shit. Never give a bitch the upper hand.” I’d never known what that meant until later in life, but by then it had been too late. Didn’t mean he’d ever tried to stop showing me, grilling it into my head, until I thought and felt just like him. I got to see firsthand what a disgusting piece of shit he was towards the line of would-be skanks he’d paraded around our house before he married Justine. Didn’t matter what he said or did; they just kept coming back for more of the same bullshit.
Age had never slowed him down; it only made him worse.
My mother had been his first practice dummy for a lot of years before she’d finally said enough was enough and left his ass high and dry. If it weren’t for a drunk driver’s weekend binge that ended in a head-on collision, she would have sent for me when I was a boy and saved me from his poison. Guess I should’ve thanked him for providing a roof over my head and food in my belly. All things being equal, I’d rather been left on the streets. If a woman was lucky enough to get herself invited into my bed, she knew exactly what to expect beforehand. No pretense, no bullshit. Rock-hard cock, a rough ride, and the option to walk out the door or be thrown out, her choice. That was something my new little housemate would have to get used to real quick once I figured out where the local hot spots were around town.
First things first.
I hadn’t ironed out fuck all with my new boss at Masonry Ink. If there was one thing I knew about tattoo artists, they didn’t keep bankers hours most of the time and worked well into the early morning if necessary. I was really pushing it arriving so early, but what I had to say couldn’t wait, not if I was going to be working there. It all just seemed too simple, too fucking easy. Want a job? Boom. You got one. Need a place to stay? No problem. Go see this lady and tell her I sent you. Nothing in life came for free, and Mace Fox had practically handed me that shit on a silver platter, no questions asked. He must be the stupidest man in the world or a seasoned hustler looking to play all the angles. Either way, it wasn’t my problem. Less than sixty days and a wake-up, and my ass was back on the road and far away from everything and everyone.
I parked on the street right outside the strip mall and noticed a long-ass line outside Masonry Ink. I made my way inside hoping to see a full staff of artists working their way through the crowd of customers, but the place was empty with the exception of the chick who served the drinks. She was dragging a box across the floor, bent at the knees, thong showing from the top of her jeans. She was a sexy little thing with a take no shit look about her that stirred my cock to life with just a glance. I was about to tap her on the shoulder when she surprised the shit outa me before I got the chance.
“Better get back there and quit staring at my ass, nutsack. Mace is damn pissed he had to wake up so early, and it’s all your fucking fault.” She stood to her full height minus the box. “Take that shit with you. Tired of dragging it out the way every other day.” How the fuck did she hear me?
“Um, yeah thanks…” I didn’t know her name, and she didn’t offer it.
“Whatever.” She waived a hand and strutted away from where we were standing.
I made my way to the back of the shop carrying that heavy-ass box and located two doors, one marked Private the other Knock before entering. I couldn’t very well do that since my hands were full, so I resorted to kicking with the heel of my boot, barely missing Fox when he whipped the door open in a full-on rage.
“THE FUCK?” he growled before he realized it was me. “Drop that shit in the corner and cop a squat, Dread. Got people waiting for you.”
Either this dude was into some serious online shopping or someone was dealing in stolen goods. Inside the spacious office were at least six other various sized crates personally addressed to Mace Fox care of Masonry Ink. Barbershops, hair salons, and tattoo parlors were notorious for being havens for swap meets when you were looking to buy cheap goods. The fact that most of the shit was stolen property didn’t mean fuck all when you needed a new television and only had a few dollars to spend. I hardly batted an eyelash once I took a seat across from the oversized desk that Mace was sitting behind with his feet up. He held a half smirk on his face as if he was privy to a private joke that only he knew the punchline to. All bullshit clowning aside, I really just wanted to get down to business and figure out where I stood.
“I see Angelica finally found a big enough fool to drag that shipment out of her way. I’d been meaning to do it. Guess it just slipped my mind. Woman’s been bitchin’ about that shit all week. Surprised she didn’t set it on fire,” Fox admitted.
“She didn’t really introduce herself, just told me to carry it,” I cut him off. “Look. You didn’t take your cut from the sketch I sold, and since every place is different, I need to know how much you skim off the top before things get going around here.” Fox choked out a laugh before he adjusted himself from his laidback comfortable position and leaned on his elbows.
“That’s not the way we do things here, Dread,” he said. “Every man makes his own and therefore keeps his own. Masonry Ink isn’t funded by booth rentals or monthly dues. We work as a unit for the betterment of the business. We look out for this community and the people in it; without them, we’d be nothing. So, you keep your money, Dread, every dime of it.”
“Riiight… you look out?” I responded disbelievingly. ”By hocking stolen goods out the back door? The fuck do I look like? Bobo the fool? Wrong man, Fox. Wrong fucking man.”
I hooked a thumb to the boxes stacked in the corner, smirking triumphantly. He’d have to do a fuckuva lot better than coming at me with some lame bullshit like that. Since when did people go into business without trying to make as much money as they possibly could? The upkeep alone on this place must cost a pretty penny, not to mention the endless supplies of ink and other materials needed to keep things going. Fox didn’t strike me as being someone of low intelligence. He obviously didn’t feel the same about me. He stood up from his desk and took a slow stroll over to where I’d placed the box over in the corner and ripped open the top with ease, withdrawing a large bag.
“Stolen goods?” he challenged with raised eyebrows. “This… Jerome Red, is someone’s idea of a peace offering. Sorry to disappoint you and your fucked-up imagination, but I’ll say again, that’s not how we do things at Masonry Ink.”
Fox dropped a large plastic bag full of assorted gumdrops in my lap before retaking his seat behind the desk. I felt like Willie Wonka’s idiot little brother Arnold sitting there holding that sack of sweets on my dick. It wasn’t in my nature to apologize for a motherfuckin’ thing, even if I was one hundred percent wrong. If Fox expected that much, he never demanded it. He let me off the hook with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand.
“You have
questions. Ask them,” he stated plainly. “Don’t assume shit when it comes to my shop and the men and women who work here. We all have a story to tell, some worse than others, but it’s up to us to decide if or when we go about the tellin’, Dread.”
“Oh yeah? So what’s the story with this?” I asked, shaking the bag of candy.
“Another time,” he breathed. “Ask me what you really want to know and cut the bullshit.”
“Fair enough.” I threw the sack to the floor and looked him dead in his eyes. “Why’d you hire me knowing I had a record? Why not just send me on my way and save yourself the headache?”
“Honestly? Once I saw your work, nothing else mattered. You’ve got something special, kid, a real talent that doesn’t come along often. Those people out there”—he pointed to the door—“deserve the best from Masonry Ink. It’s got my blood on it, my sweat, and it’s my job to make damn sure they get it.”
“I’m just supposed to believe all that? Sounds like some fairytale sissy shit to me. Can’t trust it,” I confessed honestly.
“Hell no, I don’t expect you to believe it,” Fox countered. “What I do expect is for you to do your fucking job and keep the clients happy. The rest? It either comes later or it don’t. Makes no difference to me one way or the other, but know this… A man must learn to trust before he can be trusted, Dread. I trust every artist out there with my life. Good or bad, I know they’ll have my back. I suspect you have no idea what that’s like. Maybe one day, you’ll learn, kid.”
“Anything else?” I was done with this conversation.
“Nope,” Fox replied. “Good luck dwindling down that crowd out front. They hate to be kept waiting, especially by the new guy.” What?
“They’re waiting for me? But how—”
“Told you before Masonry Ink was the best. Word gets around… if you’re good enough.”
Fox’s laughter was the last thing I heard before I walked out and closed the door behind me. So much shit to take in on top of everything else going on in my life. Fox talked a good game, with his trust speech and let’s do it for Johnny philosophy. He could sell stupid somewhere else; I wasn’t buying it. My first day in lockdown in the joint had taught me one thing: Watch your own back. I’d stick around for the money; it was aplenty around here.
I’d leave Fox to his gumdrops and bullshit.
Michelle
It had been a week since Rome became my roommate, and I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since. When I left for work in the morning, he was home, somewhere. His car was parked out front, so I could only assume. Sometime in the afternoon, he’d just disappear until the wee hours of the morning. He even somehow managed to escape Sunday dinner, a mandatory requirement implemented by Mrs. Lafontaine for all her tenants, which up until recently had meant only I had to attend. She had this idea that since we were living together, so to speak, we should consider ourselves family and therefore eat together at least once a week. I never minded the condition; it gave me the opportunity to have a great meal with someone I’d grown to care for over the years. I’d doubt she’d take his absence lightly, and chances were she’d be giving him an earful before next week’s gathering once she caught up with him. She’d have to take her Five Hour Energy shots for that to happen.
Just because I hadn’t seen Rome in person didn’t mean he hadn’t made his presence in the house known. It all started after the second night he’d arrived around three o’clock in the morning. I heard a loud banging noise that woke me from a sound sleep and nearly gave me a heart attack. At first I thought it was a prowler trying to break into the house in order to steel something, or worse yet, try and kill me. I jumped out of bed and tiptoed to my locked bedroom door and listened for signs that the intruder was getting closer. That’s when I heard that god-awful moaning followed by slaps of wet flesh and animalistic grunting. Jesus fucking Christ. For the next forty-five minutes or so, all I heard was:
“Fuck me, Dread”
“Make it hurt.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Make me come.”
That’s the way it’s been now for well over a week. Every night a different skank, followed by a hard slam of the back door when they’re asked to leave. I was so damn tired I could hardly keep my eyes open inside the quiet confines of the library. More than once, I’d been caught by Mrs. Brooks slumped over a stack of encyclopedias with my eyelids closed. That idiot was going to cost me my job if things like that went on much longer.
Things like that? Jeez, Michelle, call it what it was, for Christ sakes. Straight, unadulterated fucking by a man who didn’t give the first fuck that I was right across the hall and could hear every grunt, every smack, and every howl of release when he (mostly he) shot his load into his awaiting victim for the night. The man had absolutely no filter when he was doing whatever to those women in his room. Some of the things that came out of his mouth when he was deep in the throes of passion were just… obscene. If that wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t exactly go easy on them once the party was over. Rome didn’t give a shit how they hit the skids as long as it was done quickly and quietly. I’d been privy to all of it, half dressed, missing shoes, threats of bodily injury. One way or another, they were forced out, never to return again. I was so exhaustively upset by the time I reached the survivors group meeting and was the first to raise my hand when it was time to share.
“I have no idea what I’m gonna do, Hank,” I pleaded with the therapist. “He’s impossible to live with, and I’m losing my damn mind.”
I’d just finished telling them about the day Rome had rented the apartment next to mine, his sour attitude, and his penchant for slutty women and huge sexual appetite. By the time I was done, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as if they were seeing me for the very first time. Strange.
“Is that so?”
Hank adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and jotted down a few notes on his ever-present yellow pad. He was in his early forties, yet his ultra-modern apparel mixed with his sleek yet perfectly styled hair made him look no older than twenty. I never let his good looks fool me. Hank had a way of drawing out the blood and guts of long buried feelings from the toughest of resisters, members like myself. His calculated delay in responding to my breakdown could only mean one thing.
Trouble with a capital T.
Hank threw me one of his patented curve ball questions he was known for right before he delivered the dagger. “How long have you been coming here, Michelle? Two years or more?” he speculated.
“Yes. So?” Where the hell is he going with this?
“In the two years you’ve been coming here, I don’t recall you being quite so… what’s the word I’m looking for?” He brought his pen to his lips and tapped it slowly against them in contemplation. “Animated. Why do you suppose that is?”
I really hated him in that moment.
Clever bastard.
“I’M NOT!” Shit on a shingle. He almost had me.
“I’m simply concerned with the current state of my living arrangements, that’s all. As you well know, Hank, I’m a very private person, especially after everything that’s happened, so having to share my personal space with a complete stranger has made me a bit… flustered.”
Another Hank pause, and I was ready to bolt.
“Flustered. Is that what you’re calling it, Michelle?” he mused. “I’m a little slow, so let’s see if I got this straight.” Hank cleared his throat and fired. “You haven’t physically seen him since he moved in over a week ago, you unfairly judged him because of his tattoos, and then you mocked his only means of transportation because you felt it wasn’t macho enough. Tell us again how this man has made you flustered, ‘cause I’m not making the connection, Michelle.”
Again…Clever bastard.
“I… He…You don’t.” Shit. Shit. And more shit.
What could I say? He was right as rain in his assessment. I was the bitch in this particular scenario, plain and simple. Shame on me for doing the sa
me exact things that so many others had done to me once those photos and videos hit circulation. How could I have been so insensitive? All that said, Hank still never explained why Rome flew off the handle so easily and took off like a bat outa hell. I sat quietly and continued to listen.
“There’s a valuable lesson to be learned here, guys,” Hank addressed the group. “Nietzsche said it best, and I want you all to try and remember this: ‘To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.’”
He paused for effect, giving us all one more lasting look before dismissing the group for the evening. I left there feeling no better than I had when I arrived, thanks to Hank and his ridiculous life lessons that never made any sense. What the hell did my suffering have to do with living with an overgrown sex fiend who obviously hated my guts? Maybe if I weren’t so wrapped up in my own head, trying to come up with an answer to that question, I might’ve noticed the brown station wagon parked out front before I entered the house. Since I didn’t, I ended up screaming like a banshee when I caught sight of Rome sitting in the living room surrounded by a mess of papers strewn around with a disgusted look on his face.
“Ohmigod.” I placed a hand on my chest to calm my raging heart. “I didn’t know you were here so early.”
I tried to laugh it off to keep myself from feeling so silly, but Rome didn’t respond. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even look my way. I figured it was now or never if I ever wanted to make things right after that horrible fiasco from a week ago. Seize the moment and all that. If we could come to some sort of mutual understanding, perhaps I could get him to curb his late-night slash early-morning rendezvous, so I could get some damn sleep. I slowly stepped closer to where he was sitting while I stowed away my purse and keys.