Lukas

by Carian Cole

  “You should leave now.” My voice is dull, lifeless. I refuse to look at him. I’ve had enough. His resentment toward his own family is making me hate him, and I want to inflict some sort of bodily harm on him.

  He hesitates for a moment and then just turns and leaves. His footsteps pound down the stairs, and the front door squeaks opens, then closes. His car door slams and then backs out of our driveway, the headlights flashing across the bedroom windows.

  And he’s gone. Just like that.

  I sit on the bed, staring at the wall in a daze, until the sun comes up, wondering what the heck just happened.

  LUKAS

  INSOMNIA IS A BULLY OF THE worst kind. Pushing me. Shoving me. Laughing in my face. Waiting ’til I feel safe and then kicking me in the skull. I fight back, but we all know how this story goes—the bully wins.

  So I lay awake, staring at my cathedral ceiling and feeling uncomfortable in my own bed. Not just because I can’t sleep, but because there’s a chick next to me that I know I’m never going to sleep with again. I want to love her. I should love her. She’s cute and tiny with a banging body and long silky black hair with blue highlights. Her eyes are like fucking sapphires, and she has a giggle that sounds like a demented elf. She’s a musician, like me, so she gets me. She knows when to stay and when to go away, and she sucks me like I’m a cherry lollipop.

  There’s just one thing that’s wrong.

  Rolling over toward me, her lips press against my cheek. “You’re so much nicer in bed than Vandal ever was.” I feel her lips turn into a smile as she snuggles against my shoulder.

  Yup. That’s the thing that’s wrong—she slept with my older brother a few times. Actually, I’m pretty sure sleeping wasn’t involved at all while he had her tied to his bed being vandalized, as he so nicely puts it. Even though I’ve tried, I just can’t get that out of my head. I don’t want to be second choice, or get my brother’s leftovers. Who would want to always be compared to his brother? I don’t want to be with a woman that Vandal has seen naked and violated. I want someone that’s just . . . mine.

  I sit up, slowly untangling myself from her, and try to find my clothes in the dark room.

  “Where you going?” Her hand lands on my back, her voice drowsy as she fights off sleep.

  I turn toward her, dreading that I’m going to upset her, but I feel like the band-aid ripping approach is probably best.

  “Rio, I can’t do this anymore,” I say softly.

  “Do what?”

  “This. Us.”

  Bolting up, she holds the sheet against her naked chest. “Why?” Her bright blue eyes darken.

  “I really like you. You’re one of my best friends . . . it’s just not going past that for me. I wish it was.”

  Her usually pretty face falls into a sad frown. “Lukas . . . I love being with you. Maybe we just need some more time. Don’t think about it going any further, just let it happen.”

  I slowly shake my head. “I won’t do that to you.” Standing, I pull on my jeans. “I’m sorry. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

  “That’s what I love most about you,” she says wistfully. “You’re the only one that actually cares and doesn’t treat me like a toy.”

  I hate my brother for boning every chick within a hundred mile radius, and I hate myself even more for not being able to move past it.

  She crawls across the bed toward me, her long dark hair forming a silk curtain over her tits. “Lukas, it’s all right if you don’t love me. I can deal with that. Really.” Hope and desperation taint her voice, and it upsets me to hear that in her. She’s so much better than that; she just doesn’t know it yet.

  Picking her clothes up off my bedroom floor, I place them next to her so she can get dressed. “It’s not all right with me,” I tell her. “And you deserve more. Don’t settle, okay? You don’t have to. The right guy will come, trust me. And he’s going to be lucky as hell.”

  “I doubt it,” she replies, slipping her shirt over her head.

  “I’ll wait in the living room for you, and I’ll take you home.”

  “Lukas?” Her soft voice stops me before I get to the bedroom door. “There might not be a right one for any of us. Maybe that’s just a myth, ya know?”

  Maybe so, but I believe in the mythical and have faith in the legends of time. Fantasy drips through my veins. It’s what’s kept me alive.

  IVY

  IF SOMEONE HAD TOLD ME A few months ago that my husband was going to leave me for another woman, I would have laughed in their face. To say I was completely blindsided would be an understatement. While Paul got to move in to a nice new condo, buy new furniture, date a pretty young woman, and start a new exciting life of fun with the bubbly younger-me clone, my life turned into a mess of stress and confusion. It seems unfair to me, that he’s the one who did something wrong here, but I am the one suffering. Having to tell our seven year old son and seventeen year old daughter that their father moved out was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. How convenient that Paul didn’t have to see the shock and devastation on their faces or answer their endless questions.

  Having Paul in the house again a few weeks after he officially moved out to pack his things was another slam to my heart. He left almost everything that I mistakenly thought held meaning to us, or might hold some kind of sentimental value to him—wedding pictures and vacation pictures of us with the kids, and souvenirs from trips we took. He left paintings and decor items that we picked out together, even silly things we had from our first dates when we were in high school. I can’t understand why he wouldn’t want anything from our life together, as if he intends to just forget we were ever a couple.

  My best friend Lindsay has been coming over almost every day after work to check on me. I’ve never been depressed before, or had any reason to worry about my life and my future, but now, I’m consumed with it. Paul ripped everything away from me, and I’m feeling stuck in a sort of odd hazy limbo, unsure what I’m supposed to do next.

  “Sam has this really good looking friend that just separated.” Lindsay gives me a sly grin while we sip coffee in my kitchen.

  I roll my eyes at her. “Lindsay, please. I do not want to be set up on any dates, especially with someone who also just got separated, because he’s either been screwed over and is in a slump like me, or he’s the evil-doer. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “Live a little. You can’t sit in this house forever. You’re just getting more depressed and gaining weight. Don’t let that asshole win.”

  Her words hurt, even though I know she doesn’t mean them to be offensive. “Thanks, Lin. I gained ten pounds, not fifty. I’ll lose it.”

  “I know you will, hon. I’m just worried about you. I want you to be happy. The best way to get over someone is to get on top of someone else. You’re so pretty. Lots of men would love to hook up with you.”

  “Mommy, what’s hook up?” I look down at Tommy, who has quietly materialized next to me.

  I shoot daggers at Lindsay and stroke his head. “It means go to dinner, honey. Why don’t you go start your homework?”

  He makes a face and trudges off to the living room. As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Lindsay again. “Please watch what you say around him. He’s really confused about what’s going on. And I’m not getting on top of someone else!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t even see him come in. Why can’t your kids be noisy like mine?”

  “Trust me, they make noise. They’ve both been a little crazy since Paul moved out.”

  “They’ll adjust. That’s what kids do.”

  I rearrange the fruit in the bowl at the center of the table. “They want him to come back. They ask me all the time when he’s coming back home.”

  “And you? Do you want him to come back too?”

  I focus on an apple and shrug. “I don’t know . . . maybe. I miss him.”

  “Ivy. No.” She pulls my hand away from the apple. “Stop touching the fruit and l
isten to me. I know you miss him and this whole thing sucks. You’re the sweetest, most devoted person I’ve ever met. Don’t you dare let him come back after doing this to you. You have to focus on you now. You’ve never done that.” Her wedding ring digs into my fingers as she squeezes my hand. “You always put him first, and the kids first. Hell, you even put me first. You have to put you first now. You have to be Ivy without Paul, and I know that’s scary, but you have to find out who you are. Do the things you’ve always wanted to do. Color your hair, get your nails done, buy some funky clothes, get a puppy, get a tattoo. Get all the things you’ve always wanted but he didn’t like. Go out and let yourself meet new men. Let the real Ivy out. ”

  “You don’t think I’m real?”

  “Of course you are, but how many things have you not done because he didn’t like it, like not coloring your hair because he thought it was a waste of money? I want you to let the real you out now that you don’t have to worry about him censoring you.”

  I smile weakly at her. “I’ve always wanted to color my hair that pretty red color, or ombre, or whatever it’s called. And I’ve wanted a tattoo forever. And a puppy . . . I always thought the kids should grow up with a dog.”

  She grabs her purse and starts rifling through it, piling things onto the table as she rummages. “Go to the salon next week and get your hair and nails done. And . . . I have the perfect tattoo artist for you. I won this gift certificate, actually, for a tattoo with him. He’s a friend of a friend. His work is amazing. He mostly works on musicians and models and people like that, and I am now giving you my gift certificate.” She hands me a postcard with a gift card design on it. “I want you to do this. For you.”

  I bite my lip as I stare at the card. “I don’t know, Lindsay. A tattoo . . . at my age?”

  “For the love of fuck, you’re thirty-six, not a hundred. Everyone has a tattoo.”

  “Who’s getting a tattoo?” Macy walks into the room and heads straight for the fridge, a beautiful blur of long light brown hair and big blue innocent eyes.

  “I’m trying to tell your mom she’s not too old for a tattoo,” Lindsay replies while stuffing her belongings back into her purse.

  Macy stares at me with her mouth open. “Mom! You’re getting a tattoo? That’s so cool. Can I get one too?”

  “Not until you’re eighteen.”

  She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Whatever. Can I go with you and watch?”

  “I’ll think about it. Do me a favor and go check your brother. Make sure he’s okay with his homework.”

  “Don’t bring her with you,” Lindsay says when Macy leaves the room. “You need to do some things as you and not as Mom.”

  “Anything else? When did you become my life coach?” I tease, knowing she is right. I need to learn to do things on my own as a single woman, and not as a wife or mother, which will be way easier said than done since I’ve been both since I was eighteen. I don’t know anything else.

  She stands and comes around the table to give me a hug. “I don’t want you in a rut, that’s all.” She pulls away and smooths my hair. “You’re so cute, Ivy. Please do the things we talked about. Now, I better head home and feed my family.”

  “Okay. I love you. Say hi to Sam and the kids for me.”

  “I will, and think about getting on top of someone else, too. A good sexy fling could really cheer you up.”

  “Go.” I point to the door, laughing at her.

  IVY

  YOU CAN DO THIS. YOU CAN do this. With each step from the parking lot to the sidewalk, I flip flop back and forth between forcing myself forward to the studio and running back to my car, driving home, and spending the rest of the night eating ice cream while curled up in bed with a book.

  Just as Lindsay described, the building is very unique. It appears to have been a chapel or church at one point in its life, with grey stone exterior, stained glass windows, and a steeple on the roof. A stone sign on the front lawn has Hearts & Arrows Tattoo Studio engraved in large flourishy lettering. My heels click on the slate walkway as I approach a huge red wooden door with metal gothic accents. Taking a deep breath, I push the heavy door open, a cowbell announcing my entrance. I wince at the sound. No turning back now.

  “I’ll be right there!” The words bellow from another part of the building beyond the foyer.

  The interior of the studio is nothing like I expected. Actually, I’m not sure what I was expecting. I guess I assumed it would be like the cold, dirty looking tattoo places I’ve seen in movies—large men with long scraggly beards smoking cigars and hanging around looking sketchy. Hearts & Arrows is a mixture of luxurious Gothic and Victorian decor, with dark hardwood floors, and a red velvet antique couch with matching chairs in the waiting area. Artwork in ornate vintage gold frames hang on the walls. Picking up one of the aged leather bound photo albums from the mahogany coffee table, I realize it’s a portfolio of the artist’s tattoos and slowly flip the pages, impressed with his designs. The detail and shading is intricate and very realistic, especially the portrait tattoos of people and pets, which look like real photographs. Lindsay was right—this guy is truly gifted. My nervousness starts to ease up a little, knowing that at least the tattoo will be beautiful if I don’t pass out and make an idiot of myself.

  “Okay . . .” He comes out from behind the large thick curtain divider and stands behind the glass counter in the waiting area. “You must be Ivy, my six-thirty? You’re my gift card winner.”

  “That’s me.” I put the book down and turn fully toward him, and the moment our eyes meet, an odd sensation comes over me. A warmth sparks deep in my core and seeps to my heart, creating a flutter that spreads throughout my body.

  Deep chocolate truffle eyes lock on to mine, while a crooked smile and curious tilt of his head tells me he feels it, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure he feels exactly what I’m feeling, judging by the inquisitive expression on his face.

  He clears his throat nervously and extends his tattoo-covered arm and hand to me. “I’m Lukas. Have we met before?” Slipping my hand into his, that strange feeling buzzes through me, stronger now that we’re touching. Grounding myself, I take in the sight of him. He’s young, I’d guess early twenties, and he’s covered in tattoos. A faded grey t-shirt stretches over his broad chest and toned muscular shoulders, revealing full-sleeved artwork. His hair is long, a bit past his shoulders, and jet black with razored edges. Silver piercings decorate his eyebrow and lower lip. His eyes are dark with amber flecks—what we gals would describe as bedroom eyes. Way too sexy to be looking into for long periods of time. He holds on to my hand for a few moments longer than what would be the norm, then slowly lets go.

  “No,” I answer softly, unable to pull my eyes from his.

  Although something about him feels familiar, I know for a fact I’ve never seen him before. I would definitely remember him. Even though I’ve never been attracted to someone like him before, he definitely has something going on about him that’s warming my insides in a very foreign way and throwing me off my inner axis.

  An adorable boyish smile slowly spreads across his lips. “You look so familiar.” He shakes his head, sending his shaggy hair flying around like a black halo. “So, you ready?” His voice is raspy, kinda like when you’ve been at a concert all night screaming.

  “I think so,” I reply, smiling back. “This is my first . . . I’m a little nervous.” I clutch the bag I brought with me that has a pair of shorts and socks for me to change into, which he suggested when we emailed earlier this week.

  He gestures with his hand for me to follow him behind the dark heavy curtain. “I love virgins. Don’t be nervous. You’ll be fine. I’ll go nice and gentle. If you want to change into shorts, there’s a bathroom right through that curtain there. Just make a left.”

  I quickly change my clothes and return to his work area, smiling nervously at him as I climb into the chair. He already has all his tools laid out on his workbench: the gun, itty-bitty cups of ink, and pap
er towels. Rock music is playing in the background, too, which I don’t recall hearing earlier, and incense is burning in the corner. He snaps on a pair of black latex gloves like a gothic surgeon and swivels his stool toward me.

  “I have your sketch here,” he says, “ . . . and I gotta say. I really like it, and I think you’re gonna love it.”

  He holds up a large piece of tracing paper for me to look at. It bears a design that I simply described to him via email a week earlier—a vine that swirls from the very top of my outer thigh down to my ankle, with swirly pieces that have different colored jewel-like flowers, as well as tiny butterflies and hummingbirds scattered about with wispy fillers. His sketch is an amazing work of art in itself. In fact, it’s so beautiful that I want to frame it and hang it on the wall at home. Somehow, he has captured exactly what I envisioned in my head.

  Speechless, I stare at his drawing for a few moments. “Wow . . . it’s perfect.” I’m a bit nervous that it’s such a big tattoo for my first, but I don’t want to get some little tiny meaningless tattoo to ‘practice’ with before this one. I want something that’s worth it, something I’m committed to, that symbolizes the new me.

  Grinning, he tapes it up to the wall next to the chair. “I tattoo freehand. That means that I don’t sketch it out on you first, like an outline, and then fill it in. Instead, I tattoo just like I would draw or paint on paper and canvas.”

  “Oh . . . so, what if you make a mistake?” I ask.

  Laughing a little, he shakes his head. “You’re the first person to ever ask me that.”

  Leave it to me to be the first idiot to offend this amazing artist. “I’m sorry.” My eyes glance back to his sketch. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Just curiosity, I guess.”

  “Hey, I’m not offended at all,” he answers. “I admire cautious people who aren’t afraid to ask questions, especially about some guy marking their body for life.”