Dark Ink Tattoo: Episode 2

by Cassie Alexander

  I walked over the line she’d drawn, her ritual spell meant to trap me – and now, with Paco’s blood on board, I could feel its pull. I knelt down beside it and waved my hand out and it tugged me every time. My little witch had been magical after all – just less magical than me.

  So had she seen the future? Hers – and mine? My black aura, my evilness? I waved my hand across the spell one more time, then stood. There was nothing else for me here, and it was time for some magic of my own.

  * * *

  I got into Paco’s car and drove out of Summerlin. Vegas wasn’t that big a city and I had hours left till dawn – it was time to cruise. I drove for downtown, intent on Bella, the scent of her blood still fresh in my nostrils. If her killers were still in Las Vegas tonight, there was a good chance I’d find them.

  How? By being me – and full of blood. It was some sort of psychic dowsing – the same thing that pulled innocent creatures into my path to bleed could pull other people toward me, or me to them. So I drove east on 515 and waited.

  Just past downtown, I felt a tug. Like someone was pulling a string tied around my chest. I flipped my turn signal on and followed it.

  The dowsing pulled me away from the strip and further out, into the endless suburbs on Vegas’s other side, until it led me into a parking lot and faded. I was circled by off brand restaurants, used clothing stores, cash-checking places -- and a dive bar with all sorts of motorcycles parked out front. Hogg’s Heaven, with the image of a happy pig – like it used to be a BBQ joint, except now the ‘hog’ referred to all the bikes parked outside. I got out of Paco’s car and walked in.

  I was plenty used to these kind of places. But I’d borrowed a shirt for the sleeves, I didn’t want to make identifying me later any easier than it was, and the magician’s starched collar made me look a little stuffy. Maybe that was a good thing and I should go with the whole tourist shtick. So instead of my usual swagger, I paused at the outside of the line of motorcycles and swallowed nervously, appearing to gather my strength before I pushed through.

  My nose told me this was the right place, as soon as I walked in. The scent of a working shop and that animal undertone hovered in the air. How would I know who it belonged to? One of the people casting me glances and pretending not to, or one of the people giving me outright glares? I couldn’t go around sniffing people, so I walked over to the bar, where the bartender ignored me.

  I knew he could see me, I was the only person here not wearing some sort of leather, and I might’ve been the only person to put on deodorant. The men around me, in conversation with one another and/or their beers, ranged in age from early twenties to late fifties, but the one thing they all had in common was that they all looked muscled and angry. The fewer women present had the same age range as well, only they went from nubile to weatherbeaten. Sunscreen was clearly not popular among this set.

  One of the younger women broke away from a crowded pool table and walked over. “Can I help you?” Paco’s blood just kept on giving.

  “He was on his way out,” answered the bartender for me. There was an angry scar from his eye down to his neck.

  I turned toward her and smiled like I’d won the lottery, letting all of my magnetism beam down. “I was actually looking for a friend. About this tall? Dark hair? Curvy?” I used my hands to show the space Bella would occupy. “I met her, and she said she comes here.” I did my best to sound missed-connections, not stalkery.

  A frown crinkled her face. “Yeah, um, I haven’t seen anyone like that in a while now.”

  She was pretty by Midwestern standards, shoulder-height to me, petite all around, perky-breasts under a patterned-T, with a denim mini and low-cut cowboy boots to show off all the leg in between. There was something earthy about her though, a little too weary and a little too wise, and I knew she was lying about seeing Bella.

  “You’re sure?” I pressed, positively glowing at her. I saw something flicker in her eyes, some doubt or uncertainty, but then the bartender answered.

  “She’s sure.”

  “I’ll have to drink her away then.” I sank against the bar dramatically, playing the mortally wounded tourist. “She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Present company excluded, of course.”

  The girl’s eyebrows rose and she laughed, turning back to the bartender. “Come on, Wade. Let him have just one beer.” Wade’s leather vest had a patch that said Davis on it – so clearly he and she were on a first name basis.

  I came forward, wallet at the ready. “Only if I can buy one for my champion too.”

  She bit her bottom lip for a second. “Any of these guys here can buy me beer anytime,” she said, gesturing to the surrounding men, several of whom were keeping an eye on us. “But you can only buy me one if you go to the jukebox and pick the right song.”

  And that…was something the blood likely wouldn’t help me with. I gave her a tight smile and tried to sound at ease. “Sure. Wait right here.”

  I walked over to the jukebox – it was one of those electronic numbers with an infinity of songs to choose from. And unless the magician’s shirt had actual magic in it – I put one arm up against the machine, and used the other to flip through the screens. I was a fan of The Black Keys. Sinister Kid felt a little too on the nose, given what I was – but I’d always loved Howlin’ for You. I ran my card through, punched the numbers, and returned to find a beer of unknown origin waiting beside the woman for me. I took a sip, glad I was immortal and likely immune to whatever the bartender’d poisoned it with, and watched the girl’s face as the current song faded, and Howlin’ for You came on.

  As the first few chords picked up, she broke into a wide grin and gave me a sly look. “Well what do you know – you found it.”

  I grinned back at her and then crooked a finger at the bartender as pretentiously as possible.

  Chapter 5

  My afternoon was booked with one of my long-standing appointments: an art deco framed back piece done Waterhouse-style of a woman with long hair contemplating herself in a mirror. The woman I was tattooing used to be a showgirl, but had retired upwards into the arms of a RV-sales millionaire. This tattoo was a commitment for her – after getting this, there was almost no way she could go back to her old life. I found it ironic that someone would spend their whole lives showing people other parts of their body, only to finally decorate those parts to be privately seen.

  Three hours in, and I could tell she was over it, twitching and squeaking – especially when I got to the hair spooling near the soft skin of her waist. I got to a good stopping point then asked, “Ready to call it a day?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, slumping into the chair. “Longest session yet?”

  “Yeah,” I said, spraying water and sliding it away with a towel. “We’re almost there. Just a few more hours.”

  She dismounted the chair, a little wobbly with endorphins, into the waiting arms of her older husband. “It’s gorgeous, honey. Just as gorgeous as you,” he said. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his own faded Marine tattoos. I knew better than to offer to touch them up for him. Some tattoos were best left alone.

  He steadied her as I taped her up, and I couldn’t help but smile at them. He came with her each session, to drive and support her, and in the mirror I could see the way she looked at him for strength when the needles hurt. They were genuinely happy.

  Would I ever get to be?

  “So, three hours?” the marine said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I glanced at the clock. “Precisely.”

  He pulled out a wad of hundreds, licked his thumb, and counted several out for me – my time, plus a tip. I tossed my gloves in the trash, then took the cash. “Thanks, as always.”

  “See you next month?” she said, beaming at me. She’d rebounded into the happy part post-tattoo – the primal pleasure your body took after weathering pain.

  “Of course,” I said, leaning in for a very gentle hug.

  * * *

  I gav
e my wrist a thirty minute break, paid some bills, and did boss-like stuff, which included studiously not cramping my old artists’ style while keeping an eye on the newer ones. We generally had a probationary period of three months where you had to not only prove you were decent, but that you were trainable, and that you could play well with others. I’d stopped being surprised by how many artists failed long ago. I wasn’t sure if it was supervision by a woman or supervision at all – a lot of artists couldn’t take suggestions. And I had high standards, for customer service, quality, cleanliness, and punctuality that my artists met or exceeded all day, every day.

  All of which was to say I was in charge at all times. Which was why telling Mark thanks but no thanks tonight should be easy, right? Right.

  Then I saw my next client get out of her car through my nice new glass window.

  * * *

  I picked Rabbit up from his afterschool program and drove us home. His favorite dinner was my favorite bribe.

  “Are you going out again?” he asked over a chicken stick.

  I usually only went out one or two times a week, on weekends not weekdays. “Yeah. Is that okay?” If he said it wasn’t, then I could call Mark and postpone –

  “Can I play videogames?” His voice rose in excitement.

  My shoulders sank. Betrayed by my own son and his computer. “After you do your homework.”

  “Did I hear someone say homework?” my mother shouted from the living room where she was watching Wheel of Fortune. “I love homework!”

  The expression Rabbit made then – caught between a ridiculous grin and an eye-roll – I could tell he was reaching that age when the adults in his life wouldn’t be cool anymore soon, but we weren’t there yet. I laughed at him then he laughed with me, and I felt my heart stretch tight. I would do anything for him, give my life for him. There had to be some way to never tell him he was Gray’s.

  “You okay, Mom?” he asked, hopping out of his chair and pushing it back in.

  “Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “Go help your Grandma learn fractions. It’ll be good for her brain in her old age.”

  “I heard that!”

  He grabbed his plate and my plate and I swatted affectionately at his bottom as he ran on by.

  * * *

  The one fry I’d eaten floated on a sea of stomach acid as I went upstairs to my room. What do you wear when you’re fairly certain you’ll be breaking up with someone? I’d been a nun for Halloween a few years back, maybe I could see if it still fit. Habits seemed very forgiving. I snorted at myself and then opened up my closet doors.

  What I wound up with was a swingy black shirt-dress that had a fabric belt. It was cute, but perhaps a little more churchy than date-y. I put on cute black flats, small gold hoops and soft pink lipstick, and redid my eyes a little, but not too much. Still altogether churchy, although a stylish and fashionable one. I was pulling my coat out of the closet when the doorbell rang.

  I made it through the gauntlet of my mother and son and answered the door after peeking through the peephole to make sure it was really Mark and not some biker.

  Which was, in and of itself, the biggest reason I needed to break up with him. I’d have to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. I couldn’t condemn anyone else I loved to that torment too.

  I swung the door open and plastered a smile on. “Hey Mark.”

  “Hey beautiful,” he said. He offered me his hand and I stepped outside.

  We made it down to his car silently together, him guiding me toward the passenger side.

  “So it’s like that, is it?” he said, looking from the dress to me with a bemused expression.

  I pretended not to know what he meant. “Hmmm?”

  “Hmmm,” he hmmmed back, with a bit more gravel, and swung the door to his beemer open.

  * * *

  We drove the same path we had the night before, back to the Fleur de Lis. “I’m not –“ I complained, the second I realized where we were going. I wasn’t dressed for a night out here. What if we were skipping a restaurant and going to a club?

  “Relax, it’ll be fine.”

  Easy for him to say. He parked and tossed the valet his keys, again without giving his name or taking the tag, took my hand, and pulled me inside.

  The floor of the casino was like a cross between a ballroom and an art gallery. Lines of slot machines stopped where baroquely carved roulette and black jack tables began. People, classy people, wearing suits and satin, milled near each of these, with drinks in their hands, talking to their friends, blowing on one another’s dice.

  I let Mark lead me through and take me to an elevator on the floor’s far side. In typical Vegas fashion, I’d be lost for a bit now even if I wanted to leave – all casinos were built half-labyrinth.

  We stepped into the elevator and it lifted us, its glass walls giving us a view of the entire place, and it seemed to keep going for an incredibly long time.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Mon Toit – my roof,” he translated for me. The elevator slowed and the doors opened, proving him right.

  It was a restaurant with wall to wall views of downtown. Ever since they’d bumped the legal height restrictions up, casinos had been nudging higher – and the Fleur was currently the highest one of all. I walked through the doors and towards the windows like a moth to a flame. And then I noticed that we were apparently the only people here. “What?” I whispered, in slow realization. All the tables were set, but it was just us – Mark came behind, and pulled a chair out for me at the table with the best view.

  “Care to join me?” he asked. I walked over to him and sat down, letting him tuck my chair in. He took the seat on the opposite side, and as soon as we were seated, waiters appeared as if by magic, bringing glasses of water and dark red wine.

  “There’re some things I need to tell you, Angela. I think some of them you maybe already know – which is why you’re pulling back. All I ask – all I want – is to give you context.”

  I swallowed. This was a turn. “Sure.”

  “You know how I’m a lawyer?”

  I nodded and took hold of my water glass.

  “Well I haven’t exactly been forthright with you. And you – you never really asked any questions – so I never had to come up with answers.”

  It was hard to keep the confusion off my face. “Just spit it out, Mark.”

  “I’m head legal counsel here. And I’m kind of a big deal.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Big enough to close out the entire restaurant for us deal?”

  He gave me a rueful grin. “Only on a weekday. Weekends, too many people use this place for marriage proposals, I wouldn’t want to ruin their fun.”

  “So, you’re a big rich lawyer. So what?” I said. “Oh -- God – is this where I find out that I’m the other woman?”

  He laughed. “No – no no no.”

  “Then what? Because while cash is nice and all –“

  “You remember all those movies in the 90’s?” he gave me a hopeful look, and spun his hand to indicate our surroundings.

  “Barely – I was pretty young,” I said, as realization dawned. Before new Vegas there was old Vegas, and old Vegas’d been run by the mafia. My boyfriend was a big rich lawyer -- for the mob.

  I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh or cry or laugh-cry. I grabbed the wine glass and took a huge swig of it, then another, as Mark studied me from across the table.

  My wolf – me – one of us – had unerring instincts, dammit. To find the biggest, baddest guy in the room and fall for him.

  Even when I thought I wasn’t – I was.

  “I understand if that means that we can’t be together,” he said calmly, almost cool, like I was an opponent in court. He was worried I was going to still reject him, I could see him shutting down. I put the wine down instantly, reached out a hand, and he reached out for it at once engulfing it in his own.

  “That’s not it at all,” I said.

&nbs
p; “Then what happened? You’ve been acting strange for weeks. I assumed you’d finally googled me.”

  I had, once, before our first actual date, like any responsible American girl. But I’d been on my phone and stopped when Mark Carrera and a lawyer photo all came up. I put my head down in my free hand. “No. I’ve just been dealing with my own stuff. You’re not the only one with a secret identity.”

  “Yeah? You go around Vegas at night, solving crime?” A tentative hope bloomed around his eyes as he teased, “Are we secretly mortal enemies?”

  “Not quite.” How much to tell him and not sound crazy? “You know how I have a son?”

  He nodded. “I know that you haven’t let me meet him yet.”

  “His dad – well, his dad’s an asshole. He’s in prison. And he’s recently started to contact me.” Keep it surface, keep it safe. “He’s been sending me letters. I don’t want to talk to him –“

  “Who is he?”

  “You mean is he a friend of yours?” I said, tilting my head to the side. “Unlikely.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You realize anything you don’t tell me now, I could just look up later? I have sources.”

  I took my hand from both of his. “You wouldn’t, if you were the honorable and respectful man I thought walked me through that door.”

  He rocked back in his chair and appraised me anew. “Touché.”

  “I was never caught when I was running with him, so there’s nothing tying my name to his. And it doesn’t matter anyhow, he’s serving consecutive life sentences.”

  “For?”

  “Bad things.”

  “Coy girl.” He gave me that look he always did when I was too challenging -- like I was a horse to be tamed or a mountain to be climbed. That look always made my heart catch in my throat and me squeeze my legs together a little more tightly, but right now I forced myself to concentrate on the situation at hand. “So what does he want?”

  “He wants to see his son, who doesn’t know about him. I told him his dad died.”

  “Oh. Angela,” he shook his head quickly. “You shouldn’t have lied to him.”