by Deja Voss
“You better make sure you punch that outline in hard, girlie. You kids and your wimpy little outlines. I spend half my days fixing the shit y’all try to pass as tattoos these days.”
I remind myself he’s just drunk. Just tired. He doesn’t mean what he’s saying. I should know better than to call him before my big day. “I apprenticed under the best,” I say. “I know how a fucking outline works, Dad.”
“I know you do, baby. I’m sorry. Just… rough night.”
“Well, go get some sleep. I’m sure the line out the door will still be there when you wake up. I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, kiddo. I’m sorry I’m such a miserable fucker I drove you off just like your mama.”
“Don’t say shit like that. Get some rest. I’ll call you tonight.”
I hang up the phone, and hang my head, my wet hair dripping all over my clothes. I don’t know why I let him get under my skin like this. Times like these I only wish I would’ve moved further away, skipped the state, changed my number, let him fend for his drunk self instead of keeping that connection going.
Then I remember he’s the reason why I’m the woman I am today. He taught me everything I know, even if it wasn’t on purpose. You need thick skin to survive as a woman in this business. You need to learn to let your talent speak louder than anybody else’s words. You need to learn to get back up again after being beaten down day after day after day.
That glimmer in my eye reminds me of him when he’s sober. Everything he accomplished. Everything he passed down to me. I shove my equipment in my oversized purse and grab my keys.
Today is going to be a great day. I don’t care what the rest of the world has to say.
Chapter Three
I’m singing to myself as I walk through the shop doors, my eyes struggling to adjust under the bright neon lights, a stark contrast to the gray gloomy November afternoon outside. I pass by Allie, our receptionist, and shoot her a friendly smile and nod as I pull out my headphones, but she sinks down into her chair so low, she looks like she’s trying to hide under the desk.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“Please don’t be mad at me, Pearl; I swear I had no idea,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows at her, wondering what could’ve possibly gone down in the last fifteen hours since I’d left the shop that could’ve made me mad at her. It doesn’t take me long to realize exactly what she was talking about. Barry’s at his normal station, front and center, machine buzzing, and stretched out over his chair is my client, Kevin. My dream client. The client I found myself. The client I’d worked so hard designing for. The client who was going to take my portfolio to the next level.
He lays there with his head tucked in his arms as Kevin freehands a giant tribal design down the middle of his back.
My combat boots clunk heavy across the tiled floor. There’s no composing myself now. Barry looks up at me with a shit-eating smile and has the balls big enough to fucking wink at me.
“What is this?” I stammer.
“It’s a classic Barry masterpiece,” he says, and promptly turns his attention back to the boring-ass design I’ve seen a million times in my ten-year career.
“Shut your machine off and speak to me like a human being.” I’m so pissed off I want to cry, but I can’t let him see my weakness. “I’ve had Kevin on my schedule for the last month. You poached my fucking client.”
Kevin leans upright, but Barry firms his other hand in between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the table.
“Toots, everyone who walks through this door is my fucking client, and you know it. My shop, my name, my rules. I pick who I work on, and something opened up this afternoon, so I figured I’d give this man what he really wanted.”
“I’m sorry, Pearl,” Kevin says, grimacing as Barry digs the needle into his back. “I’ve been trying to get an appointment with Barry for years. Shit just doesn’t open up.”
“You stay out of this, sir,” Barry says. “You did nothing wrong. No need to apologize. I’m happy to have you. Now let’s get back to it.”
“No!” I shout. I know I have literally zero leverage here, and technically he is right. Anyone who walks through this door is his client. Still, I knew for a fact something just didn’t open up. Barry saw how hard I’d worked on this design. He knew how excited I was to finally get to do a full backpiece. He even told me last night how awesome he thought it was going to turn out. “You know this is straight-up bullshit, Barry. I needed this. You fucked me, Barry.”
He sets down his machine and lets out a disgruntled sigh as he takes off his gloves.
“Take a fiver, bro. I’ll be right back. Office, now, Pearl.”
He reaches for my arm but I slap him off, standing there in defiance, not wanting to hear what he has to say. “I don’t want to go to your office. I want everyone in this room to hear what kind of shady shit you’re pulling here.”
By this point, Tom and Carl have shut off their machines and are staring over at us with their full attention.
“There is no shady shit, Pearl. I own this place. I take the clients I want to take. If you don’t like that arrangement, you can pack your shit.”
“Barry, you know I need the money. This was the only way I was going to make rent this month,” I plead. “I was counting on this tattoo. It was gonna be a sticker. We could’ve taken it to competitions.”
“I don’t know what the fuck to tell you. Get a roommate. Get a waitressing job. Nobody else who works here seems to have a problem paying their rent.”
“Nobody else here is expected to survive on the leftover scraps that get tossed my way. You tell me to bring more people through the door, I did. I found Kevin, and you took him away from me!” I’m having trouble breathing. I figured the waterworks would’ve kicked in by now, but instead I’m just getting angrier and angrier by the minute. I want to break shit. I want to grab my flash off the walls and crush it over his head. I want to smash his smug hipster face through the display case up front.
“I’m guessing your daddy had no problem with you throwing tantrums like this in his shop, but you ain’t in Kansas anymore, kid. Now go back to your station and work on some drawings. Everybody get back to work. Nothing to see here,” he says, clapping his hands. He grabs the remote from his desk and cranks up whatever commercial crap they try and pass as metal these days so loud the floor starts to vibrate.
I stand there staring at him, disgusted by his immaturity.
If he thinks that’s a temper tantrum, he’s sadly mistaken. He hasn’t known me long enough to see a proper temper tantrum.
“Throwing my dad in my face is a dick move, Barry, and you know it. You didn’t even know I was related to him when you hired me. You hired me because I’m a talented artist and I have the portfolio to prove it.”
He raises his eyebrows and straight-up sneers at me. “I hired you cuz you got a nice set of tits and I didn’t think you’d give me so much lip, sweetheart.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, my jaw damn near hitting the floor.
“Now run along, Pearl. I’m sure there’ll be walk-ins coming in anytime now.”
I bite my lip and clench my fist, cracking my neck. No matter how many times my old man and I got into it, I’ve never felt so disrespected in my life. I don’t even have words in my brain, only rage.
Fuck him.
Fuck my landlord.
Fuck my dad.
Fuck all men.
All I want to do is make awesome art and get paid to do the only thing I’m good at, and no matter how hard I fight I always end up getting stepped on. That ends today. I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care if I completely burn every bridge I have in this stupid fucking city; I’m not letting my circumstance make me a victim anymore.
I spit on the floor right next to his shoe and storm out of the shop. Kevin’s out front smoking a cigarette and I bark at him when he tries to talk to me and just start walking faster. These people want to treat me like a bit
ch? They better realize I’m feral as fuck.
“Someday I’ll own this place! Someday Barry will be begging me for a job!” I shout to no-one in particular. I trip over my feet and land face down on the ground, my bag flying open and scattering all over the wet sidewalk.
“I don’t doubt you,” my coworker Carl says, offering me a hand out of nowhere. He must’ve chased me out the door. “But you gotta learn to walk before you can fly, Pearl.”
Chapter Four
Driller:
I park my truck right out in front of the apartment building, not even bothering to find a parking spot. This needs to be an in-and-out operation. I can only hope once Uncle Stoney sees me, he snaps out of whatever kind of madness is chewing him up.
That, or I have to tackle him and drag him out kicking and screaming. I know I can take him, but as I take the steps to Carley’s apartment two by two, I pray to the motorcycle gods that I don’t have to rumble with our prez tonight.
Carley is sitting on the floor in the hallway, her pale white face streaked with tears and mascara. She jumps up from the ground and smears her makeup even more with the sleeve of her shirt that barely hangs lower than her tits.
“It’s quiet in there,” I say, pressing my ear to the door.
“Yeah, he stopped breaking shit right after I got off the phone with you. What do you think he’s doing now?”
I have no idea, and I don’t think I want to know. Not sure I have the capacity to handle whatever state I’m gonna find him in. At least if he’s in a blind rage I know the only things I’ll have to clean up are some cuts and scrapes and a shitty apartment full of Carley’s stuff.
I watch the stairwell, hands in my pockets, hoping my dad is on his way up.
“Well, aren’t you gonna go in there? I don’t really feel like hanging out in the hallway all night. I’m fucking freezing.” I hadn’t even noticed she was in her underwear. If anybody walks by now, people will definitely start talking, and that’s the last thing the club needs right now.
I knock on the door, which feels like a very weird thing to do, but I don’t know what he’s carrying. Startling the old guy might not be my best move.
Still silence. I take a deep breath and turn the doorknob, pushing the door open just a crack.
“Uncle Stoney? Hey Unc…”
I grimace at the state of Carley’s apartment. It takes a lot of effort to find any pity in my heart for this broad, but between the flipped over couch, the smashed up coffee table, and the holes in the drywall, it was a pretty fucked-up sight to behold.
“Listen.” I pull my wallet out of my pocket, fishing out a handful of hundreds. “There should be a grand there. Eight for damages, two to keep your mouth shut, you understand?” I press it into her palm and she looks up at me with these sad puppy dog eyes that quickly turn to straight-up evil. I can see the wheels in her head turning.
“I’m probably going to need more than that. Emotional damages and all.”
“Please don’t make me send Decker over here to show you the true meaning of emotional damage, Carley. You know that won’t end good for anyone involved.”
She slaps her hand over her mouth and slips the cash into her bra. I take another deep breath and step into the apartment. “Uncle Stoney!” I shout this time. “It’s me, Driller. Donovan. Where you hiding?”
The door to the bathroom is partially open, and I find him lying there on the floor, crumpled up in fetal position, his pistol gripped in his hand, a pained growl coming from his hardened face. Makes me sick to my stomach seeing him like this, like a little kid who snuck and watched that scary movie even though he was warned not to. The man I grew up fearing. Idolizing. Respecting. Diminished to nothing but a vulnerable and sad old man. I rush to his side, dropping down on the floor next to him.
“Uncle Stoney,” I say. “You okay? You hurt?”
“Why do you keep calling me that, Robbie? And how the fuck you find me here?” He goes to push himself up from the floor, but I can see by the bruises already forming on his forehead, Carley’s apartment wasn’t the only thing that took a beating in his fit of rage.
“Robbie’s my dad.” I wonder if these fits he’s having are like sleepwalking, and I should just let him believe what he believes, not contributing to the confusion, but I’m just as confused myself. “You want help up?”
“Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Anita’s gonna kill me.”
I kick away shards of broken glass from the mirror as he rolls over onto his back, clutching his forehead.
“Guess I can’t party like I used to. Getting old is a bitch, son. Where the hell are we even? Looks like some chick’s place. I didn’t…” He slaps his hand over his face and groans again.
“You didn’t do anything but fucking flip the place over, Stoney. Now come on, we gotta get going before the cops get here.”
I grab his hand and help him get up, dusting the glass off the back of his cut. Before we can leave the bathroom, his wife, my aunt Anita comes rushing in dressed in her nursing scrubs.
“Now I’m really in trouble,” he says with a casual laugh. “Old lady’s gonna string me up by my balls.”
Her face looks weathered and exhausted beyond her normal night shift appearance. She runs straight to him and wraps her arms around him, bursting into tears. This woman has lived through a lot of bullshit. She put up with things that would cause any sane woman to take off for the hills. I never once saw her break until now. She sobs into his chest, and my dad motions for me.
“Dad, this ain’t good,” I say once we’re out of earshot. He doesn’t even look up at me as he flips the couch back to its upright position.
I’m freaking out on the inside. I have so many questions, and the only thing my dad seems to care about is cleaning up the mess Uncle Stoney made.
“This is fucked up,” I say as he hands me a broom. “Don’t look good for the club. He’s sick, dad. What the fuck are you going to do?”
He looks into my eyes with that plastered on stoic glare. It’s like staring into a mirror with him. An older, sadder mirror. His glare alone says it all. I take the broom and start sweeping up the remnants of the glass coffee table.
“Thanks, Driller,” Aunt Anita says as the two come out of the bathroom. “You’re a good nephew.” She kisses me on the cheek, and Uncle Stoney shoots me a smile and a nod as she takes him by the hand and leads him from the apartment. Like nothing happened. Like everything’s normal. Like Aunt Anita was just coming to scoop up her drunk husband and take him home to sleep it off.
“Can I come back in now?” Carley asks from the doorway. She has my dad’s leather jacket draped over her shoulders, swallowing her frail little body.
“We got you started,” he says to her. “Might wanna wear shoes ’til we can get the cleaning crew over here.” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and hands her some cash, and she winks at me. “Sorry for your trouble. Guess I gotta keep a tighter leash on the old guy from now on.”
“It’s no trouble.” She sighs and twists a curl of her blonde hair in between her fingers, and I try to hide my repulsion at the fact that, after everything she’s put the club through, she still has the balls to try and flirt with my dad. I know I gotta play nice, but after everything that’s happened tonight, I don’t have much composure left in me. “Why don’t you stay for a drink?”
“No,” I say point-blank.
“Not you, Driller. You’re free to go.” I roll my eyes and head for the door.
“I’m gonna have to take a rain check. Thanks for being a good girl,” my dad says, squeezing her ass as he grabs his jacket from her.
I race down the hallway and to the stairs. It doesn’t take long for him to catch up with me.
“What the fuck was that all about?” I shout.
“That broad’s fucking nuts. I’m just doing some damage control,” he says with a laugh. “Damn shame, too. Been a long time since I slapped an ass that firm.”
“I don’t mean that,” I say, knowin
g full well he dealt with Carley the only way that would get through her head. “Although that’s fucking disgusting, too.”
“I’m working on it,” he says. “There’s a lotta untangling that needs done.”
I look outside when we hit the entrance, cursing myself for parking my truck right out front. If any of the Stingers’ people saw it, I’d have put my club in as much danger as my uncle did acting out. This isn’t our territory. Everything looks untouched, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t on their way right now.
“We gotta get out of here, son,” my dad says. “Don’t feel like playing that game tonight. Don’t park so stupid next time.”
“Next time?” I stammer. “Dad, we can’t do this shit again. We need to talk about this. Meet me at my place.”
“Son, go home and go to bed,” he says. “I’m working on it, and that’s all you need to know right now. He’s my brother. I’ve known him since the day I was born.”
“You got twenty other brothers to think about. Hell, I’m your brother,” I say. Sure, his generation started this club, and even though I’m in my thirties I still respect the pecking order. Still, the Dead Ringers MC is my life, and I don’t think it’s fair he’s putting us all in danger and treating me like a child.
“You’re my son,” he says, the fire in his eyes letting me know if we weren’t in a public place I’d probably be shitting out teeth for a week. “Go home and go to bed.”
He disappears into the night without another word and I get in my truck, peeking over the backseat to make sure nobody broke in while I was inside. I’m pissed. More than pissed. I have an uncle who’s losing his marbles, a dad who doesn’t seem to notice or care, and now I gotta go home and just live with this. Sit on it. Hide it from my friends, my crew, the people I trust with my life. I feel like I’m gonna explode.
I’m no closer to having any answers, either.