by Rhys Ford
“Let me see if I can help,” he said, leaning forward and stroking the back of Ruan’s hands. “I think some of what you feel—if not a lot of it—is that you’re scared some guy is going to beat the shit out of me because I look like this. Yeah?”
“Yes. Part of it. A lot of it. There’s also a lot of… aversion attached to something like this. Growing up, that’s all I heard. Don’t be a pussy or don’t let people think you’re a fag. That’s a huge part of it, and it’s all wrapped up together.” Ruan searched the churn of reactions surging in him. There were a lot of memories woven into his responses, including the image of Ivo sitting on a cop car, his knuckles bloodied from punching another man’s face. “My grandmother rode me about being tough, not letting any guy think I was a pansy. Maybe she knew I liked guys and didn’t want me to get shit for it? I don’t know. She never said anything, and I never told her. Gran was a hard, take-no-shit broad. Served her country, and her daughter crashed and burned, so she was stuck raising me. She did her best but—”
“You were dragged up by someone a couple of generations older than you with a different mind-set.” Ivo cocked his head, pursing his lips for a moment. “Someone more like Cranson. Things were—are—different for them. Hard to change their minds about stuff sometimes.”
“All the time. One way to do things, even if it’s a shitty way,” Ruan snorted. “And yeah, she was a lot like Cranson. No quarter given. Ever. You didn’t let your guard down. Didn’t get emotional. I loved her to death, but she was like fighting a sandstorm if you disagreed with her. So it got to be I just never told her anything. And see, I regret that. She was ahead of her time, then… time passed her by. She taught me a lot, and not all of it good. I’m still unlearning some of those lessons.
“I’ve got to unlearn all of the shit about men not wearing heels or makeup. And I know this. Hell, sensitivity training courses up the ass help me deal with it on the street. I’ve just never dealt with it in person, not with someone I… care about. So yeah, it might take me a bit of time to shift my brain, but I don’t hate seeing you like this.” Ruan took a breath, hoping Ivo would be patient with him as he worked out everything racing around in his skull. “It arouses me in a lot of ways, because it gives you this hardness and softness at the same time, but underneath it all, I think I’m so conditioned to being fearful of how others would react to you. How violent people can be and how hateful that I have a visceral reaction to have you change. And in a lot of ways, I think that means I don’t trust you to take care of yourself, and I know that’s not true. Sometimes you do stupid things like rush a couple of guys armed with a baseball bat, but I’m assuming you know how to use it to defend yourself and not just hit a couple of fly balls into left field.”
Ivo’s expression softened, and a faint smile touched his lips. “I can honestly tell you I’ve hit more people with a bat than I’ve hit baseballs. The shop’s right on the pier. It’s like a magnet for assholes and drunken idiots.”
“See, that’s not something I, as a cop, should know,” Ruan teased, running his hands up Ivo’s thighs, reveling in the sleek feel of tanned skin beneath his palms. “Okay, now time for stupid questions, because I don’t know how any of this works, and I’m feeling my way through things.”
“Shoot,” Ivo said, then grimaced. “Okay, bad choice of words. But sure. Go ahead.”
“What’s the difference between this and drag? Is it like… halfway? Help me out here. I’m trying to—”
“Put things into a box you can carry around?” He laughed, a throaty golden purr Ruan felt down to his bones.
“Trying to understand,” he clarified. “Because I’m in my own box. One with badges, handcuffs, and assholes who do really shitty things to nice people… and to sometimes not-so-nice people. Why the skirts? Why the heels?”
“Fuck. Okay. Let me think.” Ivo inched forward, drawing closer, then looked away, his eyes going distant. For a moment Ruan thought he wouldn’t get an answer, but then Ivo replied, “It’s not drag. That’s a whole other thing and a fuck ton of hard work. That’s a culture, really. Or a community. It’s hard to define, but there’s a language and societal norms in drag. That’s usually an assumption of an ‘other’ identity, like pulling on this other person who lives inside a guy, needing to get out and perform or just… exist.
“It’s not that way for me. I mean, it’s not a bad question. Because you don’t know,” he said, growing serious. “And if you don’t ever ask, you’re never going to know. I’d rather someone ask me why than just think up their own reasons. Why do I wear what I do? Because it’s what I feel like wearing. Sometimes I want to look a certain way. Some days I want eyeliner. Other days, I want combat boots. It’s just clothes. It’s just shoes. Sometimes I’m not feeling too firm inside and I want to have something on that makes me feel like I can kick the world’s ass.”
“Like today,” Ruan murmured, looking down at what Ivo had on. “You look dressed to kill today.”
“Yeah, because I know I’m going to walk into that expo, and there’s going to be people who are going to talk shit about me behind my back and some even to my face. I come with a lot of baggage and some I’ve packed myself.” Ivo shrugged. “I’m cocky, and a lot of people think I’m an asshole or that I’ve been handed my spot at the shop because of Bear or Gus. To a lot of artists, I’m some fucking kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing or doesn’t have talent. But I can’t talk shit back because today I’m repping the shop, not just me. So I’ve got to swallow their shit and not say anything. But today? Yeah, I’m dressed to kick ass, because I’ve got to mind my manners and be professional. So, you coming with me or you going to hang out with the cat?”
“Definitely coming with you,” Ruan said firmly, pressing his mouth against Ivo’s. “Because you’re a hell of a lot better company than Spot.”
“THIS PLACE is nuts,” Ruan murmured, trying to keep up with Ivo’s purposeful strides. “And for tattoos.”
The long-legged artist seemed to have an instinctual knowledge of when the crowd around them would break, leaving him room to get by. It was a skill Ruan hadn’t seemed to stand in line for when God was handing out life hacks, because as soon as people parted, they flowed right back into the empty space, leaving Ruan a few feet behind the man who was leaving whispers in his wake.
Expo was too tiny of a word for the gathering of the inked and inkers in San Jose’s convention center. Taking up all three main halls, the open floor was transformed into a labyrinth of tables, booths, and speakers blasting music loud enough to turn a man around if he wasn’t careful.
The place was packed with a noisy, boisterous crowd, and Ruan tried to soak in as much of the event as he could, but the landscape shifted and changed every few feet, seemingly with no rhyme or reason. Individual artists were at long tables along the outer walls and down several rows, showing off their portfolios, with some doing on-the-spot tattoos while people walking by looked on. Larger booths held more artists, usually attached to a shop, while others featured flash panels, supplies, and machines. Some kiosks were selling leather gear, while another offered up plushies, and a woman hawked custom-made corsets, her full breasts nearly spilling over the low cups of her maroon bustier.
Ruan had worked more than a few festivals while he did his time as a uniformed cop. From Pride to Chinese New Year, there was pretty much nothing he hadn’t already seen, but the expo’s crowd ran the gamut between what looked like a group of retired math teachers, their sleeves rolled up to show off their ink, to vibrantly dressed packs of college-aged kids who played fast and loose with gender norms. A young woman in a slinky white dress and a shocking tangerine bob strolled past them, her thigh-high boots held together by shoelaces the same color as her hair. She eyed Ivo as she went by, licking at her upper lip and murmuring something under her breath Ruan didn’t quite catch.
He didn’t blame her for looking. Ivo’s kilt hung a bit shorter than it should have, brushing his knees, and its pleats swung as
he walked, giving a peek of his thigh with each stride. Still, Ruan was torn between admiring Ivo cutting through the throngs and wondering if he shouldn’t just drag the artist back to the car so they could make out in the relative darkness of the parking garage where they’d parked his SUV.
The professionals badge hanging from the lanyard around his neck apparently afforded them full access to the expo as well as a green room rumored to be buried somewhere beyond the far doors. There’d been a small shuffle and conversation when Ivo picked up the badges, but he’d been too far away to hear most of it, watching the crowd more than paying attention to the staff manning the professionals’ entrance. But whatever the problem had been, Ivo walked away with two badges and shaking his head.
“Here, put this on. Can’t say it’ll part the crowd like it’s the Red Sea, but you’ll at least be able to get a free cup of coffee in the back room,” Ivo told him, handing Ruan his personalized badge. “Okay, let’s see if there’s anyone here worth Bear having a talk with.”
The people-watching was interesting, tripping more than a few of Ruan’s ingrained responses. There was a mixture of ages behind the long lines of tables and booths, more than a few of the older men marking him as a cop, judging by their faces shutting down and the suspicious glances he got. A heavily tattooed giant of a man with a Chihuahua tucked into his arm nodded at Ruan, then stopped when Ivo made a clicking noise with his tongue at the dog. They paused cutting through the crowd so Ivo could pet the tiny bulging-eyed rat, its tail going a mile a minute from the attention.
“Yeah, I got lucky,” Ruan heard the burly man say in between blowing kisses at his dog. “You know they’re usually half-anxious peeing and half-raging anger, but Coco here is a sweetheart.”
Leaving his gun behind in the apartment’s safe had been a good idea, Ruan decided. The word of the day appeared to be jostled, although no one seemed too aggressive or combative. Stepping away from the stream, Ruan ended up next to a petite Asian woman with more piercings in her nose and face than his SUV had chrome, but she gave him a broad smile, winking playfully when he was pushed back another few inches.
“It’s crazy here,” she said over a rush of laughter. “Give it an hour, it’ll be worse. This is just the warm-up crowd.”
“Shit, I can’t even imagine,” he said, shaking his head. He’d already lost Ivo, but it wasn’t hard to find him, paused in front of one of the artists’ tables, his head bowed down over a stack of binders. “Good luck.”
“Come back for some ink!” the young woman called out after him. “I’ll do you and your boyfriend for half price each. Two-for-one deal!”
Ivo was already at the next artist’s spot by the time Ruan caught up with him, but a book of whimsical pinups snagged his attention. Positioned at the corner of the table, it was left open at a rendering of a mermaid trying on a pair of aviator goggles while sitting on a rock. The artist wove other sea life into the picture, a blue crab near her tail fin holding up a toy airplane while a pink starfish inched its way over a pair of pilot’s wings caught in a swirl of seaweed. Caught up in the drawing, Ruan spared a quick glance toward Ivo, who stood talking to the artist, a blond man who looked like he’d be more at home on a rugby field than a tattoo shop.
“Books and covers, Nicholls,” he reminded himself. “What’s on the outside doesn’t mean shit about what’s on the inside. That’s the whole point of this.”
It was hard to redirect old habits. He kept looking up, scanning the crowd for any sign of agitation. Too many years of being a cop, sent into situations where a shift of mood meant trouble. It was too ingrained, more like breathing than something he could turn off or on. Relaxing meant shaking off the watchfulness, but it ruffled beneath the surface, mindful of his worry about Ivo and how the world changed, taking him along for the ride.
“Going to be here for a bit, babe.” Ivo purred around the last word, leaving Ruan with no doubt he was being teased for using the endearment when they’d been in bed together. “I can catch up with you if you want to wander.”
“No, I’m good. I’ll wait.” Flipping to the front of the binder, Ruan shot a quick look at the guy behind the table. He looked nervous, running his hand through his thick sun-streaked brown hair while Ivo studied something in a binder lying on the table in front of him. “Take your time.”
The first double spread of the binder was of a sketched underwater scene on the same kind of transparent paper he’d seen Ivo use at the shop. Opposite of the loosely detailed image was a photo of the finished tattoo, probably taken moments after it’d been finished. The colors were brilliant, sharply contrasting against the client’s olive-gold skin. Engrossed in comparing the sketch to the final artwork, Ruan was barely aware of the men at the next table edging closer.
There were three in total, a younger and older man behind the table, with another middle-aged man standing only a few inches away from Ruan’s left shoulder. The older man, his face craggy from too much sun and cigarettes, seemed more interested in watching the tattoo artist Ivo was speaking to, but the other two men seemed to be muttering at something for a bit when the barely-out-of-his-teens long-haired kid behind the table spoke up loud enough for Ruan to finally make out what he was saying.
“No, that’s the other one. The youngest one.” The old man’s skinny face was made longer by a narrow stripe of scraggly beard starting at the center of his lower lip and extending well past his chin—a gnarled, thin ruddy stick of hair much brighter than his mop of graying blond hair. “Ivo. Not Gus. Fucking asshole, that’s who. Thinks he’s hot shit. Everyone knows he’s riding on his brothers’ asses to get clients. His work’s shit. It’s bait and switch. Go in thinking you’re getting someone good and you get that fuckwad instead.”
“You’re just pissed off he didn’t stop and talk to you about your crap,” the younger one lipped back. “But I think you’re right. That’s Ivo, not Gus. Definitely not Bear. Weird he’d be here, since they don’t have a booth, but maybe he’s headhunting for 415. I heard a rumor they had a chair open.”
“Headhunting?” The middle-aged man resembled a history teacher Ruan had in high school, dressed in a suburban dad’s uniform of a red polo shirt and khaki pants, his brown hair cut a bit longer than a crew cut and styled back away from his high forehead with a handful of glistening product. He looked ready to either work a shift as a department store manager or give a lecture on the American Revolution, but Ruan glimpsed a bit of ink on his forearm—a three-inch stylized pine tree made up of varying sizes of black dots. Dropping his voice down to a sharp whisper, he hissed, “What’s that?”
“Looking at people’s portfolios to see if they’re good enough to work for his shop, Dad.” The kid glanced back across the tables to Ivo. With his face to the light, Ruan spotted the resemblance between the two men, noting a matching black pine tree on the younger one’s forearm. “And don’t pay attention to Barry. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“I know a shitty tattoo when I’ve seen one, and nothing that’s come out of that shop has been any good,” the older man, who Ruan assumed was Barry, grumbled back, scratching at his chin, his beard bobbing up and down. “Barrett Jackson’s good if you like American Traditional, and Gus is decent with New School and Japanese… maybe… but Ivo’s crap. Blown lines, fucked-up perspectives. Really shitty work.”
“Did he stop and talk to you?” the teacher-clone asked. Ruan gave the dad credit for ignoring Barry, focusing more on his kid than the blustery asshole standing nearby. “Would you want to change shops?”
“Work for 415 Ink? Fuck yeah. In a heartbeat, but there’s no way I’m going to get a chair there.” The kid flipped through the pages of his book, stopping in the middle to slap his hand against the plastic inserts protecting his artwork. “Not good enough. Not yet. I’m way too young. I’d be lucky to get tapped to do flash there.”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t look much older than you,” his father mulled.
“Dad, Ivo Roge
rs probably did his first tattoo before he could do multiplications. I’ve got four years in.” Scoffing, the young man shook his head. “Maybe. Some day. Something to work for. Lots of people who’ve done a few years there go on to their own places or guest at other shops, like Hizoku or Tanner’s. For now, it’s head down and pay my dues.”
“Shit, like that faggot’s paid any dues. Probably gives his clients a free blow job when he’s done inking them just so they don’t complain,” Barry spat back, and Ruan lifted his head up, meeting the older man’s narrowed eyes. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Mostly an apology,” Ruan replied, keeping his voice low and steady, but he squared his shoulders off, facing Barry fully. “Because that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.”
Twenty
RUAN’S DARK, delicious rumble whispered through the crowd noise, sinking into Ivo’s chest and finding his heart. His brothers speaking up for him? Everyday thing. But a man he’d given his secrets to? That brought a whole rush of emotions and feelings he didn’t realize existed. Focusing on James Rockwell and his art was already difficult with Ruan nearby. His body still tingled from their early morning sex, his hips tender where Ruan’s powerful fingers dug into his flesh, leaving faint purple lines on Ivo’s skin. He’d left his own marks on Ruan, a trail of bites along his back, deep scarlet kisses he’d enjoy putting back on the man’s taut skin once they faded.
“Need help over there, Ruan?” Ivo said calmly, loud enough for Ruan to hear but as steady as he could keep it. The last thing he wanted was to start something with another artist. Already burdened with a reputation of being difficult, Ivo was very aware of everything he said, cautioned by Bear to keep the shop’s relationship with the community at the front of his thoughts.