Inked & Dangerous

by Evelyn Glass

  I’ve never thought about settling down, never thought about a life like that with a woman, but now . . . No, it’s not gone that far.

  I groan and pick up the cellphone. I need sleep, and I won’t be able to sleep until I do it.

  I type in her number—one of the skills you need when you’re the boss is to remember addresses, phone numbers, quantities—and then go to the text message screen.

  I’m not a poet. I know women’s bodies, not their minds. So I just keep it simple: When am I seeing you again?

  Then I turn over and close my eyes. I want to stay awake for a few minutes just in case she replies, but I’m exhausted. It’s been a long, long day.

  Sleep drapes over me like a blanket.

  The amusement park smells of candy and barbeque smoke as I walk through it. I know it must be a dream because when I turn around from the park to the entrance, there’s no dusty mud land, no long thin road. The ground around the amusement park drops away into an abyss. The park is the only place left in the world.

  I walk past a man hawking hotdogs, the same hotdogs I once begged Dad to buy me. They are the meatiest hotdogs I’ve ever tasted. I approach him, a smile on my face. The kind of smile I used to have on my face, before Dad’s death and before the club, before I grew up.

  “One, please,” I say.

  I look down into his tray, and see that he only has one. One hotdog, already covered in onions and mustard and ketchup, just how I like it. He grins at me. “This is your place, mister,” he says. “You get everything you want here.”

  A woman wearing a billowing pink dress, frills upon frills, skips out from the cotton candy stall. She dances toward me, and then produces a piece of paper from inside one of the dress’s folds. Munching on the hotdog, I take it.

  “Don’t miss it!” she warns. Her face is made up like a fifties housewife. She wouldn’t look out of place in black and white advertisement for a toaster. “It’s the only thing worth seeing in this place, trust me!”

  I look down at the ticket. It’s a small business card, printed with the following words: Head to the carousel and lay eyes upon your heart’s desire!

  All around me, families laugh and jostle and play at the stalls. One young girl sits on her father’s shoulders, a beanbag in her hand, aiming at the skittles. “Don’t throw hard,” I say as I pass them. “Be gentle and you’ll get it.”

  She underarm throws it, just like Dad showed me, and in one magic throw she knocks down all the skittles behind the stall.

  I’m grinning like a fool now, walking through my past. I have demolished the hotdog and somehow—in the way of a dream—a massive cloud of cotton candy has appeared in my hand. I set to work on it as I walk, the taste of the syrupy fluff making me seven years old again.

  Lay eyes upon your heart’s desire!

  “That’s good,” I mutter, weaving through the crowd, “because I’ve never really known what that is.”

  I step aside to let two clowns pass, each of them juggling multicolored plastic balls, their painted faces set into rictus smiles.

  And then I’m at the carousel. I know it should’ve taken me longer to get here, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I look around me. Suddenly, the park is clear. The machines are still on—they sing and rattle and jangle—and behind me, somewhere, voices are raised. But I am the only person standing at the carousel.

  I watch it for a few moments. It’s unmoving. The horses and hogs and ponies sit lifeless. I start wondering if I should maybe find that fifties woman, ask her what the deal is, when the music I’ve heard a thousand times in my dreams plays from the base of the carousel, where the speakers are.

  It starts to turn, the animals bobbing up and down, and then I see her.

  She wears a polka-dotted dress, her legs and feet bare.

  Hope giggles as she rides the horse. A wind blows and her polka-dotted dress billows around her perfect legs.

  I watch her in awe. I have never been so truly awed by a person.

  “Heart’s desire!” I call to her, but she doesn’t hear me.

  She stretches her legs, points her toes so that the muscles in her thighs and calves become defined.

  I want to kiss her and fuck her all at once.

  Chapter Seven

  Hope

  When I wake up, I have a huge smile on my face. The only other time I can remember having a smile this wide on my face is when I was a kid on Christmas morning, smiling because I knew it was going to be a magical day. Now I'm smiling because last night was a magical night. The memories of the night come back to me vividly, scenes replaying in my mind. Most of all, I remember how intense his face was when he was inside of me, how in charge.

  I roll out of bed, stand up, and stretch. I’m exhausted, but I think a little exhaustion is worth last night. In the light of morning—the sun slanting through my bedroom's blinds, a steady yellow glow—the events of last night hardly seem real. Did I really have sex with Killian O’Connor? But of course I did; I'm still aching from him.

  I'm about to casually stroll into the living room, and then into the bathroom for a shower, when my gaze rests on my bedside clock. It’s Saturday morning and my shift starts at ten o'clock. It's half past eleven. Half past eleven!

  I go into Super Quick Get Ready mode, the mode every late person goes into, haphazardly throwing on panties and tights and pulling up my skirt. As I button up a clean shirt, I misjudge it and end up buttoning two slots out of line, turning me from a waitress to a tardy schoolkid. I yank the buttons loose and redo it correctly. Then I force my feet into my heels and run into the living room.

  Despite my anxiety, I have to smile. Dawn is curled up in the armchair, the blanket pulled up around her neck, snoring softly. Dawn has light brown hair, almost red, and her cheeks are specked with freckles. She’s thinner than me, with a boyish build. Her hair is long and tangled and messy, and I know that if she were to open her mouth now—perhaps in a sleepy grin—yellow, drug-abused teeth would flash between her lips. Her hands are bony, bumpy. But right now she does not look like a recovering addict, as many Jacksons before her have been recovering addicts.

  Right now she just looks like my little sister.

  Then I have to haul it.

  I pace to the door, pull it open, and all but sprint into the hallway.

  When I get to the restaurant, I am greeted by the sight of Lily balancing about seven thousand trays on in her hands, on her arms, her face twisted into a terrified grimace. The restaurant is busy as it always is on Saturday mornings. Families sit around tables, the fathers looking at Lily impatiently, the tables piled high with dirty plates. The children scream and bang the table and act as unruly children do. Lone men sit at the bar, cradling coffee.

  “I'm so sorry, Lily,” I say, rushing to her and taking two of her trays. “Where to?”

  “Table four,” Lily replies thankfully. “Sure I would've dropped them.”

  I take the trays to table four, mutter all the pleasantries, and then go to the back room to take off my jacket and store my handbag. When I turn to leave, get out onto the floor and help Lily with the workload, the door suddenly swings open to reveal Lucca, his face bright red, his belly jiggling with rage.

  “Hope!” he barks. His head looks particularly shiny today. “What the fuck?”

  “I'm sorry, Mr.—”

  He holds up a sausage-fingered hand. “No,” he says. “My office.”

  He marches away, fat shoulders shifting from side to side. I bet he thinks he's the coolest man who's ever lived. I bet he thinks he's a real bad ass. I wish Killian was here. I imagine Killian swaggering into the restaurant and putting this fat perverted man in his place. But he won't, of course. He's probably busy. I can't even call him. I left my cell at the apartment.

  I have the feeling of a reprimanded high school student as I slink past the tables—the customers staring in shock as I pass them—and into the kitchen. I get a brief taste of the kitchen, Jeff the cook frying rashers of bacon, before
I reach Lucca's office.

  His office is small, but his desk is huge. It fills up the room, pressing into the walls, a giant statement: I am the boss. It is the desk of an incredibly insecure man, I think. His chair is as subtle as a throne, a high-backed, red-cushioned monstrosity.

  He taps his fingers on the table, his nails making clk-clk-clk sounds.

  With his free hand, he gestures at the seat opposite, a tiny stool, meant to make the employees feel inferior.

  With a sigh, I sink down onto the stool. Despite the $2,000, I need this gig. I need the money. I have a sister to think about, and it's not like my parents are around to help.

  He leans forward, clasping his hands together. I would know he's sweating even if his combed-over scalp wasn't shining. When he puts his hands together, the sweat makes a squelch noise.

  His face is beetroot-red, his jowls quivering, a man ready to burst.

  I brace myself for a shout fest.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing!” he screams. “What sort of place do you think this is! What sort of man do you think I am! What the hell is wrong with you!” He stops, draws in a breath, drawing in strength for another round. I wait patiently. You can't talk to Lucca when he's shouting. He's a child who will keep shouting until his voice is heard.

  “I am a businessman! A businessman! This is not a charity! I do not employ you so that you can stroll in whenever you like!” He slaps his hand down. A mug which reads 'World's Best Boss' sits on the desk, a mug I'm convinced he bought himself. When he slaps his hand down, it leaps up and falls down on its side.

  Then he pauses, panting.

  I jump into the fray.

  “I overslept,” I say. “I understand that oversleeping is not a valid excuse, in general. In general. But you have to understand that I was up very late closing up with Alex. Alex who is, by the way, sixteen years old and was left here in the dead of night alone.”

  He shakes his head as though I've just spoken Latin, a phrase meaningless and alien to him. “That has nothing to do with anything,” he states flatly.

  On the wall behind him, there’s a poster of an empty road, empty apart from a lone man who walks into the distance, silhouetted. The caption reads: 'Your dreams are out there waiting for you. Go and get them!' It seems ridiculous to me that a man like Lucca would have an inspirational poster on his wall. He's the least inspired person I know.

  “I think it does,” I say. “I was tired because I stayed late. Perhaps you should have—”

  “No!” he hisses. “You don't tell me what I should and should not do. Do you understand what you are, what all of you are?”

  “All of us?”

  “Waitresses, women like you! Sexy little pieces, wriggling your asses in my face every goddamned second of the goddamned day! I give you a job and you have the nerve to talk to me like, to look at me like that—”

  “How do I look at you, sir?” I ask stiffly.

  “Like I'm dirt!” he squeaks. And then he puffs his chest up, juts his chin out, and lays his palms flat on the table. A man about to brag. I've seen the look before and it's repulsive. “You're the only waitress, you know, who refuses me. You’re the only one. The others think I'm a sexy man. Do you hear that? A sexy man. But oh no, not you and that devil sister of yours! Don't think I've forgotten about her!”

  “I'm assuming you are referencing the time she threw a glass of wine in your face?”

  “Yes!” he growls.

  I stifle a laugh. I was so proud of Dawn that night. It was the Christmas party and Dawn begged to come so that she could see Lucca in the flesh. She’d heard so much about him. I accepted, though I knew better. She was drugged up and I knew something would happen. But maybe I wanted something to happen. Maybe I wanted somebody to put Lucca in his place. Dawn didn't disappoint. When Lucca stumbled drunkenly to her, made some lewd comment about skinny girls being better in bed, she threw a full glass of red wine into his face.

  I shrug. “I can only apologize for being late,” I say.

  “Oh, no.” His eyes are beady, buried deep in the fat of his face, but now his eyes get even beadier. “That's certainly not the only thing you can apologize for. How about insulting me when I asked you—like a perfect gentleman—on a date?”

  “I believe I politely declined.”

  “Yes, but . . .” His mouth is open in an O of disbelief. “But why? I am a handsome man. I've been told so by several women, women who work here. Your friends. Are you calling them liars? I'm a handsome man and I have a lot of money. I can take care of a woman. I know how to please them.”

  I bring my hand to my mouth to stop a laugh from exploding. Seeing this man writhe and brag and boast like this just reminds me of Killian. Killian is a real man, a man who doesn't need to brag because he acts. Lucca, I think, is the exact opposite. Lucca is nothing but brags and blusters and nonsense.

  “Oh, it's funny?” He leans toward me. His breath reeks of garlic and onion. I remember that last night he ate a bowl of spaghetti which smelt the same. He hasn't brushed his teeth since then, I think in disgust.

  “No, sir,” I mutter.

  “Is it funny when your gal pals let me touch them? They're whores, all of them. I touch them and they like it.”

  “They don't like it,” I say. I look directly in his eyes, keeping my face calm, neutral. “Surely you know they only tolerate it because you’re the boss. They’re scared of losing their jobs. Isn't that obvious?”

  “No, it's not obvious. Because I'm your boss, too, but every time I try and banter with you, every time I try and get close to you, you push me away!”

  “I would not let you touch me, sir, if you paid me a million dollars. And your comments are not banter. They are sexual and make my friends feel awkward.”

  “Sexual, yes.” He nods, saying: Now we are getting somewhere. Now we can agree on something. “Sexual, without a doubt. But awkward? I don't think so, Hope. You should see the way Lily giggles when I touch her.”

  “Some people giggle when they’re nervous.”

  “Ah! You're impossible.”

  If I didn't need this job, I think, I would smash that pathetic mug over his shiny scalp.

  “Speaking of Lily, I should get out there and help her. She's been on her own for too—”

  “Not yet,” he barks. “I want to talk about those biker friends of yours.”

  “What makes you think they're my friends?” I say, genuinely bemused.

  There’s no way he saw me and Killian last night. It was pitch-dark and we were in the middle of nowhere. Maybe if we’d gone one mile west, to the beach, the boardwalk, a place Lucca might stalk at night, he might've seen us. But at an abandoned amusement park? Somehow I doubt it.

  So I make sure to keep my expression impassive, unreadable, and wait for him to answer.

  When he speaks, his voice is unsteady, unsure. But it doesn't stop him pushing on. “I saw you with them!” he snaps. “You were friendly with them all night! Giggling at their little comments! Laughing at their little jokes! And that blonde one, that pretty boy, he came right up to you before he left with that Mexican guy.”

  My breath catches.

  “He gave you an envelope.”

  I tuck my legs under the chair, cross my legs, curl my toes in anxiety.

  “It was his phone number, wasn't it?” Lucca squeaks. For a moment, he sounds like a jealous boyfriend. Invisible critters crawl over my skin.

  “They stayed forever, the whole night taking up that big table! A big party like that—and I know they have money, don't tell me they don't—you'd think they'd tip well. But no! Or maybe they'd hire the VIP room, so at least I'd get a flat rate. But no! They tip like shit and talk shit and then leave the place in a mess. If they come round here again, you're working overtime without pay. Either that or you can leave. I pay you in cash, remember. No contract. No notice. If you don't want to work overtime for nothing, I suggest you tell those meatheads to steer clear of my establishment.”

/>   I look at him in wonder. Does this man truly think he can control what the Satan’s Martyrs do? Does this man truly believe he can have say in what Killian O’Connor does? Does this man believe he can stop men like that from doing anything?

  At least he doesn't know about the $2,000. If he did, he'd probably demand a portion of it, blackmail me with my job as leverage.

  “So you like that pretty boy, do you, with his blonde hair and his fancy jacket?”

  Yes, more than like it.

  “That's none of your business,” I answer coldly. “And if you want the Satan’s Martyrs to stay out of here, you can tell them yourself. See how well that works out for you. Not very, I'll bet.”