Pretty In Ink Read online

  “Yes, I drive a Porsche,” I said, pronouncing the word Por-sha. “And no, I don’t haul kids around in this. I’m single, and I have no children.”

  “I thought it was Porsche,” she said, improperly pronouncing the word once more.

  I shook my head. “It really doesn’t matter. I was being facetious. Almost everyone pronounces it like you do.”

  As I waited at the exit for a break in traffic, she sat sideways in her seat and studied me. After a moment, she shifted in the seat, faced forward, and stared out into traffic.

  “‘Expressed displeasure.’ ‘Merely made an observation.’ ‘Por-sha.’ ‘I was being facetious.’ You sound like you went to Harvard,” she said in a sarcastic tone, pronouncing the word Hah-vahd.

  “I did not attend Harvard,” I said as I checked traffic in each direction. As I glanced to my right, my eyes once again became fixed on her.

  She raised her hands and began raking her fingers through her wet hair as her eyes fell to her lap. Her forearms seemed to be much more colorful now that they were wet. After enjoying watching her for a short moment, I pulled out of the exit and accelerated into traffic.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  She continued to toss her hair. “You know where Riverside is?” she asked as she glanced in my direction.

  I did my best to focus on the road ahead of me and not stare at her, although doing so was difficult at best. The more I studied her, the more I wanted to continue.

  I nodded my head as I approached the highway. “I sure do.”

  “Well, head that direction,” she said.

  As she peered out the side window, seeming to take each passing car and the few distant buildings into memory, she cleared her throat.

  “So, were you lurking at the store waiting for some poor girl to need a ride?” she asked as she turned in my direction.

  “Excuse me?” I responded.

  “You were leaving, and you didn’t have a bag, weren’t holding anything, and you don’t have a bulge in your pockets, so what were you doing there? Is this something you do frequently?” she asked.

  Her eyes were an almost transparent brown, and her skin was dark, but didn’t seem overly dark like some of the women who spent countless hours in the sun or a tanning booth. As I formulated a response in my head, I wondered what color her hair would be if she hadn’t colored it the combination of colors it was. What I was doing at the store was a thing of the past, and although I couldn’t undo it, I certainly wished it hadn’t happened. My focus was now changed, and the girl at my side was unknowingly breathing hope into my lungs.

  “I was mailing my sister a package on the way to my office,” I lied.

  She gazed down at my still soaking wet pants, peered into the rear of the vehicle, and turned to face me.

  “So what do you do, Wilson?” she asked. “For money?”

  “I buy and sell stocks,” I responded.

  “So, you’re a stockbroker?” she asked.

  “No, not a broker,” I responded, shaking my head. “A broker works as an intermediary of sorts, making trades on behalf of retail clients. I buy and sell securities in the same day, normally in large quantities, hoping for a small increase, but making a large profit due to the amount purchased. It’s a fast-paced business.”

  “Day trader?” she asked.

  “Exactly,” I responded, surprised she had even heard of the title.

  “You don’t look like a day trader. Not that I was looking, but you’re built like a body builder,” she said.

  I grinned and nodded my head. “The wet shirt gave it away, didn’t it? Thank you, I’ve studied martial arts my entire life, and I’m quite dedicated. My parents insisted on it. A man should be able to protect himself and the ones he loves.”

  “You don’t ride a Harley, do you?” she asked as she shifted her eyes toward my chest.

  “I sure don’t,” I responded with a laugh. “Why?”

  As her focus stayed fixed on my mid-section, I realized not only were my wet pants pasted to my legs, but my soaking wet shirt was stuck to my arms and chest, and was almost transparent.

  “Just wondering. I only date guys who ride Harleys, and I just moved here, and I’m single, so I was just, I don’t know…”

  “Wondering…”

  The thought of being in a relationship with anyone caused me tremendous grief. Although I had been with women sexually, I had never been in an actual relationship with anyone. My parents, financial status, aggressive work practices, and frequent travel all but prohibited me from being in an effective relationship.

  No one would ever suit my parents, unless I married someone from another state. Their thoughts of people in the Midwest were that they weren’t good enough for me, even though they had lived in the Midwest for the majority of their adult lives. Over time, their constant fear of a woman taking my fortune in whole or in part became my fear.

  As hard as I had worked for my money, I often felt I would be willing to forfeit it all to have a normal life with a normal woman; far away from the watchful eyes and constant questioning of my parents.

  “What do you do?” I asked.

  “Tattoo artist. Just got a job at Blurred Lines, it’s a pretty new shop in Old Town,” she responded.

  I nodded my head as I exited the highway. “An awful shame about the Harley thing.”

  She wrinkled her brow and raised one eyebrow slightly. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Well, I only date tattoo artists,” I responded. “So it’s a shame you only date guys who ride Harleys. I guess I could buy one.”

  “You can’t buy the personality,” she said.

  “Oh, so I don’t have a personality?” I asked.

  “Turn here,” she said as she pointed at the upcoming street.

  As I turned the corner, the rain slowed to a light sprinkle. I realized what she meant in her comment about my personality, or at least I felt that I knew what she was trying to say. The back and forth banter regarding a relationship was a nice change of pace, and I found it to be not only interesting, but quite entertaining. As my mind floated away to thoughts of having a petite tattooed girlfriend with a foul mouth, she answered my earlier question.

  “You’ve got the personality of a rich brat,” she said. “And what I was saying is that you may buy the Harley, but you can’t buy the personality I want.”

  I immediately took exception to her remarks. I was far from a rich brat, and my actions, our dialogue, nor my dress made me appear to be so.

  “Rich brat?” I said. “I take exception to that statement. If I would have been dressed in jeans and boots and pulled up to the front of the store in a truck, would you say the same thing?”

  She shook her head. “No, but you didn’t. You’re dressed in slacks, a nice button down shirt, and dress shoes. And you pulled up in a Por-sha. Oh, and you’re a day trader. You buy and sell securities in the same day, normally in large quantities, hoping for a small increase, but making a large profit due to the amount purchased. Or whatever it was that you said,” she said mockingly.

  I was thoroughly impressed at her capacity to retain information, primarily her ability to recite word for word what I had said earlier. Even so, her comment was without warrant, and wasn’t supported by her claims.

  “So, I don’t have the personality of a rich brat, I have the perception of one. My dress, my choice of vehicles, nor my profession would be indicative of the personality I possess. I have a great personality,” I said.

  “Maybe if you pulled that stick out of your ass,” she said. “Turn here, on Eleventh. Then a right on Lewellen.”

  Her personality was as colorful as her tattoos and her hair. Contrary to anything sensible, and without a doubt against the beliefs and potential support of my parents, I decided to press even further.

  “I would like to take you on a date,” I said.

  “Right here,” she said as she pointed to a small brownstone on the left side. “1229.” />
  “Would you now? Well, I might consider it, but you’ll have to dress in something different. I don’t own any clothes like that, so you’ll need to get some jeans and a tee shirt,” she said.

  “I have jeans and tee shirts,” I responded as I turned into the driveway.

  I gazed out the windshield and out into the sky. The rain had stopped, and the sun was shining through a gap between the clouds as they slowly rolled away. As I shifted my gaze from the sky to the driveway in front of me, I realized the home had no garage, and there wasn’t a car in sight. I shifted the gear selector into park and turned in her direction.

  “Is your vehicle broken?” I asked.

  “My vehicle is in the back,” she responded as she tossed her head toward the rear of the car. “I don’t own a car. I’m from San Diego, and it never fucking rains there.”

  “Oh,” I responded, quite shocked to learn that she had no vehicle.

  She opened the door, grabbed her groceries, and stepped out of the car. I pressed the button to release the hatch, stepped from the car and quickly followed.

  “So, when do you prefer to try and do this?” I asked as I walked toward the rear of the vehicle.

  “Do what?” she asked.

  For having an almost photographic memory of our previous dialogue, she sure seemed to forget the details of our recent discussion about going on a date in a matter of minutes. Maybe it wasn’t as important to her as it had become to me.

  “Go on a date,” I responded as I pulled her bicycle out of the back of the car.

  “Oh that,” she said. “I don’t know. How about tonight?”

  Short of being slightly over an hour later to arrive at my office than I had planned, I knew my day’s schedule was as slight as any other. My evening would be spent at the office, gym, and my house, in that order.

  “Tonight sounds great,” I said as I pushed her bike toward where she stood.

  She glanced upward and grinned, eventually revealing a smile which made her appear slightly more beautiful than she seemed to be without it. Her tattoos set aside, she was certainly as or more beautiful than any other woman I had ever seen.

  Yet.

  After seeing her with the tattoos, I could not imagine her without them. In the past I would have turned my nose upward at a woman with as many tattoos as she had, but for her, they only added to her already outgoing personality. And, although I had yet to decide for certain, I was almost convinced they also added to her beauty.

  “Alright. I’m not giving you my phone number if that’s what you’re standing there waiting for. Just pick me up here, tonight at oh, let’s say, six thirty. How’s that sound?” she asked.

  I grinned and nodded my head. “I’ll see you at six thirty.”

  “Bye, Wilson,” she said as she turned away.

  I waved as she pushed her bicycle toward the side of the house, but it appeared she paid no attention. Slightly disappointed in her lack of expressed interest, I reluctantly walked to the side of the car, got in, and backed out of the drive.

  As I shifted the car into gear and prepared to pull away, I peered over my shoulder and toward the front porch just in time to see the door swing closed. My final effort to catch one more glimpse of her obviously wasn’t meant to be.

  Her image, however, was clearly etched into my mind.

  And my entire work day was spent thinking not of short sales, securities, stocks, options, or futures, but of her.

  And the day seemed to drag on forever.

  STEVIE

  For some reason I had spent the majority of the afternoon of my day off thinking of Wilson. It was unlike me to spend any time daydreaming or contemplating the possibilities of life – or men for that matter – I had always been a “by the seat of your pants” type of girl. When things happened, I reacted, and I didn’t really worry about what may be or what might happen, focusing only on what had happened and what I should do as a result. I seemed to be intrigued by Wilson, his kind and caring nature, and his matter-of-fact personality. He was completely the opposite of what I had always been attracted to in a man, but something about him sure seemed to have captured my interest.

  A large part of it had to be his handsome looks. He was a very attractive man with an extremely strong presence. His wet shirt clinging to his well-defined chest and muscular biceps as he ran through the rain may have played a large part in my subconscious attraction. Realistically, there wasn’t anything wrong with him that I could see; only that he wasn’t a biker, and I had always dated bikers.

  I straightened my work station and cleaned my drawers free of trash as I tried to convince myself a change in pace wasn’t necessarily going to be a bad thing. Maybe going on a date with a rich brat was just what I needed.

  Riley’s heavy sigh from across the shop caught my attention and shifted my focus from thoughts of Wilson to the reality of cleaning the shop. Riley was the fiancé of the owner, Blake, and didn’t have a job. I guessed she must not need one, because she came into the shop and worked as a half-assed receptionist on a daily basis. She seemed to be a little bit of a lost soul, but she fit Blake’s scatterbrained personality perfectly. As broken as they were apart, together they seemed to somehow correct all of their individual faults and shortcomings.

  Well, almost all of them.

  “The pictures are all fuzzy. It’s supposed to take really clear pictures, but it freaking sucks,” she said as she stared down at the screen of her new phone.

  She had just completed taking another series of photos of the shop, and was attempting to make a Facebook page. After I finished sweeping my floor I walked to the reception area and glared at her as she continued to flip through the grainy pictures on her phone.

  I reached for her phone. “Let me see it.”

  “It’s stupid. I swear, you’d think for six hundred bucks it would take better pictures than my old phone,” she said as she handed me the phone.

  After looking over a few of the terribly blurry photos, I turned the phone over and glanced at the camera’s lens. The clear plastic protective film was still affixed to it, making obtaining a clear photo nothing short of impossible. I turned toward her, shook my head, and peeled the film from the lens.

  “Here, dumbass,” I said as I handed her the phone. “My guess is it’ll do a lot better now.”

  She chuckled as she reached for the phone. “Oh, wow. Now I feel stupid.”

  “You are stupid,” I said as I turned away.

  Riley was far from stupid, but I liked teasing her. She had quickly become my favorite person, and was my only girlfriend. She was a fairly quiet person, listened well, and was easy to frustrate, leaving me no alternative but to tease her. Her sense of wit was pretty keen, but a little slow at times.

  “I am not,” she shouted as I sat down on my stool.

  I reached for my drawer, pulled out a box of cellophane wrap, and pulled about ten feet of it from the roll. After folding the wrap into a two foot square, I held it directly in front of my face, and attempted to peer through it toward where she was standing.

  “Fuck, I can’t see a thing. Everything’s all blurry,” I whined.

  “Fuck you, Stevie,” she snapped back.

  I wadded the cellophane into a ball and tossed it toward the trash basket in the front of the store, a good twenty-five feet from where I was sitting. It fell directly into the trash as Riley pivoted in a circle, snapping photos of the shop with every ten degrees or so of rotation. I nodded my head in confirmation of my skills, half aggravated that Riley didn’t witness the almost impossible basket.

  “You didn’t see that, did you?” I asked as I waved my hand toward the basket again.

  She continued to pivot a few inches at a time, snapping a picture each time she stopped. “See what?” she asked.

  “Forget it,” I sighed.

  “So, why are you in such a shitty mood?” she asked as she leaned against the stool and began flipping through her newly acquired photos.

  I s
hrugged my shoulders and tossed my head toward the door. “It’s fucking raining again.”

  “I can take you home,” she said without looking up from her phone.

  “Hopefully it’ll stop here pretty quick,” I responded.

  She glanced up and peered toward where I was sitting. “I can’t believe you came in on your day off just to clean your station.”

  “I can’t believe you came in on your day off to take pictures. Me? I love this place,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

  Truthfully, I did enjoy going in to work, even on my day off. It was a really cool shop, and Blake and Riley were as good of people as I had ever met. Being at work was soothing for me, even if I wasn’t actually working. The shop was a place I knew I could find peace, and no one messed with me when I was there. There were the occasional idiots who came in and wanted some stupid tattoo, but seeing them, hearing their stories, and giving them a piece of artwork – even if it was stupid – was always pretty entertaining. Today, as odd as it seemed, I was apprehensive about my upcoming date with Wilson, and seemed to be trying to waste time until six o’clock rolled around. At times, I wished Blake would just keep the shop open seven days a week; at least I would always have something to do. As the buzzer for the front door sounded, I glanced toward the entrance.

  “Is there a Stevie here?” the man asked as he entered the shop.

  “Right here,” I said as I walked toward him. “Actually, we’re closed, but what can I do for you?”

  “Here you go,” he said as he dangled a pair of what appeared to be key fobs from his fingers.

  “Here you go what?” I shrugged as I glanced down at his hand.

  “Mr. Wilson was afraid you’d be riding your bike in the rain. He sent this for you,” he said.

  I wrinkled my nose and stared. “Mr. Wilson?”

  “That is correct, Ma’am,” he said.

  He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, was an attractive guy, and was dressed similar to Wilson, wearing tan slacks, a navy jacket, and dress shoes.

  “Wait a minute. Mr. Wilson? So his last name is Wilson? And he sent me a fucking car?” I asked, half confused and slightly excited.