Pretty In Ink Page 9

  I pressed the tips of my fingers against my eyes and continued. “I went to my downstairs office and I uhhm. I made the decision…”

  Speaking about it to Stevie was much more difficult than I expected it to be. She had asked, and technically I did lie to her the day we met. As difficult as it was, I owed her the explanation, and the truth. Honestly, I owed it to her anyway. As I studied her beautiful face, now washed over with worry, I decided to blurt out the key part of my speech.

  “I was mailing a suicide letter to my parents the day we met.”

  She released the comforter and covered her mouth with her hands.

  I nodded my head. “It’s the truth. I had a pistol in the console of the car. I mailed the letter to my mother, and had planned on…”

  The thought of it now seemed so far away, both in time, and in the amount of sense the decision made.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “But you’re okay now?”

  I wiped my eyes and nodded my head. “Better than I’ve ever been.”

  “Has this happened before?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No. And I’m sure it never will again.”

  “When did you decide…you know…not to?” she asked.

  I wiped my eyes again and chuckled as I lowered my hands.

  “You know, it’s funny when I think about it. It wasn’t raining when I went in the store to mail the letter. But when I walked out it was pouring. The skies were dark, and the rain was falling down in sheets. As I saw how the weather had changed, I saw it as a sign that my decision was the right one, and I was at peace with it. And then I walked out to the edge of the awning and saw you. And everything seemed to change. I think I really knew when I told you I’d go get the car.”

  She narrowed her gaze and stared.

  “My shoes. They were new. When I went to get the car, I hesitated at the thought of getting them wet. A suicidal man would care less. I knew then that my mind had changed. You saved me.”

  “Don’t say that,” she said as she shook her head.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “You did.”

  “Is that why you bought me the car? Because you thought I saved you?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No, I bought it for you because I couldn’t think of you riding the bicycle in the rain. Well, that and I was extremely and immediately attracted to you.”

  “I’ve only dated guys who use me as a punching bag – and only bikers – never anyone who has treated me nice. You’re the exact opposite of what I’ve always said I liked in men. But I kind of feel the same way. When you asked me out, I was all excited. I remember thinking it was weird, because you were like this rich professional looking dude, and I’ve always laughed at guys like you,” she said with a laugh.

  “So you’re not going to leave me for lying to you?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “But never again.”

  I turned my open palm toward her. “I swear.”

  “Okay, good,” she said.

  I felt a huge relief after explaining everything to her. I suppose from a psychological standpoint, discussing my suicidal thoughts was paramount to my recovery from them, but my mother offered nothing in regard to comfort or willingness to listen when she came to the office. As always, she was too busy being important to allow me to be so for even one moment.

  After a sigh of apparent relief, Stevie brushed her hair behind her ears and shifted her eyes toward the foot of the bed. A moment of deep thought followed, and she eventually turned to face me.

  “So, we’re kind of getting it all out there, right?” she asked.

  “I suppose so,” I responded.

  “I have a question,’ she said.

  “Alright.”

  “Promise not to get mad?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I’ll never get mad at you for asking a question.”

  “The night we ate donuts I gave you a blowjob in the car. And you came in my mouth. And then, that night in the kitchen when we forgot to eat dinner and we were looking for something to eat. I told you to fuck my mouth and you got all excited. Remember, you said you’d never heard that saying?”

  I nodded my head as I thought of the night in the kitchen.

  “Well, you fucked my mouth until my jaw was tired, and I started giving you a hand job and you plastered my face with cum.” She paused and sat up straight.

  “But you’ve never had an orgasm when we have sex. Is there something wrong? I’m sorry but this is really bothering me. Am I doing something wrong?” she asked.

  I felt terrible. The last thing on earth I ever wanted to do was cause her to feel inadequate or incapable. As I leaned toward her and wrapped my arms around her she rested her face against my chest and began to softly cry.

  And my heart fell into my stomach.

  “I’m so sorry. It’s not what you think,” I whispered.

  “Do you not think I’m sexy?’ she blubbered.

  I felt small.

  Worthless.

  And extremely selfish.

  I placed my hands on her shoulders and slowly pushed her from my chest.

  “Listen,” I said.

  She wiped her eyes and nodded her head.

  “Okay,” she murmured.

  “You’re the sexiest woman to ever grace this earth. And you’re the only woman I find attractive. The only one,” I hesitated and attempted to mentally formulate my thought processes into words.

  “When we started having sex, I wondered about condoms. And I wasn’t sure, but I felt if I wore one, you’d feel I thought less of you. My parents have strong beliefs against birth control, and they forced their beliefs on me. My father always said a man should only wear a condom if he’s having sex with a prostitute. My restraint was a combination of subconscious concerns, and a conscious precautionary measure. I guess you can say it was my means of birth control,” I said.

  “That’s it?” she said as she wiped her swollen eyes. “You fucker. You made me think there was something wrong with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am.”

  She pressed her hands against my chest and pushed against me harshly. As I recovered from her shoving me, she leaned back, furrowed her brow, and glared at me. Sitting with the comforter now nestled around her waist and her upper body exposed and naked, it was difficult to take her seriously.

  “I’m on birth control, you dork,” she said.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well you do now,” she said. “So do you want to?”

  “Come inside of you?” I asked.

  She shifted her eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “Yes, dork. Do you want to blow a load in my twat?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and widened my eyes playfully. “With an invitation like that, who could refuse?”

  And, in all actuality, I could hardly wait.

  STEVIE

  I never really had many options for what I could have done with my life regarding work, but my decision to be a tattoo artist proved to be a very wise choice for me. I loved my work, I was a very good artist, and I was often able to produce a piece of work I seriously doubted any other artist on earth could come close to reproducing.

  “Stop twisting around or this thing is going to look like Keith fucking Richards,” I said as he turned to the side.

  “It better not,” he said as he relaxed again.

  I lifted my foot from the switch. “Look, it’s really close to being done. It doesn’t matter if you’re looking at the tattoo or looking at the fucking wall, it’s going to look the same when I’m done. Unless you keep dicking around like you’re doing now. It’s on your ribs, and every time you twist like that, it’s like yanking against a painter’s canvas while they’re trying to paint. Just hold still for fifteen more minutes,” I said.

  “Alright,” he sighed.

  He had been a pretty good customer considering he was getting a three hour long portrait of his father on his ribcage. A
ccording to the story he told, his father had died of lung cancer at the age of forty-eight, and I was doing my best to produce an exact likeness of the photograph he provided.

  A huge cloud of smoke slowly migrated into my station and began to loom over my chair. I released the switch again, lifted the needle from his skin, and glanced toward Blake’s station.

  “Dude, seriously?” I said.

  Blake was tattooing one of the employees of the local hippie pizza joint, who was an avid smoker of the e-cig. When the product first came on the market, they resembled cigarettes and produced a small puff of smoke. Now, batteries the size of a clenched fist and oil tanks that resembled shot glasses emitted clouds of smoke that could easily fill a room.

  And this hipster was blowing them out like he was at a fucking Cheech and Chong concert.

  “Dude, have some respect,” I said.

  He raised the contraption to his lips, inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled a ten second long cloud of citrus smelling nonsense into the air. The shop looked like the stage in an old school Def Leppard video as the cloud of smoke encompassed everything around it.

  “It’s not smoking, it’s water vapor,” he said. “It’s completely legal.”

  “So is taking a fucking shit, asshole,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean you need to do it in mixed company.”

  “Put it away,” Blake said.

  “Dude, seriously?” the hipster asked.

  Blake nodded his head.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I glanced down at the tattoo and tried to remember where I was when I was enveloped by the smoke cloud. After studying it for a few seconds, I dipped the needle, stepped on the switch, and preceded.

  “Just a few more minutes,” I said as I alternated glances between the photo and the tattoo.

  After completing all of the black and grey, I rinsed the needle, dipped it into the white, and gave a few highlights to the eyes and in the reflection of light in the hair. I carefully wiped the tattoo with the back of my glove and rolled my stool back slightly.

  I nodded my head.

  “Hold still, I’m going to wipe it down,” I said.

  I wiped the tattoo with green soap, and then with witch hazel. A thorough inspection revealed no imperfections that I could see, and I relaxed into my seat satisfied with the job I had done.

  “Take a look,” I said.

  He rolled to his side, studied the tattoo, and sighed heavily. “It’s perfect. You did my pop proud.”

  “Thank you. It’s a great piece,” I said.

  I opened my drawer, pulled out a care card, and handed it to him.

  “Don’t listen to your tattooed buddies, or follow recommendations you read on the internet, do what it says on this card. As long as you follow these instructions, the work’s guaranteed,” I said.

  “I’ve got other tattoos,” he said.

  “I don’t give a shit how many tattoos you’ve got. Follow what it says on the card,” I said as I waved the card in front of him.

  He accepted the card and slid it into his back pocket.

  “Three hundred?” he asked.

  “Yep,” I responded.

  He stood, removed his wallet, and pulled out four one hundred dollar bills. “Keep the other. A tip for a great job, I appreciate it.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I pushed the money into my front pocket.

  “What’s your name again?” he asked.

  “Stevie,” I responded as I reached for the cellophane wrap.

  “Let me wrap that for you. Just leave it on until you get home,” I said.

  He shifted his eyes up from admiring the tattoo. “Alright.”

  I wrapped his tattoo in cellophane and taped the edges with medical tape. After making certain the bandage was secure, I nodded my head.

  “You’re good to go,” I said.

  He nodded his head, shifted his eyes toward my hands, and then raised them to meet mine.

  “You want to go out for a beer sometime?” he asked.

  “Sorry, spoken for,” I responded.

  “Don’t see a ring,” he said.

  “Still spoken for,” I said.

  “Not very loudly,” he said with a grin.

  I pressed my hand into my hip and cocked an eyebrow. “You stumble over that white BMW M4 on your way in?”

  “I saw it, yeah. Bad ass ride,” he said.

  “That loud enough?” I asked.

  He pulled his shirt over his head and tugged the wrinkles out before fixing his eyes on mine. “Your man buy you that?”

  “Sure did,” I responded.

  He nodded his head and turned toward the door.

  “Wouldn’t have guessed you for a gold digger,” he mumbled as he turned away.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  He continued to walk toward the door as if he didn’t hear me, but I was sure he did.

  “What did you say, you pinch faced little prick?” I asked in a stern tone.

  He stopped and turned around.

  “I said I wouldn’t have guessed you for a gold digger,” he said.

  I was far from a gold digger. I wasn’t with Wilson for his money, and in fact he exact opposite was true. Even if he had nothing, I would be with him. His manner of treating me with respect, being kind, and his considerate nature were just a few of the reasons I was attracted to him. And, of course, the fact that he could make me have multiple orgasms. For this hatchet-faced little punk to say anything otherwise was pure unsubstantiated bullshit.

  “I’m not a gold digger, you dick,” I said.

  “He bought you that car, didn’t he?” he asked as he turned away.

  “I’m not with him for his money, fuck you,” I said.

  He pushed the door open, paused, and spoke over his shoulder.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” he said.

  “Fuck you,” I shouted.

  As I watched him walk down the sidewalk toward his car, I turned toward my station, still fuming mad.

  The hipster’s wide eyes were fixed on me.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” I asked.

  His eyes quickly shifted toward the floor.

  “That guy was a dick,” Riley said as I walked past.

  “Fucking douchebag,” I said.

  I walked to my station and peered down at the floor beside my toolbox. The pair of Red Bottom shoes I had worn to work sat beside my toolbox. I was wearing a pair of the designer jeans he bought me, and the key fob for the BMW sitting outside was stuffed into my front pocket.

  I turned toward the mirror. The top I was wearing was also something he had given me.

  But it wasn’t why I was with him, it was coincidental.

  I was sure of it.

  “You’re mad, aren’t you?” Riley asked.

  I turned around, glanced at the clock, and glared at her.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said. “Don’t be mad at me.”

  “Blake, I’m leaving early,” I said.

  “Okay by me,” he said over the sound of his buzzing machine.

  “Be back tomorrow,” I said as I stormed toward the door.

  On my fucking bicycle.

  WILSON

  Investing a significant amount of money in a highly speculative common stock valued at less than a dollar a share was dangerous, but had the potential of being very rewarding. My early morning gamble of purchasing several million shares of a stock valued at eighteen cents was a tremendous risk considering the rumors of bankruptcy and the potential of losing my investment, but the seven cent increase in value when they announced a merger with a competitor cleared me almost two million in profit.

  Not a bad profit at all for a day’s work.

  “One point eight nine seven clear!” I screamed as I sold the stock.

  “Outstanding,” Andrew responded from down the hallway. “Congratulations.”

  “It’s high time we replace that ratty Audi you’ve been driving,” I shouted.

&nbs
p; “I like my Audi,” he said.

  The sweat stains on the armpits of his shirt indicated he was having a more difficult day than me.

  “Antiperspirant works wonders,” I said with a laugh.

  “Let’s just say my day hasn’t gone so well,” he responded.

  “Haven’t lost more than a million eight ninety seven, have you?” I asked.

  He shook his head, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and sighed.

  “Well then, it doesn’t really matter,” I said.

  “Very well. I’m going back in,” he said.

  “Best of luck to you,” I said with a nod.

  As he turned and walked away, I glanced around my office. On the high I was normally on when I made a huge profit, I was ready to spend money on something. Personally, I needed nothing, and my contributions to charity for the year were at an all-time high. Fully aware of the possibility of losing as much as I made in a matter of one poor decision made very little difference to me at the moment, and after a few minutes of contemplating, I picked up the phone.

  “Sharpe, Please,” I said as the receptionist answered.

  After a short wait, he answered the phone.

  “This is Sharpe, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Sharpe, Asher Wilson. How are you?” I asked.

  “I am well, Mr. Wilson. What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Do you have a new M5 on your lot? One, let’s say, in a fun color?” I asked.

  “Have one on the showroom in Sakhir Orange with the same interior,” he said.

  “Describe it,” I said.

  “In one word,” he said. “Money.”

  “Is it a metallic paint?” I asked as I typed the color into Google.

  “It sure is. This one has twelve thousand dollar HRE rims, a full Akrapovic exhaust, and a Dinan stage three chip; it’s pushing six hundred and seventy five horsepower. It sounds like a Formula One car,” he said.

  “Price?” I asked.

  “With options, for you? One hundred thirty-two even,” he said.

  “Do you have any bows in contrasting colors?” I chuckled.

  “I can sure have someone make one in a powder blue,” he said with a laugh.

  “Have it delivered to my office, would you?” I asked.