The Mad Tatter

  I think she's waiting on me to say something, but I owe the woman nothing, much less an explanation. My life is my life, and if she doesn't like it, tough shit. I've been through the ringer because of her, because of how she feels about my choices, and I take it in stride. I keep my head down and mouth shut, letting her berate me, taking the brunt of her anger, because maybe I deserve it. Maybe I earned the harsh punishment. But I've kept my hands clean for five goddamn years, and at some point she's going to have to cut me some slack for it.

  She shakes her head after a moment and storms inside with little more than a scoff, like she's so disgusted that she can't even find any words to explain it. I walk away then, in no rush to get home, stopping at the store on the way to grab some cigarettes.

  When I make it home half an hour later, the probation officer is still hanging around, sitting on the front steps of the apartment building. With a heavy sigh, I sit down beside him, reaching into my hoodie pocket for my pack of smokes.

  Pulling one out, I light it, taking a deep drag before looking at it as I slowly exhale. "I stopped smoking a few weeks ago."

  He raises his eyebrows. "Looks like it's going well."

  Laughing dryly, I take another drag. "Yeah, well, nobody said I was perfect. But I tried... I'm trying. It's hard, though. I get so wound tight, so frazzled, so frustrated, and it makes me feel like I'm going fucking mad. So I light one, and I tell myself that's it, that after this one, I'm done with them. And I mean it... until the next time something gets under my skin."

  "You need a hobby," he says.

  "I had one." My eyes flit to him, a small, amused smile on my lips. "It's how we met."

  He nods as he laughs under his breath. "Have you been painting lately?"

  "I told you... I've kept my hands clean."

  "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about painting. You know, with paints and brushes and paper. Art."

  "No."

  "Really?" He seems genuinely surprised. "Your studio room looked like you've used it recently."

  My shoulders instinctively stiffen at the words. I knew it. The fucker went upstairs when I was gone. I continue to smoke my cigarette in silence, trying to ignore the sense of invasion I feel.

  "It was just some stupid kids," I say after a while, my voice low. "Some stupid kids who didn't know what they were doing. It's not the first time it has happened, you know."

  He knows. He's come to me every time it has happened, but it's been a while since the last time, almost a year. It's the first time I've seen it, though. The first time I witnessed it happening somewhere.

  "Do you find it weird?" he asks. "All these years later, people still paying homage to you?"

  Shaking my head, I take a deep drag from the cigarette, my chest tightening. Hatter. That's what they used to call me back in the day. "They don't do it for me. They don't know shit about me. They do it because they think it stands for something, that it has some meaning that's bigger than all of us. They do it because they want to believe they have the power to make a difference. They turned it into this thing... this ideal... like they're bucking authority and sending a message that they're here, and they're not going away, because they think people are actually paying attention. They think people actually care. But they don't."

  He stares at me, his expression guarded. "Why did you do it?"

  "Because I thought I was an artist," I say, tossing my cigarette down on the stone steps and tramping it out. "Really I was just another stupid kid."

  He seems to have no response for that.

  Standing, he stretches, before heading off the steps and pausing on the sidewalk. After regarding me for a moment, he motions toward my discarded cigarette butt.

  "Littering could cost you a few hundred bucks in fines," he says. "It's also a violation of your probation, which we both know you don't want. Would hate to get this close to the end and me to have to haul you in."

  Reaching down, I pick up the cigarette butt, clenching a fist around it.

  "And all that you just said? About why you did it? I don't believe it for a moment. The guy I met wasn't stupid. And he was an artist." Officer Warren starts to back away, shaking his head. "That guy just got lost somewhere."

  It's early in the evening, dusk approaching, the sky a dark blue streaked with vibrant shades of orange and pink, like someone painted the skyline around the buildings.

  The city that never sleeps is wide awake, lights flashing, horns honking, people wandering the streets, as the first warm spring weekend creeps up on everybody. I stand in front of the shop, leaning back against the bricks just beneath the colorful sign for Wonderland Tattoos. The windows are dark, the door locked up, the open sign unlit. The shop stays open seven days a week, someone always tattooing, except for one exception: today.

  But just because we aren't at the shop doesn't mean we aren't working.

  Or supposed to be, anyway.

  Sighing, I glance at my watch in the dim lighting right as it turns seven o'clock. I'm officially late. I'm not sure if I even want to go, to be honest, but I hate the idea of leaving Kevin in a bind.

  He's always been there for me, and he asked me for a favor.

  The least I can do is give him a few hours of my time.

  It's going to be a fucking disaster.

  I consider leaving, maybe sticking a note on the door, or just chalking it up to a loss, when I finally see her down the street. Avery. She's speed walking, breaking into a jog when she spots me.

  I push away from the building to meet her on the sidewalk, hands shoved in the pockets of my hoodie, the hood covering my head. Avery looks stunning, wearing a pair of skintight black legging capris and a black sports bra, a tattered oversize white shirt thrown on overtop of it, hanging off her right shoulder.

  Perfect.

  My gaze trails along her exposed collarbones as she comes to a stop in front of me. She's been rehearsing from the look of her… hair falling out of her ponytail, her pale skin glowing with sweat.

  "Hey!" she says, smiling brightly. "I got here as soon as I could."

  "You're just in time," I say.

  "Are you on a break or something?" Her gaze shifts toward the shop, eyes surveying the dark florescent open sign, everything locked up tight. "Wait, are you guys closed?"

  "Yep."

  "But it's Saturday."

  "I know."

  Her brow furrows in confusion as she glances between the shop and me, but she doesn't press the issue. I asked her to meet me here at six-thirty, wearing as little as possible with not a stitch of makeup, and much to my surprise, she actually listened, despite the fact that I probably sounded like a fucking creep with that request.

  If I could've gotten away with it, I would've told her to come naked.

  "So, what are we doing?" she asks, her gaze finally settling back on me.

  "We're working," I say. "Or, well, I'm working."

  "Then what am I doing?"

  I reach out and grab her hand. "You're going to a party."

  Her eyes widen. "What?"

  "A party, Aphrodite," I say. "You have heard of one, correct?"

  "Yes, of course. I've had birthday parties."

  "Birthday parties, huh? Did your parents throw them for you, with cake and ice cream and all your girlfriends? Did you have sleepovers where you talked about boys and braided each other's hair?"

  Her eyes narrow fiercely but she doesn't refute my words. "I'm not dressed for a party, Reece."

  "You're dressed perfect," I say as I eye her. "For the kind of party we're going to, anyway."

  "What kind of party is that?"

  "The kind without presents and bouncy houses," I say. "The kind you won't want your parents to ever know about."

  She eyes me peculiarly, like she wants to refuse, but curiosity is eating away at her. I can see it in those oh-so-innocent eyes.

  "You're, uh... you're sure I look okay?"

  "I'm positive." Rocking back on my heels, I glance down at myself.
"I mean, fuck... look at me."

  My jeans have more holes than a block of Swiss cheese, the denim stained with ink and old paint. My sneakers are scuffed, my hoodie falling apart, and my hair?

  Fuck, I don't even think I brushed it.

  It's starting to get so long Lexie has actually put the shit in a tiny ponytail.

  "That's different," she says. "You're, well… you're you."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means the whole grunge thing works for you, but I look like someone chewed me up and spit me back out."

  Sighing, I tug on her hand. "Just trust me. You'll fit right in."

  She doesn't resist anymore, shrugging as she lets me pull her to me. Squeezing her hand, I kiss her softly before turning away.

  "Now come on," I say. "No time to waste."

  If I put it off any longer, I'll let her talk me out of it.

  By the time we make it to the meatpacking district, I'm running damn near thirty minutes behind. We step out of the subway and head down the shabby block, Avery's hand in mine with her nervously glued to my side.

  The old warehouse stands on a street corner, the massive hunk of brick and concrete crumbling on the outside. The windows are completely blacked out, and the place appears forsaken, but I can hear the subtle sound of music as we approach it.

  It's fucking covered in graffiti.

  I love it.

  "This is it?" she asks hesitantly. "You're taking me to an abandoned warehouse?"

  "Technically, yeah, but it's not abandoned."

  "It looks it," she says. "I seriously think this was a scene out of one of those Friday the 13th movies."

  "Nah," I say, smirking. "It's much, much freakier than that."

  Around the back of the building, cut through the small dank alley, and down a set of concrete stairs to a thick metal door, rusting and aging. A familiar man lurks in the shadows there, invisible despite his hulking appearance, working security. Avery audibly gasps, squeezing my hand so tightly her nails dig into the skin, when she spots him hovering in the darkness in front of her.

  Jay Brandon.

  "Hatfield," he says, his eyes fixed on Avery as he regards her. "I see your recent development has stuck around."

  "Jay," I say, nodding in greeting. "How's the tattoo holding up, man?"

  Jay lifts his shirt up, showing off the grim reaper on his burly chest, still scabbing a bit but healing nicely. "Good as ever."

  "Awesome," I say when he drops his shirt. "Call the shop and we'll set up your next session."

  "Good deal." He reaches for the door, grasping the handle. "Go on in."

  There's a code to get through the door, a password for permission, but I'm immune to needing an invitation.

  The moment the door opens, music spills out into the night, the frantic beat of some electronica song, loud and banging, vibrating the floor and walls around us. I lead Avery down the long hallway, a maze of darkness that gradually lightens with a subtle purple glow. It seems to infuse with everything when we step into the main area of the warehouse basement, bathing the entire space in purple from the sea blacklights.

  "Holy crap," Avery says, her voice barely audible over the music. It pumps above us, inside the warehouse, echoing down along the floor. I've been here a few times before for one of these underground parties, but this one is special.

  Wonderland turns five years old today.

  That's reason for celebration.

  A few dozen people linger in the basement, in front of a long span of mirrors, covering the entire wall like at the ballet studio. A few people huddle in the stations along the wall, tables set up, women dressed in nothing but white string bikinis standing in line, awaiting their turns.

  Body paint.

  Squeezing Avery's hand, drawing her attention to me, I give her a small smile and lead her to the only empty station dead center of the chaos. Kevin glances up from his spot beside it, a white medical mask on his face, shielding him as he airbrushes glowing orange onto the body of a model. He catches my eye and stops what he's doing, sitting back and pulling the mask down.

  He's quiet for a moment. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking my retirement would keep me away. "You're late."

  "I know."

  "I didn't think you were coming."

  "Yeah, well, I'm here."

  He nods. "You're here."

  I see the relief in his eyes. He doesn't have to express it. I know he's grateful.

  I have someone bring an extra chair for Avery to take a seat between Kevin and me as I settle in at the station, opening the array of blacklight paints scattered around. No sooner am I there and people start lining up. I wave the first girl over, her white bikini glowing under the lights, her body sparkling from the sheen of glittery gold paint. I quickly paint flames on her skin, a golden orange mix of color around her stomach and back, the inferno spreading down her legs and along her arms. Once she's covered, her body standing out under the lights like a neon statue, I send her on her way and wave over the next one.

  It's methodic, and swift, a slick assembly line of living art. Martin airbrushes the models while Kevin and I add some fine detail, before shipping them down the line to Ellie, who does the final touches with makeup. There are other artists, other guys Kevin hired for this reason, working together to get everyone painted.

  After the models are done and shipped upstairs, the doors are opened and others let in. A steady stream of scantily clad women and bare chested men flow through the basement, stopping by the stations for body paint. It isn't as elaborate as the models, most getting mere swirling designs of color on their exposed skin. It's steady, body after body, time slipping away. The music above us grows louder as more people flood the warehouse. Hours faded away as I work, pausing occasionally between jobs to glance at Avery, taking in her fascinated expression as she watches us.

  I almost get lost in the art.

  It makes my chest ache.

  When the clock strikes midnight, we shut down the stations. I turn to Avery and am about to speak when she beats me to it. "And here I thought I was special."

  I cock an eyebrow in question.

  "What we did at your house," she explains. "I thought it was special. I didn't realize you made a habit of painting women."

  Ah. "I wouldn't say I make a habit of it."

  "How many have you done?"

  "You were the first."

  "But I'm not the only."

  "Huh." I eye her peculiarly. "Is that jealousy I hear?"

  "Of course not."

  Her answer is quick, accompanied by a forced dismissive scoff.

  Jealous.

  Wordlessly, I pat the table, motioning for her to join me. Her eyes widen slightly as she hesitantly takes the space. I pull her shirt off, tossing it aside, and eyed her in her black sports bra and leggings. She isn't showing a lot of skin, but it's enough for me to work with. I take my time, creating an elaborate pattern of neon splatters on her body, a blacklight supernova of color marking her.

  Maybe she isn't my only, but she was my first, and now the last, too.

  When I finish, I stand up, towering over her as I stare down at her. Leaning close, I whisper, "You are special."

  "Am I?"

  The question is timid, laced with genuine curiosity, vulnerability accentuating every syllable. It surprises me, hearing her sound so insecure, her eyes regarding me with a familiar uncertainty, like she isn't sure what to make of anything.

  I know this look well.

  Skepticism.

  This woman is a walking, talking goddess, an angel in disguise, and she looks at me like she fears I don't really see her at all.

  But I see her, all right… I saw her the first time she stepped into the shop, have seen her every moment since then, and I certainly see her now. And maybe it's all in my head, but I'm sure I even saw her then, the day I spray-painted her father's studio.

  She smiled, when she saw it.

  It was beautiful.

/>   Cupping her cheek, my thumb brushes across her bottom lip before I lean over and kiss her. I take my time, kissing her softly, sweetly, feeling her body relax against mine. I pull away eventually, a catcall from the chair beside us disrupting the moment. Smirking, I kiss her a few more times, innocent little pecks, before taking her hand and pulling her away from the station.

  "I'm out, Kevin."

  He salutes me as I stride by. "Catch you on the other side."

  "Where are we going?" Avery asks as I lead her through the basement, past the people still lurking down here. A few people greet me, former clients, calling my name. I smile and nod, moving past them, and pull Avery in front of me when we near a set of stairs. These lead up into the warehouse, the music louder here, so intense I can feel it pulsating through my body, infusing every cell as it pumps through my veins.

  "Down the rabbit hole," I whisper in her ear, pushing her hair aside when we reach the top of the stairs.

  The warehouse is a dark purple abyss streaked with neon. Hundreds of bodies pack the space, glowing under the blacklights. In the front of the massive room, on a stage, the DJ spins records, the frantic electronica pouring from speakers.

  A strobe light sporadically flashes to the beat of the song, briefly washing the room in bright white light, before everything falls right back into darkness. Avery pauses at the edge of the room, her body rigid as she surveys everything.

  "What are you waiting for?" I ask, urging her on. "Don't you want to dance?"

  At the question, she spins around to face me, eyes wide. "What?"

  "Dance," I say again, motioning out onto the dance floor. "I sort of got the impression dancing was your thing."

  "It is," she says. "But not this kind of dancing."

  "What's wrong with this kind of dancing?"

  "Nothing, but I do choreography, Reece. I do ballet."

  "So?"

  "So I don't know how to rave."

  I laugh at her incredulous tone. "First of all, it's not a rave… it's a blacklight party. And dancing is dancing. You feel the music and you move to it. You don't think about it. Art is art, baby. You just feel it."

  She eyes me skeptically for a moment before turning back around and scanning the crowd. "I've only ever done ballet."