Freefall

  A scar. The thought had gone through my head over and over again. It was a long one, a bad one, not the kind of scar you get from slipping on the diving board of a pool. “You’ll never guess who walked into the shop tonight,” I said quietly.

  It took Dray a second to answer. “I give up. Who?”

  “The girl.” If he’d been without head trauma, he would have known exactly who I meant, but he was having a tough time processing with a bruised brain.

  “What girl?” He lifted his head and squinted into the harsh fluorescent light.

  I remained silent and then it dawned on him. He sat up and pressed his fingers to his temple to ease the pain. “You’ve got to be kidding? How did you know it was her?”

  “Shit, Dray, I knew it was her the first second I laid eyes on her face. Her picture is etched into my fucking brain.”

  “All right, don’t get so pissed. So is she getting a tattoo? Was I right about her being attached already?’

  “Yes and yes.”

  “No wonder you seem so pissed. So you’ve got to spend hours painting an intricate tattoo on the body of a girl you’ve been obsessed with for a year, and her old man is going to stand there and watch.”

  “You nailed it.”

  He slumped back down and closed his eyes. “I may have just gotten my head plastered across the floor of the fight ring, but it sucks to be you, my friend. It sucks to be you.” He pressed his fingers against his bottom lip. “Man that is fat. So is she as awesome as you thought she’d be?”

  I leaned back in the seat. “Let me put it this way. I’m still trying to catch my breath.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Scotlyn

  The dark pink stones twinkled back at me in the mirror. The color matched my mom’s nail polish perfectly, and when I saw the earrings dangling on the stand, I knew they were meant for me. Even if the tattoo artist seemed reluctant to part with them. For a moment when he looked at me with those interesting amber eyes, it seemed he knew me, or at least thought he did.

  “Babe, food’s here,” Lincoln’s voice came through the upstairs intercom. I headed down to the kitchen. The overhead lights reflected off the gleaming stainless steel appliances, casting a stream of prism shaped colors through the white tile kitchen. Lincoln had filled his kitchen with every piece of expensive gourmet equipment on the market but neither of us cooked. My skills did not go past a can of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, and I was a chef compared to Lincoln. So, for the most part, the kitchen remained untouched and pristine like so many other things in his lavish house.

  He pushed the box of Chinese food to me, and I sat up on the stool to eat. A mixture of anger and disappointment radiated off of him, and I actually felt sorry for him. There were times in the day when the guilt ate at me. I hated that I couldn’t bring myself to love the man. He’d saved me from the streets, and there was little doubt that I would not have seen my eighteenth birthday if it hadn’t been for Lincoln Hammond. But it all came apart when it became evident that he had done it not so much out of the goodness of his heart but so that he could own me.

  “I was thinking,” he said quietly, “I know how badly you’ve been wanting a pet. I thought we could get a big fish aquarium for the living room.”

  I smiled into my chow mein. Only a man like Lincoln Hammond could think that a tank of fish was a good pet. I scribbled some words on my paper. “Are they breeding fish with fur that cuddle in your lap?”

  He read it, and a small grin curled his mouth. “I guess fish aren’t really great pets. But you know I can’t stand to have fur everywhere.” He looked up at the earrings and shook his head. “I buy you one carat diamond studs from the jewelry store, and you wear the ten dollar pink paste earrings.”

  I fingered the stones. “These suit me better,” I wrote.

  He stirred his food around with the chopsticks. “I don’t get it.”

  I picked up my pen but paused. I’d found that speaking with a pen and paper had many similarities to actually talking. There were times when I’d write something and then tear it up deciding it was better left unwritten just as words were sometimes better left unspoken. But my heart was empty, and using my silence to avoid the pain of it was not helping either of us. I wrote.

  “I know. That’s the problem.”

  His dark blue gaze lifted, and he stared at me. The disappointment in his face made my chest ache. He picked up the food that he’d barely touched and threw it in the trash. Then he walked over to the wet bar and poured a drink. “I’m going out clubbing tonight.” He took a swig. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in going along?”

  I looked at him, but I didn’t need to answer. He knew. He’d been going out a lot for the past months, staying out late and returning with the smell of perfume on his shirt. And I was glad. I wanted him to find someone who truly cared about him. That girl just wasn’t me.

  CHAPTER 7

  Nix

  The shriek of a seagull woke me from a crappy night’s sleep. I had to get up every two hours to wake Dray to make sure his flattened brain still functioned. He was so pissed every time I woke him I was sure he was going to throw a punch at me. The unexpected event in my shop had kept me from sleeping in between too.

  I rubbed my face awake and pulled my blanket up over my naked shoulders. A salty coastal fog had drifted into the marina overnight, and it had seeped into every corner of the cabin. One of the downfalls of living aboard, and especially living aboard a houseboat that had seen better days. My grandparents had bought the Zany Lucy in the eighties when they’d decided it would be hip and non-conformist to live on a boat. But two years after moving onto the Lucy, Nana decided being a non-conformist was not all that easy and opted for the convenience of a house that was “glued to a foundation.” My grandfather had not had the heart to part with the houseboat and had rented it out for years. Now it was my home, and while I didn’t have to pay rent to a landlord or mortgage to a bank, there were plenty of huge costs and slip fees. And with the Zany Lucy slowly deteriorating with age, I was facing the grim prospect of having to sell her soon.

  I started up the coffee pot and plopped onto a chair, hoping the fog on the dock, and the fog in my head, would clear up soon. Loud footsteps pounded the dock and stopped at my boat. Clutch was the one person who could actually make the Zany Lucy cast slightly to the side when he stepped on board. He had to practically drop to his knees to avoid smacking his head on the doorway. He poured into the kitchen and filled the small space completely. The chair groaned in protest as he sat on it.

  I poured myself a cup and held one up for him.

  “Yeah, I’ll take some,” he said. “I was up late last night.”

  “Did you sell the Pontiac?”

  “Not yet. People are so fucking cheap.” He leaned back, and the chair groaned louder. “But I did get my hands on a sweet little number last night?”

  “Girl?” I asked.

  He reached for the sugar. “Nah, a car. She’s a ’63 Corvette that needs a lot of love. I might even keep this one.” He plucked his phone out of his pocket and read the text. “Shit, that kid doesn’t leave me alone.”

  I poured myself a bowl of cereal. “What kid?”

  “Who else? Taylor.”

  “Why the heck does Taylor have your number?” Without leaving the chair, I reached into the fridge and grabbed the milk— one of the perks of living on a houseboat with tiny living space.

  “Her brother, Jason, paints my cars. I’m sure she got it from him.”

  Clutch put on a good show of acting disgusted about her bugging him, but something told me, he’d be bummed if she suddenly left him alone.

  “Dray has a concussion. We were in the emergency room last night.” I drank the milk from my bowl and dropped it into the sink.

  “That guy isn’t going to be able to remember his own name by the time he’s thirty.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know how much more abuse his body can take.” I got up. “I’ve got to get ready fo
r work.”

  “You want to go have a steak and beer tonight?” Clutch asked. “I’ve got nothing going on.”

  “Can’t.” All night I’d wondered whether they would really show up for the tattoo, part of me hoped they wouldn’t, and the other part of me hoped like hell that they would. I looked back at Clutch. “I’m doing a tattoo for someone after the shop closes.” I decided not to go into detail. Clutch knew about the picture in my wallet and just like with Dray, it had always been a huge source of amusement for him. And I wasn’t in the mood for comedy.

  ***

  Cassie seemed to sense my anxiousness as she took her sweet time closing up the books. She knew a customer was coming in to get at tattoo after closing but she knew nothing about the client. And while Cassie knew just about everything about my personal life, for obvious reasons, I’d never told her about the picture in my pocket. It was bad enough that Dray and Clutch knew about it.

  Her small fingers poked at the calculator keys. “You seem kind of wound up, Boss,” she said without looking up from her task. Cassie was the kind of girl who could hold an entire conversation, book an appointment, and calculate the day’s receipt all at the same time and do it with perfect accuracy. She’d gone to college for several years after high school but had grown disenchanted with the whole idea halfway through her sophomore year.

  “Do I? “ I said casually as if I hadn’t noticed that my gut was churning like a stormy sea. “I had one of those energy drinks earlier to wake up. Probably shouldn’t have.” I leaned over the counter and finished the stencil of the vine. It was amazingly detailed, and I was thankful to be doing it in sections. I’d cut it into four pieces, which meant I would see her four times— if they showed. Four sessions with the girl I’d been dreaming about for a year and then she’d walk out of my life again for good. Of course, it was easy staying in love with a picture. The likely reality was that getting to know her in person would cast a shadow over it all. These sessions would most likely end my obsession, and I would finally be able to get rid of the picture.

  Cassie was straightening up her jewelry displays. “Hey, I think someone stole a pair of earrings. I’m missing the pink ones.”

  I looked up from the stencil. “Oh, sorry, Cass, I forgot to tell you. Someone bought them yesterday.”

  Her glasses slid down her nose, and she looked at me over the black rims. “For how much?”

  “Ten bucks.”

  “Ten bucks? They were thirty dollar custom handmade earrings.”

  “They were two pink stones strung on a piece of wire.”

  “Right, strung by hand.”

  “I’ll give you thirty.” I stood to take out my wallet. I handed her the cash. “Sorry, next time I’ll ask you first.”

  An engine roared outside and the silver Porsche pulled up. My heart slammed against my chest.

  Cassie stared out at the expensive car. “I take it that’s the rich client?” She turned to look at me. “Are you all right, Nix? You look like you’re about to puke.” I had really wanted Cassie to be gone before they arrived.

  The door opened and Mr. Slick walked in first. Then she stepped into the shop. She was still wearing a zipped up sweatshirt and skin tight jeans but no hood and no sunglasses. Her white blonde hair was swept up in a ponytail, and the pink earrings dangled from tiny earlobes. She stood there in the center of my shop, and it seemed as if all breathable oxygen had been sucked from the room.

  Cassie took one glance at the girl and turned back to me. “Well, that explains the whole earring giveaway.” She patted my shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

  I can still remember back to the day when my first client came in for a tattoo. He was a big biker dude who wanted a flaming motorcycle on his calf. I was nervous as fuck and convinced I was going to mess up. Once I got going, my nerves calmed and the tattoo looked pretty damn cool. This was way worse and something told me I was going to be a wreck through the whole thing.

  “Uh, I’ve got the table ready in the back.”

  Hammond motioned for her to follow me as he pulled out his phone and pressed it to his ear. It seemed he liked to be in command of her every move. She slid past me, and my knuckles brushed the cotton sweatshirt. I took a breath wondering what I’d gotten myself into. I wasn’t completely sure I would be able to do this. The whole thing seemed like torture.

  As a tattoo artist you train yourself to separate from the client. They are the canvas for your art and nothing more. I’d drawn tattoos in intimate places on girls, and it had never been a problem. If it had been then I would have had to give up my shop and forget about tattooing. But it had always been easy for me. My tattoos were my art. But this was something entirely different. For a year, I’d imagined how this girl would feel beneath my fingertips, I’d imagined her fragrance, I’d imagined the sound of her voice.

  She pointed to a hook on the wall and then to her sweatshirt.

  I stared at her a minute before I could answer. “Uh, yeah, just hang it there.”

  She was the one getting a tattoo, and I was the one who was tense. I could hear her boyfriend talking sharply to someone on his phone. He seemed like the kind of guy who only knew how to talk sharply to people.

  Scotlyn’s long ponytail dropped over her shoulder as she glanced down to unzip her sweatshirt. She slipped it off her suntanned shoulders and unveiled a skimpy black tank shirt underneath.

  I’d prepared my tray earlier. With my concentration completely shattered by her mere presence, it turned out to have been a good decision. “You can have a seat on the table for now,” I said. “I’m just going to pour some ink.”

  Silently, she walked around to the front edge of the padded table and hopped up onto it. Her long legs dangled like a little girl’s on a tall swing.

  “I’ve cut the tattoo into four sections. Your boy— Mr. Hammond said long sessions would make you anxious. So we’ll start with the top section tonight.”

  She pulled a small pad of paper and pen from the back pocket of her jeans. She wrote quickly and lifted the pad of paper. “He’s the one who gets anxious. Not me.”

  “I see. So he just blames you for it.”

  She nodded.

  I stared at my gloves. I normally wouldn’t put them on until after I’d applied the design, but self-preservation persuaded me to pull them on. I had no trust in my self-control.

  I could feel her blue eyes on me as I filled the ink cups. “Is this your first tattoo?” I continued to concentrate on my task and waited to hear her response, completely forgetting. She tapped the table, and I looked up and found myself short of breath yet again. She nodded and put up a finger to assure me it was her first tattoo.

  “There is definitely some pain involved. I always tell people to let me know if they need a break or if the pain is too much or—”

  I had not finished when she picked up her paper and hastily wrote a word. She ripped the paper from the pad and held it up. “Break,” I read it aloud. She wrote another word and held it up. “Ouch.” She wrote a third word. “Ouch!!” I smiled. She wrote one last message. “All good.”

  “That’ll work,” I said.

  Hammond stuck his head in and instantly her demeanor changed. Her soft smile disappeared, and her face looked fragile, and rigid, and beautiful like fine porcelain. He was still talking on his phone, but apparently he’d felt the need to check on her.

  He walked back out, and her shoulders relaxed.

  I picked up the gossamer thin stencil paper, but it was no match for the rubber of the gloves. A corner of the stencil paper ripped off, and I came to the conclusion that the gloves had to go while I transferred on the stencil. I pulled them back off, and her round eyes narrowed with curiosity.

  “Sorry, those don’t usually go on until after the stencil transfer.” I felt like a complete idiot, but I was certain that she hadn’t caught my true motive for putting the gloves on early. I took another deep breath and stood. I was directly in front of her, just a ruler’s length awa
y from her face, just twelve inches away from a pair of eyes that melted my heart, a foot away from lips that pushed all kinds of ideas into my head. “Lie down on your stomach and lift your shirt up. Then I can position the stencil to see exactly where it should start.” Paying client, I said over and over in my head trying to keep my mind on the fact that this was just another job. Something to pay the rent on the shop.

  Scotlyn stretched out her long legs and lowered the top half of her body down. She didn’t seem to be the least bit nervous, but I was ready to jump out of my skin. I pulled the hem of her shirt out of the top of her jeans and slid it up along her side. The lacy pink scar outlined the smooth curve of her waist and hip. I looked up at the wall where I’d taped the original drawing. I lifted the shirt up to the bottom of her bra line and looked at the drawing again. There was no way it could start that low without ending up on her leg. I walked over and took the art off the wall. I lined it up next to her on the table.

  Scotlyn twisted around to look at it and then seemed to sense my dilemma. Her lip curled up in a smile. She sat up and performed the magic trick that girls had perfected where they remove their bra without taking off their shirt. I pretended to busy myself with the ink. She hopped off the table with her wadded-up bra of pink satin and shoved it into the pocket of her sweatshirt. Then she climbed back on the table and lowered back down to her stomach before sliding up her shirt to expose the white, silky skin that ran alongside her breast. The scar started just an inch below that.

  I picked up the stencil and transferred the picture of the intricate flower to her creamy skin. She rested her head down on her forearms. I took care to keep my fingers on the paper the entire time.

  She wiggled her shoulders.

  “Sorry, does that tickle?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Almost finished and then we can get started.” I pulled the stencil up and looked at it. “Do you want to see where I’ve placed it?”

  She shook her head without lifting it from her arms. “It almost seems that Hammond is more interested in this tattoo than you are.” No response at first then she lifted a thumb in the air.