Riley was good for me in so many ways. Our having found each other wasn’t by design or the result of an exhaustive search on either of our parts. We were two people who were looking for nothing yet found everything; and we found it in each other.
Knowing the odds of us finding each other was more than merely happenstance, yet further understanding what caused us to meet was beyond my comprehension, I was only able to sit back and thank God for gracing me with her presence.
My phone beeped. I swiped my finger across the screen and pressed the message with the tip of my thumb.
Yes. Pick me up?
I fumbled with the keys, pressed send, and stared at the screen.
Be there in ten
A smiley face came back immediately. I glanced down at it and grinned.
Riley had her own reasons to be angry with the world, society, and the system, but she remained peaceful inside and out. One day I hoped to be a little more like her, but until that day came, I would have to remain satisfied that I was good enough to be by her side.
And by her side I intended to remain.
RILEY
I sat on the porch and clutched the envelope in my hand. Writing the letter provided me with tremendous satisfaction, and I hoped mailing it would provide even more. Either way, it was a step I felt needed to be taken, and taking it wasn’t necessarily easy.
Knowing the man who killed Blake’s parents and my father was still alive, and in a few short days would be holding the very paper which I wrote my feelings upon was creepy and satisfying at the same time. As I tapped the edge of the envelope on my knee and waited, I grinned at the thought of the simple but effective words I had written.
Mr. Mastick,
You took my mother’s husband, my father, and my boyfriend’s parents, but I refuse to allow you to take even a shred of me.
In fact, I’m giving you something.
I read you were a germaphobe and were even allowed to wear gloves in the courtroom. Well, after a reasonable amount of research and a few telephone calls to the department of corrections, I have confirmed you are now imprisoned and without gloves.
So, I find tremendous comfort in providing you with this information: I pissed all over this paper.
Fuck off and die.
Riley Campbell, a true survivor
As soon as I recognized the sound of Blake’s motorcycle coming up the block I stood, grabbed my helmet, and ran to the street. Riding on the motorcycle was now one of my favorite things to do. Stevie was right, it was a feeling of freedom I couldn’t find doing anything else.
It made perfect sense why so many veterans of war, police officers, and former prisoners rode motorcycles. The ride provided a sense of freedom nothing else could provide. The feeling of being on the bike and flying down the road cleared my mind, and I was sure it cleared the minds of many others like me.
I shoved the letter in my pocket, pulled the helmet onto my head, pulled the strap tight, and climbed onto the seat as soon as he came to a stop at the curb.
“Ready,” I said as I tapped him on the side.
Without speaking, he released the clutch and slowly picked up speed. As we rode through the neighborhood, I leaned to the side and gazed out at the road ahead of us.
“Beautiful day,” I shouted.
“Gorgeous,” he said.
I leaned back in the seat and pressed myself against the backrest. There was really no need for me to hold onto him as he rode, the support behind me provided plenty of stability, but I did it because I liked to. Touching him allowed me to continuously believe that he, and all of what we shared together, was real.
We turned into the parking lot across from the grocery store and parked beside the big blue mailbox. I got off the bike, unstrapped my helmet, and pulled the letter from my pocket.
“I’ve got a stamp if you need one,” I said.
“Got it covered,” he said as he stepped off the bike.
I pulled the door to the big steel box open and dropped my letter in the tray. He stepped beside me, dropped his letter on top, and turned to face me.
“Well,” he said.
“Any departing words or anything before I close it?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“I pissed on it,” I said.
“Pissed on what?”
“Pissed on my letter. He’s a germaphobe. So, I pissed on it and told him so in the letter. It’s the least I could do,” I said, still standing there holding the door open.
He reached for the opening, pulled out his letter, and tossed it onto the asphalt beside his motorcycle.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He glanced over each shoulder, unzipped his pants, and started whistling.
“Does that really work?” I asked.
After a few seconds, a stream of urine splashed against the envelope. As the puddle got so large it began to run toward the sidewalk, he stopped, shook his cock dry, and zipped up his pants.
“Hold on a minute,” he said as he opened the saddlebag on the side of the motorcycle.
After removing a pair of pliers from the toolkit, he picked up the letter and grinned.
“Look out,” he said as he dropped it into the mailbox tray.
I nodded my head smiled until it hurt. “Good idea, huh?”
“Great,” he said. “Close that thing and lets go get some ice cream.”
Mailing pissed covered letters to murderers and getting ice cream with a tattooed biker who had developed a kink for spanking my ass while fucking me.
Sundays had always been the most boring day of the week for me.
And then I met Blake West.
BLAKE
After adding Stevie as an employee, business had steadily picked up a little each day. Now we were as busy as I had always expected I would one day become, and the steady flow of clients was a nice departure from what I had become accustomed to.
“Uhhm, Jackson’s next, and you’re thirty minutes behind,” Riley said as I came out of the bathroom.
“I’ll get caught up, don’t worry. Send him back,” I said as I turned toward my work station.
“Have a seat. How’s that pin-up tat looking?” I asked as Jackson walked up beside me.
“Damned thing’s almost healed. You’ve got the lightest hands I’ve ever seen. Better than getting them in the joint, that’s for sure,” he said as he rotated his forearm.
I gazed down at the piece I had tattooed on his arm two weeks prior; an old school pin-up girl holding a steaming pie. According to him, it was a reminder of the love of his life, an avid cook and former restaurateur. It looked amazing. No swelling, vivid color, and each line was clean and crisp.
“So, how’s the Ol’ Lady like it?” I asked as he sat down in the chair.
“Loves it,” he responded.
“Good. And today we’re doing the devil piece, right?” I asked.
“You got it,” he said.
I picked up the drawing I had prepared and held it up for him to see.
“Fuck yeah. Looks good,” he said.
“Look a lot better shaded and with a little color. Only color you want is in the devil’s head, right?” I asked.
“I was thinking it’d stand out better that way, but I’m open for your suggestions,” he responded.
“I think it’ll look good just the way you want it,” I said as I pulled on a new pair of gloves.
I wiped down his bicep, shaved the area, and pressed the stencil onto his arm. After peeling it from his skin, I gazed down at the piece. The phrase The Devil Looks After His Own with devil’s head in place of the word “devil”.
After pulling a new machine from the drawer and installing a new needle, I poured black, white and red ink into three ink wells. After dipping the needle in the black ink, I turned toward Jackson.
“Say the word,” I said.
“There aren’t too many things in life I look forward too, little man. Getting some new ink is one of ‘em. Get to it,”
he said.
There wasn’t anything much more unnerving than a young girl who wanted a tattoo to look cool or fit in, and although she made the appointment and payed for the service, she had in no way mentally committed to the idea of it all. Half way through the session, she would inevitably be squirming all around in the chair and whining about the pain, continuously asking when I was going to be finished. Having someone like Jackson sit and allow me to perform my work without question, complaint, or further suggestion was priceless.
I pressed the heel of my palm against the surface of his skin and watched as the needle followed the line of the devil’s head. After a few minutes, the outline of head was complete.
“Everything good?” I asked as I dipped the needle again.
“The only part I don’t like is when you stop,” he said.
I nodded my head once. “That’s what I like to hear.”
I traced the outline of each individual letter and then filled the letters with ink. The script Jackson had chosen, Almendra, was much different than the font Axton had used on his arm. I felt the script complimented the tattoo perfectly. The tattooing process with the script took roughly forty-five minutes.
“Still good?” I asked as soon as I was done with the script.
“Still Good,” he responded.
One thing about being a tattoo artist I had always found interesting was that if I didn’t take time to speak to my client, they seemed to feel talking wasn’t allowed during a tattoo. On the other hand, if I chose to speak to a client, all of a sudden I became their therapist, and was forced to listen to any and everything that happened to them from childhood to sitting in the chair.
Talking to Jackson was something I actually wanted to do. I had looked up to him while we were living together, and he was really the closest thing to a brother I had. Although he was six or eight years my senior, I lived with him for roughly five years, and at the time, we developed a bond similar to what two brothers would have developed.
It seemed the portions of my childhood I preferred to forget lingered, and the events I had expectation of retaining vivid memories of faded into faint recollections. The opposite of what I wished was true, but something I was forced to accept. One thing I did remember was the day Jackson left, I cried.
“You ever wonder what happened to Sharkey and that family?” I asked as I shaded the horns of the devil’s head.
“Found out they moved to Oklahoma,” he said.
I released the pedal and lifted the needle from his skin. My hands began to shake. The one thing that prevented me from acting on my urge to seek revenge for what he and his son had done to me was that I didn’t know where they had moved to.
After leaving the foster home, I wandered around the city, seeking a place to call home, but never living in anything more than a shitty apartment. Initially I perceived what had happened as simply a part of being an orphan, and not having siblings or parents. A price I had to pay, I supposed, for being different and not having a family to love me.
As I grew older, I grew angrier. My initial hope was to become a police officer and make a difference in the lives of all I was able. After the academy, a short stint as a patrol officer ended when I determined not all civilians are created equal in the eyes of the police.
Something I had always suspected was true. The color of a man’s skin, or the location of his residence made a huge difference in how calls were dispatched, who was arrested, and what charges were filed.
When I finally decided I needed to confront the preacher and his son, I found that they had moved, and although I tried to find them, found nothing. I soon gave up, deciding there was no real value in digging up the bones of my past.
Considering how mailing the letter caused me to feel, I now realized confronting them in any manner would be therapeutic for me.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Uhhm, yeah. I’m good. Hold on a minute,” I said as I pulled off my gloves.
“I uhhm. I need a quick break. A cigarette,” I said.
He nodded his head and looked down at his arm. “If I join you, this’ll be alright, wont it?”
“Sure, let me cover it real quick,” I said as I turned toward my box.
I stretched a piece of cellophane wrap over his arm and secured it to itself. After grabbing my cigarettes and rolling them into my sleeve, I shouted toward Riley, who was seated at the partition talking to a client.
“Going out for a smoke,” I shouted.
“Okay,” she said over her shoulder.
Jackson followed me outside, and stood quietly while I smoked the first half of the cigarette. As I leaned against the wall and wondered if I truly needed to know where Sharkey lived, he cleared his throat and spoke.
“You asked about the old man at the foster home. When I answered, I noticed you started shaking. You alright?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “You know where he is for sure?”
He nodded his head. “Found out during my court case. They had to find him for a presentence investigation. I have his address, why?”
“Might need to pay him a visit,” I said as I lifted the cigarette to my mouth.
“Guessing by how that hand’s still shaking you aren’t looking to shake the man’s hand. You want to talk about it?” he asked.
I shrugged again, took a long drag from the cigarette, and glanced at glowing end as I inhaled the smoke.
He was the closest thing to a brother I ever had. I felt I could talk to him, and even if I didn’t tell him everything, telling him something may allow him to give more sound advice. And, as far as I knew, he may have been abused as well.
I exhaled the smoke, tossed the butt in the alley, and lit another cigarette. After taking another long puff, I gazed blankly at my motorcycle and exhaled the smoke.
“Him and his son took me when I was eight and molested me. They did it more than once. I’m thinking I may want revenge or something, I don’t know,” I said.
He stared beyond my motorcycle and out into the alley. “Son-of-a-bitch. They never fucked with me, but I always wondered.”
I turned to face him. I don’t know if I felt he should provide answers, an offer to help, an apology for not providing me protection as a child, or just a willing ear, but I stood and gazed at him feeling as if I wanted something.
I just didn’t know what.
But Jackson seemed to.
“Cocksucker,” he said as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t know what you got planned or what you’re going to plan, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to be involved in this.”
My mouth curled into a slight grin. “You think so?”
He shook his head from side-to-side, inhaled a deep breath, and gazed down at his boots.
“People that fuck with kids never stop. Never. I can’t really live knowing he did something to you and not go take care of it. Hell, it might even be better if you just stay here. I’ll take a couple of the fellas with me and we’ll take care of him,” he said.
I shrugged my shoulders and glared. “Why the hell would they want to go? They don’t know me?”
He turned his head to the side and widened his eyes. “Because they’re my brothers. And there isn’t one of them that wouldn’t volunteer to go take care of that piece of shit. Hell, they’ll be in a fucking fight to see who gets to go.”
“I need to do this,” I said. “I been fighting with this my whole life.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not have you doing it alone,” he said.
I nodded my head. “Okay by me.”
He extended his hand.
As I shook his hand in mine, he pulled me into him and hugged me. Although it seemed strange at first, it was comforting. As he patted his hand against my back, I did the same. He released me from his arms and pointed down at my bike.
“Gets cold outside, how do you get to work?” he asked.
I nodded my head toward the motorcycle. “It’s all
I got.”
“Interesting,” he said.
He turned and pulled the door open to the shop and held it.
“After you,” I said as I motioned toward the door.
“You go first, little man. I’ve got your back,” he said with a laugh.
And, although he laughed, I knew he wasn’t joking.
RILEY
I felt slightly guilty having my mother to consult with for any and every problem, concern, idea, or situation I got myself into, knowing Blake had no one but me. I hoped since he and his old friend Jackson were reunited, he could possibly talk to him about his concerns and ideas concerning life.
“When you met dad, had you already had a boyfriend, or was he your first?” I asked.
“Why would you ask such a thing?” she said.
I shrugged my shoulders and pulled a container of pasta salad out of the refrigerator. “How old’s the pasta?”
“I made it yesterday,” she responded.
“Okay,” I said.
I grabbed two bowls, two forks, and walked to the table. “Just wondering, I guess,” I said as I pulled the chair from the table.
“I had a boyfriend before your father,” she said as I sat down.
I carefully flipped some of the pasta salad out of the container and into a bowl. “Did you think you were in love with the other guy?”
“I suppose so,” she responded.
I slid the bowl across the table. “Here.”
“And when you met dad, then what did you think? About the first guy?” I asked.
She poked her fork into the bowl of pasta salad, raised it to her mouth, and paused. “What’s this about?”
I scooped the remaining pasta salad into my bowl.
“I used to think I loved Stephen. And now that I’ve met Blake, I’m mad that I ever thought I loved him. I know I didn’t,” I said.
“It’s pretty common. Probably more so than you’d think,” she said.
“I want to take it back. Like go tell him ‘hey, asshole, I never loved you. I was mistaken, sorry’ or something. It makes me mad,” I said.
She chuckled and poked the fork of pasta into her mouth. “There’s very few people who find their true love the first time. But when we do find that person, I think we finally realize what love is. Your father was mine.”