Beautiful Ink
Copyright © 2014 by Nicole Reed
Published by Nicole Reed
Cover Design © Hang Le
Photo Image by Tyler Seielstad Photography
Edited by Lisa Aurello
Formatted by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
~This is for those who carry a piece of their soul inked out lovingly on their skin.
“Do as I say, when I say it,” he forcefully commands. “Turn around and put your hands on the chair behind you.”
I slowly pivot on the balls of my feet. He doesn’t have to tell me to grip it tightly: my fingers curve over the back of the metal chair instinctively. Thousands of tiny chill bumps cover me in dread at the thought of my naked body on display. My heart throbs in a frantic rhythm, this moment the torturous accumulation of years of anxiety and apprehension.
His heavy breathing sounds frighteningly close. “You are not allowed to fuckin’ move.”
My eyes clamp shut. I am afraid of the consequences I have wrought. My tongue darts out of my dry mouth, wetting my cracked lips. I should have taken the water when he offered it earlier. The last harrowing fifteen hours have been an emotional train wreck, and just when I think things can’t get any worse, they do.
I don’t hear a whisper of the leather until it rips into the center of my back. The cracking sound against my skin reverberates all around me.
“Ahhh,” I cry out, the white-hot pain sucking the air out of my lungs. There must be small metal spikes lining the belt, because they stab excruciatingly into my flesh. I almost let go of the chair, until I remember his words not to move.
“That’s for the year I woulda gave you my name,” he says, directly into my ear, but loud enough for everyone else to hear.
I didn’t think I could shed another tear, but at the sound of the pain laced through his voice, my eyes swim with them. Even after this, it kills me to know that I hurt him. Many seconds pass before the next strike slams across my sensitive butt cheeks. My knees go weak, making it harder for me to stand. A cry escapes me from another assault of the metal and leather, this one stinging worse than the last. I dig my fingers into the cold metal of the chair, silently praying that I can hold myself up.
“That’s for the year I woulda made our dreams come true.”
So many memories assault me along with his belt, memories both sensual and evil. I want to open my eyes, but I fear what I would see in his gaze. The grief in his voice already rocks me to my core.
My screams echo around the room when he delivers two consecutive swings of the belt. His torture finally beats my body down, and my knees buckle, roughly sending me to the concrete floor. My eyes open in time to see red splatter across my arms, staining my already colorful skin. His unerring aim catches the exact spot as the first, slicing deeper into my flesh. I choke back the bile that threatens to erupt.
“Get up,” he growls.
I force myself back to my feet, bowing my head, and bracing myself for his words as much as his strikes. My tears represent the agony of defeat that I don’t want to give him.
“That’s for the goddamn year,” his voice breaks midsentence. “I woulda gave you my child.”
Any inner strength I have left vanishes at the words torn from his mouth. His feet stand before me now and I have to see him. My eyes lift from the ground to stare directly into his dark, penetrating gaze. The room and those in it fall away and I only see him. This was once my friend. My family. My lover. My savior.
“Our child,” he whispers through gritted teeth. He leans down to deliver a tender kiss upon my chapped lips, his tongue soothing them. His actions surprise me, the antithesis of his words. I watch him move slowly back. The look of desolation in his eyes is more than I can bear, so I close mine.
His backhand catches me completely off-guard. The searing pain explodes across my jawline up to my eye and has me staggering backward. The chair scrapes against the floor, following me several inches. I stare at the blood-splattered ground, blinking my vision back into focus. I hear the sound of his heavy shit-kickers as he moves behind me once again.
The voice in my head screams enough. I am too close to my breaking point. I wouldn’t have lived through the earlier offer of the bullet to my brain, but I am not sure I will physically or mentally survive this agonizing persecution.
The next whip of his belt catches me against the soft flesh of my legs and on the underside of my rear. Quivering uncontrollably, I completely lose my balance, finally relinquishing the chair. He jerks my elbow up, making it easier to steady myself. His foot kicks out to knock the chair across the room away from us. My stomach threatens to rebel at the feel of something wet and warm running from my back, down the crease of my ass, slowly over my legs. I glance down to see drops of crimson silently rolling over my feet to encircle them. He tosses the belt so that it lands in it.
Our joint harsh panting is the only sound between us. He painfully tugs me backward to him, further lacerating my torn skin. The smooth texture of the leather rubbing against my back prompts another scream of pain. His jeans roughly grind against my buttocks.
“No,” I say over and over, but make no attempt to move, knowing it would cause him to order more of this torture.
“Do you know what it’s like to pretend it’s your face on every girl I kiss?” The sound of his husky voice whispers softly against my ear. “Wanting it to be your body under me every time that I fuck someone.”
A violent tremor racks my system. His words are making me sick and I whimper as I feel his fingers brush across my wounds. They tenderly wrap around my body, and I look down to notice him painting the letters “HHMC” across my heaving che
st in my own crimson blood.
“Blood in and blood out,” he says, kissing my neck in between his words. “Your fuckin’ choice. But know this: it is forever now my blood that runs through your veins. And I will drown you in it before I let you escape me again.”
My machine vibrates softly against my palm. I grip it tightly, adding last minute touches to the piece I’ve been working on for the past four hours. The black ink and ruby red drops of blood seep through my client’s pale skin. I gently wipe them away and ease my foot off the pedal that controls the power, to preview my artwork.
The tattoo is flawless in its design. A crimson burst highlights the background perfectly. My heart swells with pride knowing that another beautiful masterpiece came from deep inside of me, that I am still capable of tapping into and releasing the art from within. A smile meant only for me stretches the corners of my mouth.
Tattooing is more than a job, more than a hobby. It is an intimate, emotional, and powerful thing to be marking someone for life. I am giving over a part of myself forever. In return, I am fully in control of my world and everything around me, if only for that small gap in time.
When a piece is carefully thought out and has meaning to my customer, it has double the value to me. I am tied to the art in blood and ink, a part of my soul to be admired by countless others or hidden to be savored only by the wearer. I was destined for this calling. It has been my salvation and redemption from a past that would have destroyed the beauty waiting to be unchained from my soul.
I reach for my spray bottle of antiseptic soap to give the area a quick mist, drying it carefully with a clean paper towel.
“That is the shit.” My customer grins at the Chinese water dragon wrapping his cut bicep. It is fitting considering he is a current Olympic-gold-medalist swimmer. He swivels his arm back and forth while still sitting in the chair, trying to get a better angle to admire it.
“There is a mirror on the back wall,” I say, indicating the area over my shoulder. He stands to get a full glimpse, while I inspect my art at a distance. It gives me a chance to see if I missed any shading or line work in the reflection. My lips curve upward in pride when I notice that it is about as perfect as possible and that he is obviously sporting “The Look.” It is the only gratitude that means anything to us artists.
I turn in my chair to clean my station, but not before catching a flash of light from the corner of my eye. “Hey,” I exclaim, glancing back to see him taking a picture in the mirror.
“Sorry,” he replies, winking a dark eye at me with a sexy smile. “Need to update the Instagram. Fans love it.”
I slowly nod, my heart beginning to thunder at the thought of a picture. Of me. What are the chances that I am in the mirror’s reflection? Calm down, Keller.
“Ginger, at the front desk, will go over all the necessary care instructions,” I say, standing to wrap the tattoo in clear plastic wrap. I jerk my head, indicating the reception area. He pays no heed to me, seemingly in awe of his new tattoo. He shrugs his shirt on while walking toward her.
Now that I’m able to release my hand from its rigid grasp, my fingers literally throb from the last couple of hours of work. They stick to the latex beneath the rubber gloves, slick with perspiration. I roll my stiff neck from side to side, releasing the pent-up tension. My current euphoric state of mind that my work brings me unfortunately doesn’t transcend to my physical being. Not moving for long periods of time is one of the setbacks of tattooing. You have to know your own body’s limitations, and four hours without moving is definitely mine.
As I organize my area, the tattoo shop comes alive around me once again. The inner workings of my mind seem to cancel out the people and noise while I’m tattooing. When I finish, they flood back in and I am ripped away from the world of skin and art—my escape. But if I have to be torn away from the passion that feeds my soul, other than owning my own shop, this is the best place imaginable.
Screaming Ink has the perfect layout. It is wide open with its circular floor plan. Silver metal plating covers the walls with art designs cut strategically throughout. When clients enter the front door, they are greeted by our receptionist, Ginger, who just happens to be my first real girl-pal. After listening to the customer’s choice of body art, either piercing or ink, she matches each client with the artist who best suits.
I glance over to our waiting area where clients sit in plush black leather chairs, enjoying the 360-degree view of all the tattoo stations. When it’s their turn, they will be directed to one of the six workspaces located around the back wall, separated by half partitions. The owner loves the shop having a large open area, but at the same time, the division of our chairs affords privacy for the artist and customer.
As I clean, I listen to my co-workers who freely discuss the latest Xbox system as they sling ink. Most of the guys and girls I work with seem to be the biggest gamers outside of the shop. Chatter overflows with spawn camps, fragging, and something about getting Leeroyed. This is one of the main reasons that I keep mainly to myself—my childhood never held such luxuries like playing video games. I’m ostracized once again for the upbringing that even now I hide from.
I turn to throw away the plastic baggies that cover my equipment from being saturated in blood plasma and ink mist. Beginning my mental checklist meticulously followed after every tattoo, I dispose of the tubes and ink caps before placing my needle into the sharps container. My area now only needs to be wiped down with a strong medically approved antibacterial agent to be ready for my next client. I know that I need to check my client schedule. It would be a miracle if this were my last one for the night.
My eyes glance up to check the time on the black Kit-Cat clock, its revolving eyes and wagging pendulum tail keeping watch over the shop. I groan when I notice the time. In this business, 10:00 p.m. is sometimes just the beginning of a crazy evening, especially, on a busy college campus like this one. I head toward the front, stretching my arms out in front of me. The whisper of my name slightly slows my pace. I stop, glancing at the first station on my left.
“Keller, that dragon was tight,” Malik says, glancing up at me with those pale green eyes of his marking my every move. He doesn’t wait for an answer, placing his machine back to work on his current living canvas.
It has been three years since I took that moniker. I feel more like a Keller than a Helen any day. And just like the name that I was given twenty-one years ago, and the name that I stole, I am trying to prevent the limitations from my past from dictating my future. I may not be blind and deaf, but at one time I was, inside. The name was fitting when I ran. It made sense in the madness I was escaping. And now I am Keller; she is me.
I view Malik’s work. His gray and black shading is more vibrant than other artists’ colors. I am in awe of the way he brings his art to life on the skin. An extraordinarily gifted tattooist, he worked beside some of the top celebrated names in the business before opening his own shop. A small tingle of something within my body vibrates at his bass voice. It has been a long time since I’ve been attracted to anyone, but getting involved with my boss cannot be on my radar, so I shut it down big time.
“Thanks,” I reply, smiling shyly at him when he looks up at me again. My social awkwardness is a side effect of my family. I glance back down, walking to the reception area. And even though my eyes are trained directly on the floor, my feet still trip over nothing. Good job, Grace. To be so fluid at my job, I’m horribly clumsy in everyday life.
I met Malik about a year ago when I stumbled, literally, through the front door of his tattoo shop. I was scouting a new location. At the time, I had been living in Virginia when an old friend of my family drunkenly ambled into the shop while I was working. His being severely inebriated saved my ass. It gave me a much-needed head start to run—straight to a little college town in Ohio.
In this business, it’s hard to get a job tattooing unless you detail where you did your apprenticeship and of course, job references. That is a little dif
ficult when you are on the run from your shady past. The type of past where you pray every damn night that the things you have witnessed and personally experienced haven’t left you irreparably broken. I left everything behind except my art. I couldn’t leave the art, and even now I know it will be my ruin. When I ran, I risked everything to not be the person I was most afraid of being, what that life would have demanded I become.
When I fell through the door that day, I had no idea that I had found my new home. I gave my regular lie to Malik that I was on the run from an abusive ex-husband and his sadistic warped mind, the “Please, Mister, save this lost little girl” spiel. And of course he bought it, like most everyone before him. After four years on the run, the last year here is the longest time spent living anywhere since I left home.
I approach the front desk to find it empty of Ginger or any clients for the moment. She must be on her smoke break. Ginger is the first true friend I have had in years. She knows there is more to my past than the little I have given her, but she never presses me for any of it. My secrets are held tightly within. The life I now fight for and the lives of others depend on my continued silence.
My index finger presses the return key on the keyboard to clear the blank screen of the computer so that I can view my schedule. Yes! I can’t contain the happiness of not being booked for the rest of tonight. My head and hips involuntarily bounce to the deep bass of the music playing from the speakers overhead. The lyrics roll silently off my tongue as I block my schedule, wanting to get a jump on the first weekend I have had off in months.
“Are you done for the night?” A deep, masculine voice says, suspiciously close behind me.
I whip around to find Malik. My body freezes at the intensity dwelling in those translucent eyes of his. He has never asked for more than I’ve been willing to give. It seems like he wants to ask me out, but he does not cross that line with employees. I have heard him utter on several occasions to fellow coworkers, “You don’t shit where you eat, boys.” Yeah, I get it. It is the hardcore truth, especially regarding your boss.