I look out the window, staring at the unfamiliar territory. It feels strange being in a different time zone. It seems simpleminded, but I’ve only left the state of Georgia once, and that was to go to Cancun, Mexico on my senior trip. The continental U.S. is an unexplored place for me. I’ve longed for the chance to visit many places, especially those of several iconic tattoo artists, but I learned long ago that some dreams will never come true and are better left forgotten.
That was until today, when boarding an airplane was as simple as a credit card and a man I call my boss, my lover, and maybe in some ways my best friend. The flight was short but seemed longer with the silence lingering between us. He seemed . . . distant. Me, well, I’m still reeling from back at the house when my heart broke for a man for the first time.
So often when we think of rape it comes to men raping women, or men raping kids, boys included. It just becomes the obvious that men can be cruel, vicious creatures. It’s never something anyone wants to consider, but it’s a harsh reality of this world that likely will never totally go away, no matter what we do in an effort to prevent it.
But never would I imagine a woman raping a boy. I’m not sure any of us do. It’s said that women are emotional beings, born with a motherly nature that God engrained in us. We’re supposed to protect children, not abuse them.
It’s time, though, that I realize just as many women are ugly in this world—doers of evil. I know this by example of the woman that I call Mom, and even she’s not that bad. She may have hurt me in a lot of ways, but aside from slaps across the cheek, physical or sexual abuse wasn’t one of them.
When I think of him being a victim of something so demonic, so heartbreaking, something dark begins to brew inside of me that I don’t understand, and feelings occur that I’ve never allowed the chance to roam in my mind, like violence, the need to protect him no matter what. I’m not sure if it’s normal, or what it means, but I can’t wrap my mind around someone wanting to hurt him.
Now, here I sit, looking up at the skyscrapers that paint such a beautiful place. I’ve traded one city for another. Two vast places. A sea of people in each. Both similar in ways, yet so very different.
His door opens, drawing my attention from the view. Am I being rude? I should say something. I just don’t know what to say in fear of offending him or asking the wrong thing. He hasn’t opened things up for conversation yet. Words have been few since we left.
He rounds the SUV rental, opening my door. His hands go to the top of the doorframe and he leans inside. “Why do I get the feeling you haven’t traveled much?”
“Gut feelings are usually accurate.”
“How many states have you visited?”
“The one I currently call home.”
An aggravated sigh falls from his lips. “I was warned.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“Why Chicago?”
He studies me for what seems like forever. “It’s the shop I haven’t visited in the longest. Illinois is where I used to call home; the place I was born.”
My eyes widen and my heart begins pounding against my ribcage. He’s slowly letting me in. And releasing a little of the mystery one fact at a time. “So, this is where you grew up?”
“The outskirts.” He tugs at the front of my shirt. “Come on. There is something I want to show you.”
My nerves tangle in my stomach as I inch out of the vehicle and walk by his side through the lot to the storefront. Tattoo signs hang in the window along with a lit up open sign. Vinyl decorates the door. A familiar business name graces the glass. It looks smaller than the one back home, sharing a huge building with other occupants.
He pulls open the door and lets me enter first. The lobby is laid out much the same as back home. Clients are waiting in chairs, reading magazines, and a young brunette is sitting behind the counter, looking at a computer screen with the phone to her ear. Her hair hangs in long, thick, silky sections over her shoulders. The only tattoo visible from this angle is a pair of angel wings on the inside of her wrist, only showing because of the way she’s holding the phone. She too wears a uniform. We have to discuss the girls he hires. The contrast between them and me are like night and day.
She glances up after the door chimes. “I’ll be right with . . .” Her face freezes, her dark eyes lingering on Kross in a way that makes me uncomfortable, before she begins speaking into the phone. “Can you hold please?”
The handheld phone piece slowly descends from her ear. “Kross. Johnny didn’t tell me you were coming today.”
He walks around the counter, stopping beside her. “I didn’t tell him,” he says coldly, and then starts doing something on the computer. She stares at him in a way I’ve never seen Cassie look at him. Want. Need. Or something in between.
She inches her body closer to him. I’m starting to feel like an intruder. She’s pretty, but heavier on the makeup than Cassie. And she’s making me like Cassie a whole lot more at the moment than I already did. I rest my hands on the counter and she looks at me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m just . . .” My brows dip. My train of thought goes completely blank. What am I supposed to say? She is staring at me in a deadpan manner, making me feel stupid.
“She’s with me, Veronica,” Kross says, still occupied with whatever he’s doing on the computer. “But if this is the attitude you have with clients you better fix it. The passive-aggressive bitchiness won’t last very long.”
Her eyes never leave mine. “With you . . . as in?”
“As in, the rest is none of your fucking business.” He releases the mouse and heads for me, still looking at her. “Where’s Johnny?”
“My apologies, Kross. It’s just a surprise after all this time.” After all this time? “If he’s finished with his last session he’s in the office.”
I want to laugh at her halfhearted ‘apology’. It’s not even believable, and only leaves me with more questions as he takes off for the door to the back of the building while I’m still standing here, narrowed eyes at her as she gives me a damn evil smirk. “Delta,” he snaps, causing me to take off behind him.
I catch up. “Uh, were y’all?” I couldn’t help it. The question was digging its sharp claws into me.
“You’re the first,” is the only answer I get, but somehow, it’s enough to make me relax. Moments later, as we come through the short hall to the back that opens into a large room, all is temporarily forgotten.
My heart begins to pitter-patter at the sight.
My mouth waters.
So much excitement rushes through my body that it’s hard to stand still.
Masculine laughter along with the buzzing of tattoo guns fills the room.
I count to myself. Ten chairs. Eight artists present. Each one busy with a client, in lax conversation amongst each other. God, I want this so bad. “Look who it is, boys. The fucking king decided to check on his kingdom.”
I’m pulled out of my internal kid-in-a-toy-store moment as Kross hauls me across the room toward one of the empty chairs. “Colter” labels the top just as every station is back home, with the exception of the open one, only here it’s a different color scheme: neon blue and black.
I glance at the one who’s talking—Blaze it says—tattooing a shin with a grin on his face. His large muscles are covered in a long sleeve, ink extending up his neck and down his hands. Half of his head is bald and completely marked, skin barely visible, his dark hair lying over on one side from the large section on the top. “We were starting to think you forgot about us,” he continues, never looking away from the piece he’s doing.
“I prefer random drop-ins. I dislike predictability,” Kross responds blandly as he sits in the tattoo chair. “Better way to catch people doing shit they aren’t supposed to,” he says with a grin, as if that’s the least thing he expects to happen.
Blaze finally glances at me as he reloads ink, his eyes roaming all over my body, the smile still present. “Don’t I know it. Who’s the chick?”
I work to calm myself down. That feeling you get when someone is watching you . . . That feeling is multiplied by about ten right now. I can feel every eye on me, and this is so much worse than being naked under the eyes of horny, drunk men at a strip club.
I stand awkwardly by the head of the chair, suddenly feeling underdressed in my skinny jeans and midriff-baring long sleeve. This is covered for me, but it doesn’t feel like it. It feels revealing.
The weather here caught me by surprise. Down south we rarely need jackets before January. Right now, I want to put on the jacket I took off at the door when I walked into a heated building. I had to dig these clothes out of my stowed away winter clothes at the request of Kross. I thought he was crazy when he told me to pack warm. I’ve never in my life been modest before today. I like showing off my tattoos. Go fucking figure.
“Blaze, Delta. She’s my apprentice. Delta, this is my first artist, Blaze. He’s been with me the longest.” Kross’s hand snakes around my waist and grips my hip, before reeling me toward him where I’m dumped in his lap. My ass is on his crotch . . .
With my cheeks heating, Blaze smiles bigger at me, his eyes focused on the sitting position Kross chose when there is plenty of room on the chair for me to sit beside him. He then looks at Kross again, before going back to the tattoo he is working on.
The tattoo lover in me has already looked at it. It’s a Halloween piece. What looks like an old haunted house with an aged white picket fence. Jack-O-lanterns and bats litter the scene, a full moon in the background with the silhouette of a werewolf howling in the middle of it. “Your apprentice, huh?”
“Don’t give me shit, Blaze.”
Did I catch teasing in Kross’s voice? Surprisingly, I feel rigid in this position and his body seems relaxed, when usually it would be the opposite. There is also a roomful of people that I’m too afraid to look at right this moment. He seems so different with this guy versus the guys back home. “When did someone become worthy enough to apprentice under you, a girl, nonetheless?”
“What are you, blind? Have you seen her? I’d want her in the shop every day too.” My head turns at the same time as Kross’s. It’s a built guy with shoulder length dark hair and a short beard to match, walking across the room, a right dimple on display. He only appears to have one. He’s sexy in that Harley owner kind of way. “I thought I heard your demanding ass out here.” He grabs my hand and softly pulls me out of Kross’s lap, bringing me into a hug. “The name’s Johnny, sweetheart. Business manager and artist, so that asshole over there can take off when business gets good and leave his tattoo seed everywhere. And you are?”
“Delta,” I say, a smile tugging on my face. He has a softer personality. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s mid-thirties.
He moves me to his side instead of returning me to the seat I was enjoying, his arm wrapped around my shoulders, palm resting against my arm. He smells of smoke and manly musk. “Why don’t you save everyone the hassle of asking one by one what they’re all wondering and go ahead and tell us. Where did you find this one? It doesn’t seem easy to get your attention.” He smirks. “At least not since I’ve known you, and we both know that’s been a while.”
My eyes lock with Kross’s. His stare is blank. If anyone has perfected the poker face it’s Kross. I wish I knew what was going through his head right now. I’m sure any minute he’s going to shut down, just like he does every time things get too personal, too intimate. He grips the edge of the seat with his hands, his triceps becoming more noticeable through his Henley. “Pretty simple. She and a friend walked into my shop for a tattoo. The other one started talking her tattoo dreams up. I decided it wasn’t time to let her go. She’s got skill.”
“And since when do you bring an apprentice on business trips and seat them on your lap?” He squeezes me closer. There is definitely prodding going on. “Or let that temper come out when someone else becomes acquainted with said apprentice?” Kross’s fingers look like they’re digging into the seat, close to breaking through the material. He’s watching Johnny’s hand. I take a step forward, not wanting to push him, but Johnny holds me still. “I’ve known him longer,” he says under his breath.
“Jesus, Johnny, I’m a fucking man. I wanted her. Give me my girl before the nostalgia goes away and I beat your ass.”
And just like that, he softly pushes me toward Kross, an obvious playful expression on his face. “Gladly. I just wanted to hear you say it. Welcome back. It hasn’t been the same without your grumpy ass around here.” He turns around and walks off. “I’ll be back. I have some errands to run.”
Kross positions me back in his lap. My girl. Any girl that can hear that from a man like him and not become a puddle isn’t normal. I relax into him, content, less nervous. “So, are we working on your sleeve while you’re here?” Blaze asks.
“Maybe.”
“You must be the best,” I cut in, growing more comfortable with every passing moment. “He told me once only the privileged get to add to those.”
One side of his mouth pulls up, and then he glances at me as he puts his gun down and picks up the plastic wash bottle of soapy water and paper towels. “Who do you think he apprenticed under? Some may think he was born with a tattoo gun in his hand, but I can promise you, when his ass came to me he was no more skilled than you. He hasn’t always been this arrogant.”
I turn my head to the side, his lips almost touching my cheek he’s so close. “It’s true. I trained under him for three years. And I bribed him with damn good money to leave that hole-in-the-wall shit studio in the ghetto to work for me. Even offered him Johnny’s job first, but he didn’t want it.”
It warms my heart to know he had someone he could look up to after everything he’s been through. And his constant raging mood simmered down the second we walked in here. I can tell he respects them. And now that I look at Blaze in a new light, I can see the age lines on his face that Kross doesn’t wear, showing he’s a good bit older in years.
My belly fizzles when his palm presses against it, his other arm pointing out, my eyes following. One by one he goes through the stations, even though the name labels each one. “Blaze, as you know, Johnny, and Donovan—all of the originals.” He moves to the next one, continuing, “Monte, AJ, Colter, and Frankie were added next. Colter is off today. His band plays local gigs, so he works his schedule around that. When I left, Leo took my station. We added two more stations last year. Alec and Andre are the newest members of the tribe.”
Each raises a hand or gun as he calls out their names, with the exception of the missing ‘Colter’. Kross seems happy here, so the question lingers as to why he would leave. I say my hellos to each guy, all seeming so different, but most not as chatty as the first two. “Did any others start out as an apprentice?”
“No. I told you before I only hire seasoned artists. Everyone here came from previous shops with years of experience under their belts.”
I continue to look around, mesmerized by his success. He came from such a harsh background and look at how he’s turned his life around. It’s more than I can say about myself. Honestly, right now, I feel so inadequate compared to him.
My self-esteem is taking a nosedive. I can only hope to one day have a tenth of the success Kross does. He and I rarely discuss personal details. Getting information out of him comes in small waves. But when he admitted to recognizing me the night of my appointment, I was too embarrassed to confess anything about myself.
The night of my birthday when I dragged Lux into that tattoo shop, the only thing she knew was that I had been on the waiting list for months. It was the one detail I knew I could reveal to get her to agree—a guilt trip of sorts so she wouldn’t deny me. I couldn’t stand the thought of going to see him alone. I’m a pussy, really.
But never did she ask me why in the hell I would even be on a waiting list for a tattoo when there is a tattoo shop on every fucking corner. That’s the beauty of Lux. She doesn’t need a lengthy explanation from me when something seems odd. She’s my ride for life partner. I could probably kill someone and call her and she would come help me drag the body across the floor, not even bothering to ask who it was or why he was dead.
My body before had been an artist’s playground. A lot of hands have touched me with ink. I was never picky when I wanted another tattoo. I’ve even gotten free ink from agreeing to go out with the artist that did it. It never went beyond one time or a few exchanges via text.
But the truth is, I read an article in one of my tattoo magazines months before he opened up shop in Atlanta. They did a who you should know artist spotlight on rising tattoo owners and Kross was the feature that month for his Vegas shop.
I had never heard of him before that moment, even though I made him seem famous to Lux. Something about him stood out in the words. I know every public detail about him: how many shops, where they’re located, years of trade, age of start, etc. It’s almost creepy if I really allow myself to think about it. I memorized the entire thing.
Then I saw his photo. The one taken in front of the shop. Something inside of me wanted to know him, as crazy as that sounds. He was hot; by far the sexiest man I had ever seen, even still, to this day, but he was also more. Mysterious, dark, domineering. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I’ve never had such a strong connection to someone I’ve never met or seen in person before.
After scouring social media in hopes to learn more, I made myself forget about him in an effort to not be a stalker. Tried to at least. My mind wasn’t so easily swayed. One morning, I walked into a privately owned coffee shop I frequented about a block from the shop and his new studio was included in the coming soon section of the ‘Coffee News’ flyer that is left as reading material at the counter week after week; community news, I guess you could say.
I’m almost positive that’s the first time I’ve ever spilled the contents of my purse before. Embarrassed to no end, I picked up my belongings, took the flyer and my coffee and left before I recognized someone.
I stared at that damn piece of paper for three weeks, my stomach in knots, before I could work up the nerve to call the number for an appointment, only to be told that they were in the beginning stages and still in the process of staffing. I put my name on the wait list they were compiling and followed instructions of bringing my design idea by.
My birthday.
I received the call the night before my birthday. It was like a present from the universe. As hard as my heart was hammering against my chest during the telephone call, I knew I couldn’t meet him alone.
If Kross knew, I’m positive I would be less appealing to him. He can never know it was anything more than coincidence, because the apprenticeship was not part of the plan. I don’t want to lose it by looking like some crazy girl chasing a made-up crush.
“What’s bothering you?” he asks against my ear, startling me. I didn’t even realize I was zoned out.
Lie.
I know he won’t buy the whole ‘nothing’ response. I turn sideways, my ass moving to one thigh, my legs falling between his so that I can look at him. “I was just thinking . . . How about those nipple piercings now?”
He clenches the inside of my thigh, the blacks of his eyes growing and consuming the brown. “Here?”
“Yes. Here.”
Without another word he lifts me, standing behind me. And like a girl in love, I follow.
