Love and War: Part Two – Chapter 8

I stare at the words on her left ribcage as the needle injects the last of the black ink. I’ve had some crazy requests over the years: some love confessions, others marriage proposals, and then there are the memorials. The list goes on and on. As a tattoo artist, I see it all. Nothing surprises me anymore. The human race is crazy over the thought of the whole love thing. It’s a greeting card holiday three-hundred-and-sixty-five-fucking-days a year.

I’ve done a lot of tattoos, and more script than I can remember, but never in all the years of me inking human skin has one got me to thinking. Thinking that it’s a truth instead of an observation or opinion. It’s the first time in my entire life that something in regard to ‘love’ makes sense. The concept of love to someone who’s endured hatred for a lifetime is bullshit. It’s a made-up notion to market products. The list is never-ending.

But looking at it in terms of a verb versus a noun makes all the difference. It makes sense. It becomes something I can understand. Feelings are something I don’t. I’m numb. I’m emotionless. I don’t believe in sparks and magic and whatever other fucking ludicrous behavior is associated between two people. The only realistic human behaviors are lust, desire, need, obsession, jealousy, and hatred. It’s easy to see. Look around.

A choice.

Choices I believe in. We all face them. There are always right and wrong ones, consequences of each. Choices can be taken or given. They can be negative or positive. They can be life altering or have no affect at all. They can be permanent or temporary. They often come after any of the above actions.

I glance at her—Delta.

She’s sitting at the extra station drawing; something she does often when the studio is clean and all the artists are busy. I’ve made many choices when it comes to her, most out of character for me. I desired her so I chose to employ her. I wanted her so I chose to have her. My obsession with her led me to keep her. And my need for her will ensure I never let her go. I’m addicted to what we have. My jealousy will never spare a life when it comes to her. No human, big or small, will take her from me. I’m psycho enough to mean the words.

An oath to surrender oneself to another. That’s easy. I don’t want anyone but her. If I did, I wouldn’t be entertaining the idea of fatherhood. Consistency is something I’ve always needed, just never in terms of a female . . . until her. I don’t know what the fuck it is about her that has had me from the start. I’d like to pretend it’s the tattoos, the piercings, but in my world that’s a common denominator.

No, it’s just . . . her.

Do I love her? Sounds impossible. Ridiculous even. What do I know about loving someone? The boy no one wanted. I’m bound to fuck it up if I try. The one thing she expects from me is that I’m constant. If I suddenly become unpredictable, that could lead to disaster. Wanting her to the point of obsession is good enough. I will have her; only me.

I wipe the words again with the wet paper towel and give her the small mirror to look at the finished product. “There you go.”

Her eyes change as she reads it over. “It’s perfect,” she whispers reverently. I nod, and then rub ointment along the lines before covering it.

“Keep it moisturized to avoid as much peeling as possible.”

She flips her blonde dreads from one side to another as she sits up. “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got the instructions down by now. Been working on my sleeve over a year.” She smiles.

As I’ve learned to say to the know-it-alls, “It’s like the fucking Miranda rights. If you don’t say them, your ass will regret it.”

“No doubt,” she says, holding out her hand. “Just figured I’d give you a break from being a broken record. I get tired of saying it too. She holds out her hand. “Name is Chyna. Just moved here from Phoenix.”

“Chyna?”

“Like the wrestler, yes. My parents had a sense of humor.”

“Chyna.” I shake her hand, before turning toward the eyes burning into my neck. Delta is no longer drawing. Instead, she’s staring at the girl as if she’s waiting to see if she needs to put a bullet between her eyes. Makes me fuckin’ proud. “We can save the introductions. Your tat is done.”

Her smile grows. “You’re one of those, huh?”

“I’m not sure I care enough to know what one of those are.”

“Not interested in anything but a job. Like I said, I just moved here. Need a new gig. Thought I’d feel out the local talent, see who’s hiring. I was starting to think the asshole owner of this place was sexist ‘til I saw the cute girl playing with her pencils. Trainee, I’m guessing.”

“I’m the asshole owner. Not hiring.”

“Mind if I leave my resume and portfolio? No harm in that for later, right? You know, just in case something happens to come open.”

“Do what you must.”

She glances back at Delta, giving her a wave with that same smile on her face. Delta quickly diverts her eyes back to her sketchpad. Chyna turns back to me, not making a move to get off my fucking table. “Unless there is something else—”

“She know you feel that way?”

“What?”

“I saw you eying the tattoo.”

“I can’t tattoo it without ‘eying’ it.”

She smirks. “I think I’d like working here.”

“Like I said, not hiring.”

“So, does she know how you feel about her? That she’s the one?”

I’m getting annoyed with her questions, but if it’ll get her out of my damn shop . . . “You’re trespassing onto private territory. What makes you think she is?”

“Just a vibe. I’m pretty good at reading people.”

She pauses.

“If that were true you wouldn’t still be sitting here.”

“You haven’t told her you love her, have you? I can see that you do.”

The bitch is still talking, and obviously can’t take a hint. “We’re done here.”

She hops off the table. Finally. “You should get on that. Tomorrow isn’t something we’re entitled to, it’s something we’re given. Time with someone is a gift. Just as fast as someone walks into our life, they can leave it. Don’t take it for granted. I’ll see my way out.”

She walks through the studio, glancing at Delta on her way out. Without so much as a look my way, Delta jumps up and runs after her, leaving her pad on the chair.

What the fuck?

I stand and rip off my gloves, before walking toward the chair, grabbing her pad. It’s a skull—half dark, half light. The eye socket of the dark is light and vice versa. The two fade into each other perfectly, reminding me of a yin and yang symbol, except the light half is filled with flowers, making it feminine to the masculine counterpart. Beneath it reads:

My jaw steels, trying to understand the weird-as-fuck sensation in my chest. What I do know is I want this on my body, and she’s going to do it. Good thing it’s test day.

Delta

I open the cabinet and look inside, immediately closing it. Under the chair comes next, and then the empty drawer. “Where is it?” I whisper, searching high and low for something I’ve been working on for days. I swear I left it here when I went to talk to that Chyna girl. She made Kross uncomfortable; that makes her important. And I caught the small detail of ‘portfolio’, meaning I could finally meet a female artist, so I set my jealousy aside and I was out the door before she made it halfway down the steps.

After I claimed my break to talk to her and get her number, Cassie had a family emergency and had to leave, so I got stuck working the front desk. It didn’t stop long enough for me to return to the studio until now, when the last customer is long gone.

“Looking for this?” Kross asks, tossing something down on his chair as he emerges from the break room. The sound of weighted paper hitting against a hard surface has me turning toward him. It’s similar to a flapping sound. It’s my sketchpad.

“How long have you had that?” I ask defensively. “That’s personal, and I’ve been going crazy looking for it.” My sketches are private. They’re usually a result of what I’m feeling or a mood. My sketchpads are like an artistic diary for me.

I try to only sketch impersonal things at the shop, because the boys have a tendency to look over my shoulder no matter where I sit or what I say. But since we had sex in the backseat of my new car and I got a small glimpse of real emotion from him and the roundabout way of him saying he loves me, I couldn’t help it. My feelings were overwhelming me and I had to let some of it out. With Kross, the messages between the lines are the most important of them all.

“Since you ran downstairs after that nut job.”

He doesn’t even look sorry that he took something of mine, regardless of whether I carelessly left it on the chair or not. That’s supposed to be my station; at least until he fills it with someone else. “That’s a hateful thing to say. She is nice. I like her.”

“She’s a meddler. I don’t like her.”

“Why, because she actually tried to have an open conversation with you in regard to our relationship? At least she acknowledges that we are in one.” I smile, halfheartedly joking when I say, “That’s more than I can say about a certain someone. The only time you claim me publicly is if we’re out of the state or you think someone is hitting on me.”

His face hardens. “I’m your boss.”

“You’re also my boyfriend. I’m not saying you have to grope me in public, but the occasional touch or kiss or even hug would be nice. Everyone knows we’re together, so why do you still hide it?”

“You work for me.” My head falls back. He said the same thing in the opposite way. I don’t know why I’m bringing this up, but the fact that Chyna noticed and asked and he couldn’t admit to anything got me thinking. “I have to maintain professionalism.”

I breathe out, agitated, and before I can shut my damn mouth the words fly out. “Then maybe I should apprentice somewhere else so we can try to create boundaries. I don’t want to be a secret. At some point, I’m going to start showing. If you want to keep work and personal lives separate, that’s fine. Remington told me the artist that mentored him is willing to take me on. He has a small shop across town.”

His entire demeanor changes to something dark and scary, sending chills down my spine. His eyes . . . He looks like a fucking demon. “He did, did he,” he grits out, and then without another word, he swipes my sketchpad and storms across the studio, heading for the door to the lobby. It hits me that Remington is downstairs watching training videos in Kross’s office.

Oh, fuck. What have I done?

I take off running and block the door with my small body, willing to be a martyr if that’s what it takes. It was simply a conversation between Remington and me when I first left Kross. I was grasping at straws to continue learning when I thought Kross and I were done. “Move, Delta,” he spits.

“Kross, leave him alone. It was a conversation we had when I thought we were over. Do you really think I would have kept working here if you had wanted our baby and me out of your life? Come on. I had to think of options without you. He was being a friend.”

“I’m going to fucking kill him. He’s minded my business one too many times. His body is more useful as gator food than to me. Move out of the way or I’ll move you myself.”

I don’t doubt for a second that he would, so I think fast, and that consists of launching myself onto his body and climbing him like a bear would a tree. His hands go to the door to brace himself from the weight change; one in a fist holding my pad still. “Kross, leave him alone,” I say in the strongest voice I can muster.

His chest is heaving, his neck corded with full blood vessels, his eyes locked with mine. “No one fucks with me and walks away alive.”

“It was a suggestion. I wasn’t mad. It’s not a horrible idea. I would miss you, but I don’t want to push you with too much too fast. You have your rules for a reason. You need certain things and I need certain things. It was a plausible solution for both.”

“The fuck it is!” he roars. “You already left home. You sure as fuck are not leaving the shop too. This is the only place I get to see you. I swear to Christ, Delta, I will kill everyone in my path. I already took care of that little girl molester Chuck the fuck.”

Every ounce of color drains from my face. I can feel it. My face is cold. My heart starts pounding against my chest so hard I can barely catch my breath. I squeeze my legs around him tighter. My nails dig into the back of his neck. “What did you do?”

“What needed to be done,” he says, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

“Kross,” I whisper, closing my eyes, tears stinging behind my lids. “What did you do to him?”

When I open them, he finally says, “I stopped his beating heart.” The coldness of his words is scary. It’s an unmistakable change by the stagnant air around us. I’m in love with a natural-born killer. Lux explained Kaston. He’s different. He has some morale behind what he does. It’s not right, but it’s understandable. He’s okay with killing bad people, but Kross, Kross is another thing entirely. He kills with no need for justification, and I don’t know very much of what he’s done.

“Oh, God,” I say, the nausea setting in. “We are going to have a child, Kross! What if you get caught? I’d be left alone while you rot in jail. I don’t want to be the reason someone dies!”

He pushes my back against the door, his palm going to my thigh. “When are you going to learn that I don’t get caught? I’m a sick fuck. One thing I had plenty of growing up was time to think, to plot. I decide how I’m going to do it before it’s done. Everything is calculated, precise, and clean. I’ll slit my own fucking throat before I go to jail. You should think about that next time you throw some bullshit out there about training under someone else. No life is too valuable, except yours.”

My heart melts. God, I love him. Wait, what the fuck am I thinking? “He didn’t deserve to die! Why would you kill him, Kross? I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation!” I whisper-scream. “He hasn’t messed with me since I walked out of the strip club!”

Panic is running rampant throughout my body. I feel like I’m in the twilight zone. “Shouldn’t have left; although, what fucking universe are you living in? He was fucking you in high school as a grown-ass man. He was fucking your sorry excuse of a mother when he wasn’t fucking you. He was feeding off your immaturity, your weaknesses. He did the same when you went to him for a job. He guilted you into fucking him by using it as bait when you asked. I may be messed up, but I’ve never manipulated you. You didn’t see me forcing you to fuck me for the job. I sure as hell wasn’t giving him the option to do it again. I may have gone in there in anger, but then his house was a fucking shrine of you. My girl. All over that fucking place. Photos, videos, panties in Ziploc bags with shit written on it—all of you. I had to see my goddamn girl spread wide for another man while I cleaned that place out. You know what he was doing when I got there? You want to take up for him, then I’ll tell you. He was fucking a fifteen-year-old girl that was a close replica of you; even called her by your name. I have zero tolerance for adults that fuck teenagers. Just because they’re old enough to understand what’s going on and mentally take it as if they want it, doesn’t mean they actually do. I thoroughly enjoyed watching him gut himself like a fish. Nothing made me happier than seeing his eyes haze over. And if I could, I’d go back and watch it all again.”

I stare at him, all of my nerves completely burnt out from what I just heard. It’s like being the girl to the serial killer in a horror movie. I’m unsure of what to think, how to react, what to say. Still, even after hearing it all, I love him. I can’t imagine the thought of being without him. But something doesn’t make sense. “Did you say videos? I never made videos.”

“I guess the knight in shining armor you gave your virginity to wasn’t as charming as you thought. Had at least a dozen of them. I’d say he had a hidden camera somewhere in that house back then. I ever find out they were sold, I’ll hunt them all down, killing the owners one by one.”

My eyes well up as the nausea rises from my stomach. I feel so stupid, embarrassed to no end. I can’t even look him in his eyes. “Where are they now?”

“Destroyed.”

I nod, and suddenly something occurs to me that never has before. The tears finally fall as I stare at his body in my hold. “I don’t want it to be like us,” I admit. “I want its life to be different. I don’t want it to suffer.”

To my surprise, his palm rubs along my cheek, pushing my hair back. “Delta,” he says, his voice quieter, his tone softer. I glance up at him. “I may not can promise you a lot of things, but one thing I can, is had that been our daughter, I would have sawed his limbs from his body one at a time, with no pain killers, dragging out his death. I will protect the two of you.”

My heart skips a beat. He acknowledged our baby. I trail my hand around the side of his neck, along the cross scar that he still hasn’t explained, but now isn’t the time.

I lean in, but before I can kiss him, he pulls back. When I look over, he’s holding the pad not far from his head, my latest sketch on the page exactly as I left it. “This us?”

I feel so bare. I’ve thought about that symbol since Lux and I talked about it. In ways it fits her and I, but more so, it explains Kross and I perfectly. “Yes.”

“What’s it mean?”

“I’ll be the light to your dark, you the dark to my light. We may be contrasts of each other, but we’re the perfect complement.”

He forces me off of him and walks away without allowing me to try and kiss him again. My body slumps against the door as he quickly puts more distance between us.

Skin. I see skin as he pulls his long sleeve shirt up his body and steps over his chair, removing it. Déjà vu sets in. “You coming or are you going to stand there all night?”

He sits, as if nothing previously happened. No crazy talk about committing murder or killing sprees. No, he just sits down and places his shirt balled up behind his head. I want to lick my way around his body. Touch is the greatest sensory we have. And with him, I’ll never get enough. “Coming where? What are you doing?”

“It’s test day. You’re going to put that on my ribs, beneath my heart.”

My eyes widen, my nerves trying to run away. “No. I can’t. It was nerve-racking enough tattooing your body with an outline and a small design. There is no way I can tattoo that freehand. Kross, I’m not ready,” I spew in a panic.

He opens his station drawer and grabs his matte black Beats by Dr. Dre Studio3 Wireless Headphones and pulls them over his head until they’re wrapped around the back of his neck. He fishes out his phone. He wears them when he has long, multi-hour sessions with intricate artwork. Every time, I’m hella jealous too, because they’re expensive; something I’ll never be able to afford. “Go do the transfer,” he says, holding out the sketchpad, looking down at his phone as he touches his thumb to random locations on the screen.

I grab my pad. “Did you not hear me? I’m not ready to tattoo you, Kross. I almost died of a heart attack and anxiety the last time, and all I did was outline it. And you want to wear my drawing? A very personal drawing at that. This isn’t like Chicago where I just put something I thought was cool on your back with a marker. I . . . I need to make sure it’s perfect first. Just . . . not yet.”

He sets the phone in his lap and grabs each earphone in his hands, pulling them over his ears, but doesn’t release them to form a seal. “Go, Delta. You can tattoo practice skin all day every day, but you’re never going to be ready if you don’t try. That spot needs to be filled. You practice every night before bed. You’re ready,” he says, and then releases his hold on the earphones and lies back once more before closing his eyes, using his shirt as a pillow; telling me this conversation is over without words.

I look down at the drawing again. He wants my symbolism of us on his body . . . under his heart. Forever. That has to mean something. That has to mean love. Why else would anyone want something so permanent?

Kross

The heavy beat of the metal music blasts through my ears as the needle pierces my skin in rapid succession, creating a constant grating feeling. My mind blankets my skin with a numbness I only feel under a tattoo gun. It’s one reason I love getting tattooed.

I peek through closed eyes, as I have done the entire time she’s been working. Her onyx hair is folded into a high ponytail holder on top of her head, falling forward a little in a fanned-out manner from the hunched over position she’s in.

I’ve come to like her hair like that, because it doesn’t hide her face, and when she turns around, I’m rewarded with the sight of her neck tattoo that I did and my name amongst the ink, forever on her body.

The feel of her skin on mine creates a calming effect I’ve never been able to understand. My anger recedes and I’m left with peace; something I rarely find.

Her left glove-covered hand is spread wide over my sternum, supporting her weight as she holds the vibrating gun in her right. She only moves it every so many seconds to grab the paper towel under it and wipe the excess ink away.

I’ve tried to stay in my head, eyes closed, in an effort to take away her anxiety, but she doesn’t realize how much more desirable she is like this. She’s focused, in deep concentration on the task at hand, and letting her movements become second nature. She’s holding the gun like it’s a part of her, and fuck if she isn’t sexy.

With each practice session at the house, she’s proven she’s ready. She’s driven and it shows. When I wasn’t teaching, she was doing, alone. I never had to make her practice. The truth is, I miss her late-night practice sessions. I miss the sound of the buzzing when I would walk downstairs because she was nowhere to be found. I miss the way she looked when she was lost in her head as her hands obeyed her mind’s command, when she cursed on a mess up, and when she gleamed at a piece she was proud of.

I would stand there and watch her until she realized I was there, just wondering how in the hell I ended up with her. How something so perfect walked into my shop. And more, how someone so beautiful inside wanted an asshole like me.

I know I’m a hard guy to be around. I live under a constant dark cloud, full of doom and gloom, and moody as fuck. It’s the only way I know how to be. She tries so hard to love me; the only girl I’ve ever had an interest in aside from the occasional fuck just to prove to myself that sex did appeal to me.

That became our norm. We were lost in our own world and I want it back. I got to have it back. I stare at her, no longer peeking, remembering how good it felt to sleep with her every night, and counting every second it takes her to do this tattoo, because once it’s done, she’ll go back to that fucking guest house while I sit on the hillside like a stalker and guard her all night—my irreplaceable inked masterpiece.

This is what she’s meant to do, who she’s meant to be. Her confidence is what needs work. And because of her hard work, she’ll be rewarded. I have a Christmas present for her that’s going to come on New Year’s Eve. I did actually get her a Christmas present. I completely fucked up Christmas, I know this, but better late than never.

There will always be learning in this world, and it takes years to gain the knowledge that any of my artists have under their belt already. Artistry is an industry to never be perfected and is ever changing. Even replicated, no two pieces will ever be the same. There will always be better processes, new skills, and different techniques to learn, and it is not humanly possible to fully teach someone in months’ time, so she’ll have to remain under the title of an apprentice for at least a year, but because of her drive, I’m going to open a new process at Inked aKross The Skin. I don’t think I’ve ever been excited about anything in my entire life, but I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I tell her what it is. It’s something I would have never even considered before her.

Two hours, thirty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds she’s been at it. She finally turns the gun off and sets it down. She cleans the worksite, the skin red and sensitive, before she takes a deep breath, staring at it while I stare at her.

I pull my headphones off my ears and leave them hanging around my neck. She’s still staring at the tattoo. “It’s finished,” she whispers, unsure of herself.

She rolls backward, grabbing the handheld mirror off the small counter and holds it up toward me. She’s shaking. I grab her hand around the handle to steady it, and then look into the reflection.

My eyes fixate on the details, scanning every spot. The damn sketch didn’t even do it justice compared to this. Somehow, out of all the tattoos on my body, I think it’s my favorite. No, I know it’s my favorite.

“Kross,” she whispers. “Please say something. Just tell me if you hate it. I can take it. I’m ready for the criticism. What should I have done different, better? Remington should have done this one. He would have made it look like a professional instead of an amateur’s work.”

I pull on her hand, and in turn the mirror as well, until she’s coming off the stool and toward me. I jerk her onto my lap, forcing her to straddle me. The mirror falls from her hand to the ground, causing a thud and a fracture in the glass. I don’t even care.

Her hands find my chest, mine grip her thighs, and she leans forward. “I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”

“Are you just saying that because we’re . . .”

“Have I ever spared your feelings in the past?”

She shakes her head. Her green eyes scan my brown ones, and when I don’t say anything else, she smiles. White teeth, thin lips, narrowed eyes. I’ve learned this is her happy. And to a guy like me, her blinding smile scorches a darkened soul. She makes me wish I knew how to love someone. Because if I did, I would love her in the way that she deserves. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Please.”

My hands glide up her body until they’re pressed against her face. “Now you have a part of me, and I have a part of you. Forever. It can never be erased.”

“I like the sound of that,” she whispers, and then she presses her soft lips against mine, and like she always does, she worships me, with her mind, her body, and her soul.