Page 18 of Forged By Shadows
“Yeah,” I sigh into the leather. “My mom and I drew one each. We’d always planned to get them on my twenty-first birthday. It’s the age she was when she got her first.”
“Well, happy birthday! I’m honored to be permanently marking you for the occasion. And your mom? Is she on her way?” It’s an innocent question and one I saw coming.
“No, she couldn’t make it,” I smile sadly. Ben seems to understand, wiping down my back in an overly caring gesture. Then the gun is powered up and I brace myself.
“Deep breath for me. We have sugary drinks if you start to feel dizzy.”
“I’m all good,” I respond bravely. I’ve been through much worse than this. The first stroke sets in. Soon followed by the next until they all blend together. Aside from my mom and Meg, Ben is the only one to have seen, let alone touch, one of the scars that litter my body from a previous life. Nixon is more of a ‘pretend-it-doesn’t-exist-and-everything-is-okay’ kind of guy. I bite down on my lower lip, resisting the urge to jerk away from the tattoo gun. Ben spoke of physical pain, but he can’t know of the emotional affect his poking and prodding will have of me later.
I tense each time the gun lowers and relax each time he twists away. Mom promised to be here, to hold my hand. I have a moment of regret for coming alone. I don’t know why I thought to do this by myself. If Meg wasn’t away with her lacrosse team, she’d have been here. It’s a harsh reminder that I have no one else in this world. My own fault really, I wanted to be a hermit. I thought if I only existed at the manor, the world would carry on without me. But now I’ve been thrust into it, and the only objective is to survive.
Breathing deeply, I desperately try to focus on the tattoo gun’s pain, rather than the visions that filter into my mind from my damaged skin being touched. The sharp sting of the needle blends into that of a leather belt or the burning of a cigarette, my mind tricking my nose into conjuring the singed smell. Bile rises in my throat, shudders raking my body and tears leaking from my eyes.
I snap back into reality and realize the tattoo gun has stopped. Ben offers me a tissue, passing me the promised soda. I don’t dare tell him it’s not the pain that is affecting me.
“I’m sorry, I’ll do better this time,” I reassure him, sipping my drink. It might have been a good idea to eat before I arrived. Once he’s satisfied, Ben sets back to work.
The vibrations of the tattoo gun reverberate through my upper back and I suck in a breath, waiting for the images to flood my mind again. However, this time they seem to hover on the edges and blur slightly, seeming to know that I’m on the home stretch to covering them from existence. If I can’t see them, they can’t hurt me – right?
Ben fills the cubicle with his voice, giving me another focus. I listen to his entire life story, from his various childhood homes to his cat, Beau. He’s a softie for his kitty, treating him to a bowl of ice cream every Sunday afternoon. We run through the best ice cream combos for a cat, imagining all the favors he’d probably create if he had opposable thumbs. I hadn’t realized how much time has passed when Ben announces he’s finished.
The sting of an alcoholic spray is wiped across my back before I’m directed to stand. Ben opens the curtain and points to a long mirror in the hallway. The lighting is better out here, he informs me. I wrap my arms around myself, mustering some new-found confidence and step through the curtain. There are a few more scars to tackle on my ribs, smaller circular ones that are easier to hide with my arms. He promptly hands me a second, smaller mirror to hold.
“I added a little flair. I hope you like it.” Ben steps away as I angle the mirror, my jaw dropping open. Like it? I can’t form a coherent thought. Around the arrow, there are splashes of color in a watery effect. Pastels blur effortlessly around the feathers and arrowhead. His dot work creates many pathways, I can’t keep track. I knew Ben had talent, but seeing it on myself is something else entirely.
“Woah” I breathe when nothing else comes out.
“Nice job, Benny Boy,” another tattoo artist catches sight of the piece in the mirror and comes closer to get a better look. A navy-blue cap sits backwards on his dark hair, his ears have large discs in the lobes and thick black tattoos cover his otherwise creamy skin up to his jaw. But it’s the way he’s looking at my back which makes me weak. I’ve imagined this moment many times, where the tattoo didn’t quite cover my scar and all onlookers gift me a wince and a heavy dose of sympathy. But no, it’s nothing like that. It’s so much better.
More people come over, complimenting me, congratulating my first ink session. I’m a mumbling mess, promising I’ll be back for more when Ben calls my name, drawing me away from the small crowd to get patched up. My head is reeling that I just stood out in the open in only a bra and no one is whispering things like ‘oh, that poor girl’. ‘How horrific’.
“So, this is wildly inappropriate, and I promise it’s only with noble intentions.” Ben helps me ease the t-shirt over my head. I adjust to the feeling, careful not to move too much. He then lowers onto his stool, choosing his next words carefully and quietly. “I recognize the demons you hold inside, and it doesn’t seem like you have many people in your corner. If there’s ever a time you feel trapped, don’t hesitate to call me. I’m rather intimidating to those who don’t know me.” Ben winks, scribbling his number and address onto a scrap piece of paper and tucks it into the leg pocket of the sweatpants. I’m speechless by his offer.
I make my way to the main desk, where Ben shouts over to the receptionist that my money is no good today. Consider it a birthday present, which sets off every artist and client singing ‘Happy Birthday’ as I stumble out of the door and into Dax’s hard chest. Large hands steady me, piercing blue eyes glinting with curiosity.
“It’s your birthday?”
Chapter Eleven
“This really isn’t necessary,” I huff, my fist against my cheek all that’s holding my head up. Dax sits across the table, planting down two tall milkshakes. One chocolate, one strawberry, both with cream and sprinkles.
“Just pick a damn milkshake,” he grunts and I opt for the chocolate one. “I’m buying you dinner on your birthday because I’m a gentleman. Not a crazed stalker who follows you to the OB/GYN.” I snort into my straw. Finally, I crack a smile since Dax half-dragged me into this fast food diner.
“What did the guards do to you?”
“Called the cops, who questioned me in the parking lot for an hour. Since you didn’t stick around to back up your statement, they didn’t have much to go on. That’s the only positive I can think of right now.” His brows are furrowed as he sips his drink. I quickly discover he doesn’t like strawberry milkshake but he pushes it away instead of demanding mine back.
“Another positive is that I’ve thoroughly forgiven you,” I wink.
“Oh well, it’s my lucky day then.” Dax rolls his blue eyes, sarcasm dripping from his tone. He swiftly changes the conversation. “What tattoo did you get?” With my inner voice satisfied Dax has been inconvenienced enough, I pull out my phone and show him the design.
“My mom and I designed them together. It started as an afternoon activity and ended with the promise to get them together on my birthday. Obviously, I didn’t think I’d be going alone but I held up my side of the bargain.”
“What was your mom like?” Dax finds a warm smile, encouraging me to open up. The fact he probably knows all about her means it’s solely for my benefit but I suppose today is as good as any to reminisce. I tell him all about her; how she found me when I was ten years old, took me in and loved me unconditionally from day one. How every day she wasn’t required to be on a film set, she’d fly home to spend the precious days with me. We had endless passion projects to fill our time. In the evenings, it was movies and popcorn. When Nixon was able to join us, it felt like my life was complete. It’s all I ever wanted - the simplicity.
“You weren’t a fan of the galas and award ceremonies I take it?” Dax asks his first question in twenty minutes as our food is placed on the table. Red plastic baskets lined with paper to soak up the greasiest burger and fries I’ve ever seen.
“That was always more of Wyatt’s area of expertise. The spotlight, the showboating,” I sneer. Deciding there’s no lady-like way to eat the double-stacked burger between my fingers, I open my mouth wide and attack it. Dax makes a noise of disagreement.
