I nodded and backed up. I bit my lip and River stroked my cheek one last time before leaving the apartment.
I was a complete mess as I stood in the kitchen. For an entire decade, it was like I'd worn some kind of cloak over me, hiding everything it possibly could. I was just inches from slipping into a false reality that would have swallowed me up and wasted my life.
But now I had a chance to find my own destiny.
A destiny that started a long time ago.
With a bad boy who was now all man.
And even if he'd broken my heart, at least I could say it was broken by the right guy.
I looked down at my left hand, at my ring finger.
I should have stayed. I should have waited. I should have said yes.
River
PRESENT DAY
The shop was busy. Some online publication had picked up on St. Skin, and we were named the venue of the week or some kind of shit like that. That meant there was a guy with a camera and a guy with a notebook asking questions, and that in turn meant I was expected to give an interview and share my thoughts on tattooing and what it meant.
I had no interest in that shit, though. At all.
Prick popped out of nowhere as the guy with notebook looked at me.
"Hey, bro, come here," Prick said.
We slipped into the back.
"How'd it go?" he asked.
"What?"
"Ana. With the tits."
"Jesus, man."
"Come on, I sent her your way. That was my gift to you."
"I don't need 'gifts,' Prick."
"Where is she?"
"Last time I saw her, she was in my bed," I said.
"Fuck yeah! Damn, good. You knocked that shit out of your system."
"Not quite," I said. "But thanks for trying." I patted Prick on the shoulder and walked away. I paused after a few steps and looked back. "Don't ever do that again though. I can take care of myself."
Out front, Tate called me over.
"I'm not doing a goddamn interview," I said. "I have an appointment."
I looked and saw that Cass was basically in a corner, getting drilled by the interviewer about his previous life as a rock star. And how he turned from that life to being a tattoo artist and a father.
Better him than me.
Then again, if the interviewer knew about my past, he'd be right up in my face. Nothing against Cass, but the rock star life had nothing on mine. Try serving some time behind bars and keeping your fucking sanity.
Tate put an arm around me and pulled me close. "And this guy here is another one of our best."
A camera flashed.
"Fuck," I whispered.
"Make a fist and touch it with mine," Tate said.
My left fist across my body and his right fist across his body.
"This is weird," I said.
"This is making us fucking rich," Tate whispered. "So shut up and fucking smile."
I posed for another picture and was forced into answering a few generic questions about tattooing.
Then I was saved by my appointment.
It was a guy named Jed who wanted to finish up his half sleeve. It ran from his elbow down to his wrist on his right arm. It started out with some tribal stuff he'd gotten done during a drunken stupor in Florida. Whoever did the original ink didn't know what they were doing. So Jed came to me to fix it up. I suggested he just go with a half-sleeve. I came up with a few designs, and he fell in love with the idea.
Some days, I was in my chair, inking people up, bringing stories and memories to life. Other days, I sat there and felt like a fucking salesman trying to pitch an idea for someone's skin. To help them make the right decision and to keep them from making a really bad one when it came to ink.
As laid-back and hidden as I tried to be in the shop with all the social media buzz we had gotten, I took serious pride in my work. It was my stamp and my art, visible to the rest of the world.
"Jed," I said as we shook hands. "Come on back. Save me from this circus."
"What's going on here?" he asked.
"Nothing important," I said.
We went into my room, and I shut the door. I plugged in my music player and let some hard rock blast through the speakers to drown out the noise in the front of the shop.
Jed climbed up on the chair and had his earbuds out and was fighting with the wire.
"So, we're going to finish this up," I said.
"I'm excited."
I put on some gloves and grabbed his arm, inspecting my work. You couldn't even tell there'd was a shit tattoo there to begin with.
In the beginning, Jed was just going to go with all dark colors. But then he decided to add in some colorful accents and shading, which was fine by me. I figured if someone was going to get ink, make it stand out. Make it bright. Make it say "fuck you" to anyone who dared to judge them for having the ink.