“The older ones, the tribal stuff, that was when I was a kid. You can see it’s all stretched because I didn’t hit my big growth spurt until I was about seventeen.”
“You got them before Thailand?”
“Oh, yeah. Worked for a tattoo artist briefly, helped to clean up and watch the shop when he was too blazed out of his mind to come into work. He did these for me for free.”
I trace the jagged, flowing lines, am reminded of a serrated edge… maybe a dragon’s tail.
“And this stuff? The script?”
He rolls over, shows me his back. There I see lines upon lines of script, with some illustrations inlaid, like a magazine article or something. It covers his entire back.
“That’s Thai, a blessing from a Buddhist monk.”
I peer at the illustrations, try to make them out. He’s got four animals on his back, a tiger, a dragon, a fish, and something that looks like a bird. They sit at four points of a square, and inside is a depiction of a temple, surrounded by lines and lines of those flowing, liquid words.
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “They don’t tell you, and I never asked someone to translate.”
“Why not?”
He pauses, seems to think about it for a moment. “Because now it can say anything I want it to, I guess.”
“Was it the same monk who trained you to fight?”
“No. I had to go to a temple in the hills. My instructor took me. It was something he insisted on, and I saw no real reason not to. He said the ink they use is imbued with magic properties, and contains venom of a snake.”
“Really?” I ask, doubtful.
He shrugs. “We had to line up for three days, just waiting outside the temple. I wasn’t too interested, but he said it would protect me, make me incorruptible.”
“Did it hurt?”
“A little.”
“I kind of want a tattoo.”
“Do you know what of?”
“No,” I say truthfully. “Not really.” I laugh. “I don’t know, I like the idea, you know? It makes me feel kind of bad.”
“Get one if you like. It’s your decision.”
“It’s harder for girls to get tattoos.”
“How so?”
“We’re judged more.”
He turns a raised eyebrow at me, shakes his head.
“Think about it. There’s no equivalent for the word ‘tramp stamp’ for men’s tattoos, right? It’s just not the same. It’s cool when a guy has tattoos, but if a girl has it, she’s ‘alternative’ or whatever. Or going through a ‘phase’. Or people just assume it was a product of a drunk-night-out, you know? Or they think it’s ‘slutty’ or ‘skanky’.”
“Who cares what people think? You can’t control that.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“If you ever decide you want a tattoo, Dee, I’ll support you. I’ll come with you.”
I smile. “Thanks, but I don’t think that I ever will. Dad would hate it.”
“Don’t let him know.”
“Are you kidding me?” I cry. “God, I’d get an earful. He’d never stop.”
Duncan’s tongue wets his lips. He rolls onto his back again, and I lie in his arms.
“I’m not tired,” I tell him.
“Neither.”
“I can’t stop thinking about that guy, his swollen eyes… God, I hate living here.”
“You want to get out of here?” Duncan asks. “Tonight, I mean.”
“Go where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Why?”
“Well… we could just say good night and go to sleep,” he says. “But I don’t want tomorrow to come. Tomorrow, I leave… and I don’t know for how long.”
“To train,” I whisper. “With one of Dad’s old boxing buddies.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want tonight to end, either.”
“Come on, then. Let’s go.”
“But where?”
“Fuck it, we’ll go anywhere.”
He gets up, and I look at his naked, athletic, strong body, and then see that he’s caught me checking him out.
“Can’t a girl look?” I ask him.
“Look all you want. I want you to look.”
He starts to pull on his clothes, then extends an arm out to me. “Let’s go have some fun.”
I pause, then shake my head. “We shouldn’t. What if Dad catches us?”
“Fuck him, he’s out cold,” he says. “Come on, Dee. Live a little.”
I look at him for a moment, and it’s like a light switch just flips in my head. Why not, right? Why not be bad for once? Why not break the rules for once?