“Sorry. You confuse me, and it is so off-putting. Just…. be real with me ok?”
“Pet, I am always real.”
She nods after taking a deep breath and I begin the methodical process of transferring the drawing to skin. She is as smooth as I remember and I want to touch her everywhere. “Little trivial fact for you if you are interested?” I ask, hoping to make her feel better.
She laughs nervously and nods, looking at me. She is laying down on her back and I will be tattooing over the top of her in proximity of that mouth. “You stated that night that a Sully original was something you wanted?”
She nods acknowledging her comment without speaking. “Now, when we are done you will carry it knowing it is a part of me as well. I am not only doing it, but I am in it, and that is priceless, Pet.”
By the third hour, I could tell she was burning and sore, and I felt bad. Single line work and filling in takes time. It can be painful, brutal torture on the ribs though. “How you doing, Pet?” I ask placing my glasses on my head while I wipe her skin softly, cleaning off the smeared ink. “We are almost done. Need a quick break?”
“You wear glasses?” She asks, with a shaky laugh and I know she hurts.
“For fine line work I do. It’s so I see the skin better. They are reading glasses, five ninety-nine at Walmart.”
“Sexy.” The sarcasm of the comment didn’t go unnoticed, but I let it slide knowing she was ready to hit a wall from the pain if we didn’t break. She leans up on her elbows and stretches her neck. Her hair falls like a waterfall off the back of the bed, the blonde highlights catching the light over the bed. She looks like a fucking wet dream. Tatted, sexy, and stretched out.
“I need a break,” I say, offering the obvious need since she won’t.
I hand her the wrapping we use when we are done to place over the ink, then put my jacket around her shoulders. “Do you smoke?”
I couldn’t tell if she did or didn’t. She would steal drags off my cigarillos when we were at the bar that night, but I wasn’t sure.
“No. I will take a drag here or there when I drink, but I can’t jeopardize my dancing career by killing my lungs.”
“I feel your judgement,” I say with a chuckle, and I grab my smokes and one of the million hoodies I have in my locker beside my desk.
“Nope. Your body, your choice,” She says, while following me out the back door. It was dark out and raining so we stood under the balcony on the roof.
“So, tell me about this dancing career. What’s next for Amyah Dorian?”
The use of her real name makes her laugh. “I am under construction right now, but soon I’ll be the main choreographer for hip hop and contemporary dance. I want to hire a few more teachers for ballet and tap, add some B-boy, and pop and lockers.”
“I know like half of what you just said.”
She laughs and I love the sound. I find myself thinking about what it would be like to be a part of her life. Take her out, make her smile all the time. I know too soon though as the dreams build, they disintegrate. I see her getting fucked in the other room with some psycho without a face, stalking us, or worse, her face when she learns I failed my daughter.
Pain rolls in like a wave and I let the dreams die.
“…I figure a month or so, I will be able to start taking students. Mirrors and bars will be installed Friday through Monday, then floors and design.”
I realize I tuned out and feel like shit. “That’s pretty awesome. I know a few rugrats that would be killer students.”
She laughs again, totally unaware of the torture I feel right now. Nobody ever knows though. I hide well these days. “Yeah, I know. Carrie, Cass, and my other sister-in-law, Krissy, are my first sign ups for their little girls.”
She looks down at my hands, how I fidget, then looks to me bouncing on my heels. “You cold?” It isn’t cold out, not that cold anyway. No, this is nerves at the idle chit chat of little girls with hopeful futures.
“No. Anxious to finish you up. Can’t wait to see it when its finished,” I lie. I know this shit will be epic, but luckily she buys my excuse.
“I need to mentally prepare myself.” She takes a deep breath as we walk to the door and I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s almost over.”
“You probably think I’m a pussy, huh?” She asks as we enter my booth, and she hands me my jacket before laying down, the wrap still on the tat.
I wash my hands and grab new gloves. “Not at all. I have watched grown men cry like babies. Ribs are a bitch. I cried when mine were done, both sides.”
“You didn’t?”
