Page 111 of Broken

“Would you tattoo something like this?”

Garrett rubs his jaw. “Not really my thing either. I met a guy once who specialized in Irezumi, which is Japanese art. He used bamboo and a needle to poke the ink into the skin, rather than using a machine.”

“That sounds horrific.”

“It can create beautiful work, but you need to be skilled. This guy trained for years. A guy came all the way from Japan to get tattooed by him. He stayed for six months to get a full body suit finished.”

“With that poking method?” my nose wrinkles. The modern-day tattoo gun hurt, I can’t imagine a stick and a needle doing it.

“Yeah. It was really cool. Traditionally with that kind of work you get the full body done, but not the extremities, neck or face. It was so you could wear clothes with no one knowing you had tattoos.”

“Like those Japanese gangsters?”

“It’s a part of that lore I guess. This guy was just a regular businessman.”

“Or so he said.”

“Trust me, he wasn’t in the Yakuza. This guy was the furthest thing from a gangster. The cool thing about it though, they leave a blank space here, about three inches wide.” Garrett traces his finger down the center of his chest and stomach.

“Why?”

“So they can unbutton their shirts without exposing any ink.”

“You say that like it’s ingenious.”

“Back in the day they needed to be to hide their tattoos. In a way it was ingenious. It has deep tradition attached to it.”

“Sounds barbaric and painful.”

He chuckles. “You have to be some kind of way to get that type of work done, I guess.”

I tug at the grass and watch two butterflies flitting around by a patch of wildflowers. It is beautiful out here. And to think, I could have been wallowing away under a blanket the whole day, watching trashy TV and eating junk.

Isn’t that how most people recuperate from a hangover? Not Garrett. I’m liking the way he deals with it better. My head is clear, and I don’t feel like I need to puke anymore.

We sit in silence for a while, watching people walking by, some glance over at us and I wonder what they’re thinking. Me in a pink T-shirt and gray running pants, Garrett in his usual all black with his tattoos on full show. He doesn’t seem to care one way or another what people think.

It’s surreal being here with him. I want to know more. He’s shared some bits and pieces but there is a deeper part of him, one he hides away. Like how is he involved with a motorcycle club? And, of course, the sketch pad.

I keep coming back to that. What does it mean when he says she is the part of the reason he is the way he is with women. When I have picked the grass between my knees into oblivion, I finally lift my head and find Garrett watching me.

This is an opportunity to at least try. The worst that could happen is being shot down again. It feels like there is more between us now. Like he knows what I’m thinking, Garrett’s gaze bores into me.

“Who is she?” I ask quietly.

“Was,” he says after a while, turning his head to stare into the distance.

It was what I feared. Whoever the woman was, she’s no longer with us. Garrett doesn’t strike me as a guy to get hung up on a woman for so long.

“Gwen was my sister.”

That is not what I was expecting. The shock is followed by sadness, and sympathy for him. Losing a sibling has to be hard.

“She was eighteen. Gwen was… She was beautiful, aways smiling. The complete opposite to me,” he looks down at his hands before raising his eyes back to mine.

“What happened to her?” my voice is almost a whisper. This is far too reverent for loud voices.

“She was killed,” he swallows, the skin around his eyes pinching.

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