Page 2 of Spilled Ink

It was fucking perfect. "You're a genius, man. I love it."

"It's a gift." One long, thin hand was offered to him. "I'm Rooster, by the way. You wanting to do this, then?"

"I am. Definitely." Mark shook on it, grinning a little. "Rooster, huh? You're not little and banty."

"Nope. I'm not red-headed either. I do, however, have the most evil mother on earth with an addiction to John Wayne movies."

"Oh. Yeah, okay, I get that." Rooster Cogburn, huh. That lady would have to be pretty evil. "So can you do it tonight, or do I need to come back?"

"Well, you can see the line going out the door." Those pale eyes glinted, then Rooster winked. "Tuesdays are dead."

"Yeah. Andy said you shouldn't be busy. You remember a guy named Andy Resnick? He got a sacred heart." And a few others, too, he guessed, but Andy had only shown him the one.

"I remember everyone I ink." Rooster started filling out paperwork. "I need your driver's license. Andy's got a sacred heart and a milagro."

"He seems like a good guy." Pulling out his wallet, Mark handed over the license. You kind of expected a therapist to be all touchy feely and chin stroking, but Andy was more... hands on. He'd suggested the memorial tattoo for closure.

"He's a brilliant man, even if he reads Kerouac."

"You got a hate-on for Kerouac?" Somehow that amused him more than anything had in weeks. Mark snorted, chuckling under his breath.

"I have a hard-on for Burroughs and Irvine. If I'm going to read about drug culture, I'll go with one I can appreciate."

Fuck, he only vaguely remembered reading Burroughs, and only because it was like, mandatory gay college reading. Kinda nasty. "I have to admit I'm more likely to read Mickey Spillane."

"I like him, too. And Dean Koontz. It'll be two and a quarter."

"Cool." Mark paid cash. He knew from the last time how much these guys appreciated that.

He got a receipt and a copy of the 'how to care for your new ink' pamphlet. "Come on, then. Lose the shirt and then we'll get to work. What kind of music do you like?"

"I'm good with anything that's not Lawrence Welk." His grandma had really taken an unnatural fascination with that old fart. His childhood was indelibly scarred by bubbles...

"Dude, this is a tattoo shop, not the fucking old age home. You got a choice of Elvis, alt. country, or metal."

"Let's go with country." Metal made him aggressive, and he didn't need any more of that at the moment. Not a bit.

"Works for me." The front door got locked, then the radio went on. "I'll get my shit out of the autoclave."

Well, that was a good sign, yeah? Pulling off his shirt, Mark got settled where Rooster had waved him over, checking out the shop.

The whole fucking place was a madhouse of art work and posters, painted tiles, and picture after picture of ink. It should have been crazy-making, but somehow it fucking worked. And what was a tattoo place supposed to look like, anyway? If a man was ashamed to show off his art, it would make Mark a little nervous.

There were three other chairs and a little upraised dais with a curtain with a shitload of piercing rings. "Betsy’s got Tuesdays off, if you're looking for metal. I recommend a Prince Albert. Cops get nipple rings torn out."

"Uh. Not really looking for that. No need." Damn his fickle-assed ex anyway.

"No? Shame. It's hot as hell."

"Yeah?" He kinda looked at the guy in a new way. Not that liking a Prince Albert made the man available. Girls liked them on a guy, too.

"You know it." He got a wink, a quick grin. "Big black chair's mine. Let's get this situated."

"Okay." He remembered this from the first time. Stencil, placing, all that stuff. Rooster was good, though. He got it right the first time, and Mark approved the placement. "Looks good."

"You're easy. Have a seat." The little cups came out, with bottles of black and white and a deep blue ink.

Mark settled, breathing in and out, knowing this was gonna sting like a fucking bitch. He needed it, though. Needed the proof on his skin that Pete had been there.

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