Page 8 of The Devil's Tattoo
“Like sex on a stick,” Frank said, much to the amusement oftheguys.
“What’s it called?” Chrisasked.
“It’s called ‘Walls’,” Ireplied.
Dee pulled out another notebook from his bag and tossed it to me. “Write thelyrics.”
I glanced at the empty notebook and then at Dee’s tattered one that was full of ideas and marks. I didn’t know where to start. I tried not to think about it too much as I grabbed a pen and wrote out the music as best as I could manage. It was already there in my mind and fingers when they sat on the strings—I just had to translate it into something coherent. But when it came to the words, I saw what Dee had written, and it could be a song about me. No wonder he wanted me to change it. He wanted the song to be from me instead. My side of thestory.
The couch dipped next to me, and Dee stuck his head over my shoulder to see what I was writing. I pressed the notebook into my chest as he tried to snatchitaway.
“Hey,” I cried. “I like you and all, Dee, but stop trying to feelmeup.”
His lips curved into a sly smile, and he knew I was onto him, and for once, I didn’targue.
“What are we gonna call ourselves?” Frank asked. Before Chris could open his mouth, he added, “No ideas accepted fromChris.”
“Why not?” hegrumbled.
Dee began to laugh. “We’re not intoMorrissey.”
“I think Empty Hands is a good name for an indie band,” I saidkindly.
“Thanks, Zoe.” Chris smiled and tapped his bottleagainstmine.
“We’re not a pansy-ass, mopey, indie band,” Frank declared and beat on his chest. “I want to beat the shit outta those skins, for one. I’m too manly to get in touch with myfeminineside.”
Dee was watching me with a frown, and I realized I’d been running a finger along the scar onmyarm.
“Tattoo,” he said, his eyesmeetingmine.
“What?” I tucked my hands undermylegs.
“Tattoo,” he said again, and I could almost see the light bulb pinging to life over his head. “The Devil’sTattoo.”
As soon as he said it, I knew he wanted to name the band after me. I couldn’t help but wonder who the devil was meant to be.The devil scarred my arm, and I covered it with atattoo.
“Dee…” I began toscoldhim.
“BloodyLOVE IT,” Frank shouted, leaping tohisfeet.
“It’s not like that, Zoe,” Dee whispered in my ear. “You’re my phoenix from the ashes. You’re my version of thedevil,babe.”
It sounded like he was declaring his love for me, and in a way he was, but not like that. Dee was my brother. Dee was myfamily.
I smiled at him. “The Devil’sTattoo.”
“All in favor?” Dee asked, but it’d already beendecided.
“Hell, yeah!” everyone shouted, and itwasdone.
* * *
The next coupleof months flew by in a haze of band rehearsals. We got together almost every day at Frank’s place and worked through Dee’s songs. I rewrote some lyrics, and together we came up with some stuff that we were all reallypleasedwith.
It was one Thursday night, just after rehearsal on our way home, when Dee dropped a bomb on topofme.
“You did what?” I almost screechedathim.
