Page 6 of King of Clubs
All of the designs were created using Tebori, an ancient hand carving technique, it clashes with the new ink to create something real, something visceral.
In Japan traditional tattoos such as Irezumi are a secretive business, their wearers are often judged by the government and society despite the intense personal meaningbehind the designs. The artists are notoriously hard to come by, their services passed on by word of mouth due to the stigma.
These photographs are about freedom, about expressing yourself despite the fact you are forced to remain anonymous in the throes of your everyday life.
Leon can understand the appeal to kids who feel like they have no agency or individuality, whose voices get drowned out in an over encumbered foster system.
This is her legacy, this passion project of hers. This is Sara in all her glory.
When he looks at her again, it’s in a different light because she’s far more to him than just the woman he fucks. She’s the one that owns a piece of him.
When she’s asked to speak, he can tell she doesn’t expect it. A microphone is thrust into her hand, and she takes up residence alongside her artwork. She clears her throat before her eyes come to rest on the kid in front of her, the one that’s been vying for her attention all night because he just wants to be seen, to be heard.
“People don’t realise how lonely it is being in foster system” she begins as she tilts her head to look at the photographs. “How isolated you are. You feel like you don’t have anything to say and when you do, it feels like no one’s listening. For me, photography became a way of expressing myself when I couldn’t use my voice. My pictures showed the world how I saw it when I couldn’t speak the words.”
“There weren’t art programs like this when I was in foster care, I stole my first camera from a guy who was paying me to model for him…” She trails off and there’s an agony in Leon’s chest, a violent acute stab because he knows the kind of shoots she’s talking about, how they start and how they finish. Hewishes that hadn’t happened to her but that’s not her reality, it’s not his either. “I’m thankful that things have changed, that there are programs to assist young people who have faced the same things that I did. I hope that seeing my work shows you that there are opportunities for you out there, that your past doesn’t have to shape who you become.”
Leon’s there when she hands the microphone back to the host, his hand taking hers as he helps her off the platform. This is the most real she been with anybody, and it takes courage to do what she’s just done, to speak her truth.
“I’m proud of youMami,” he says, his fingers squeezing hers. Sara squeezes back before tucking herself under his arm and he gathers her up close, his lips brushing over her hairline. “I think you’ve made a difference here tonight.”
Chapter Eight
Sara’s been quiet since they left the gallery. When she gets back to the suite she takes a seat on the couch, still clad in her leather jacket, her eyes fixed on the L.A. skyline. Leon decides to give her a little space; he knows that vulnerability comes with a cost. It can leave you feeling wrung out, emotional. He retreats to the bedroom, rubbing his palm over the top of his head before he removes his suit jacket and places it over the back of one of the chairs.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, and he thinks about what he’s heard tonight, what he’s seen. Her story, her photographs, it gives him insight into her as a person and the truth is, it only makes him love her more.
His girl is brave, strong, fierce.
She’s conquered some horrible shit, but she’s still made a life for herself, a career. He’s seen it go the other way, he knows plenty of addicts who’ve survived the foster system only to end up at the bottom of a bottle or jabbing a needle into their arm. That’s not her, he doubts it ever will be.
He looks up when she steps into the room, she has that wildness in her eyes, the one she had when he first met her back in the Lodge in Lake Tahoe. Her leather jacket falls to the floor, landing in a pile by her feet before she unzips her dress, stepping out of it. She slides into his lap clad in pretty black lace and hishands come to rest on her hips, holding her steady. Her palms smooth over the planes of his chest, playing over his tattoos through the fabric of his shirt.
“Keep it on,” she murmurs, her gaze lowering as she studies the outline of his ink through the material. “I want to fuck you in this suit.”
She reaches between the both of them, her palm stroking over his cock as she seeks out the clasp of his trousers. His hand encloses on her wrist, drawing it away because he doesn’t want it like this. He knows what she’s doing. She craves the intimacy of connection, but she wants the distance because being with someone who knows you, who truly knows you - its terrifying.
The two of them are at a turning point. If he lets this continue, he becomes just another guy she fucks when she lands in his airspace. He doesn’t want that, not with her.
“Sara,” he says her name softly. “Sara, look at me.”
His fingertips grace the line of her jaw, tipping up her chin so that her gaze meets his.
“Don’t do this to me,” he whispers against her lips, his voice raw with emotion. “Don’t fuck me like I’m a stranger, fuck me like I’m your man, the one you aren’t going to see for a while.”
He leaves tomorrow for his meeting with King in Pinehurst and she’ll be flying out to Barcelona. It is what it is, a relationship forged within snatches of time. It doesn’t make it any less meaningful, he treasures each and every moment he has with her and the spaces in-between.
They make love that night, because this thing between the two of them is love. It may be too soon for either one of them to say it, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel it in hisheart. For the first time in his life there is someone who knows him completely, who accepts him, and it changes everything. His hands thread through her hair, drawing her mouth back to his as she climaxes. He drinks down her pleasure as the euphoria erupts through her nerve endings, drowning out the noise in her head until the only thing she can focus on is him and only him.
“Leon…” she whispers, the words on the tip of her tongue as he looks up at her with those gorgeous dark eyes of his.
“I knowMami,” he says before he kisses her again. “I know.”
Chapter Nine
In the months that follow more postcards appear on Leon’s fridge, almost more than he can count because Sara is bouncing around from country to country, city to city, documenting Tattoo Expos throughout Europe.
Barcelona, Lisbon, Munich, Berlin, Paris, Vienna.
