Page 5 of The Storms Between Us
four
The knuckleson my left hand ache as they wrap around my tattoo gun. I've been working on this piece for over three hours now and it's looking sweet as fuck. When this chick came sauntering in with her fuck-me red heels and black leather shorts, I thought for sure I was going to be turning away some drunk party bitch, but she actually had a plan and a great idea. She told me the story of how her grandpa passed last week and she wanted to do something to remember him. She brought me a design that she'd drawn herself, which I rarely do, but the dagger and wildflower combo was a beautiful piece.
Surprisingly, she's been pretty chill about it, too. I wouldn't recommend the spine for anybody's first tattoo, but she was adamant, and I wasn't in the mood to argue. I ease up, setting my rig down and stretching my hand out wide. Wiping away the extra blood and ink, the vivid red color pops against her pale skin.
"Need a break?" I ask her, standing and stretching my back and arms.
I see her wipe a single tear from the corner of her eye and nod. "Yeah, I'll grab a smoke and a snack and be ready to start again in about 10 minutes. Sound good?" She asks, trying and failing to mask the sadness in her voice.
"Perfect. Meet you back here in 10." I grumble, making my way to the small kitchen we built onto the back of our shop.
If you told me ten years ago that I would be a partner in my own business by 29, I would have laughed in your face. But I was a completely different man then. That man was a punk ass 19-year-old with a chip on his shoulder and a tendency to have run-ins with the law. My last offense was the same as all the rest. The Barney Fife-like sheriff in my hometown back in Louisiana caught me tagging an abandoned train car for the fourth time and decided he'd had enough of my bullshit. The judge gave me two options, spend a year in county for being a repeat offender or enlist to "straighten myself out". Even though the draft hadn't been a thing for the last fifty years, backwoods towns like mine operated on a different level. No way was my ass spending a second in jail, so I chose the latter. Sheriff Bates followed me all the way to the enlistment center in Baton Rouge the next day.
The day I left for basic training, my ma and sister were there to wave me off from the bus stop. I felt a pang of guilt slash through me, knowing I was responsible for taking care of them. So far, I was doing a shitty job at it.
My dad skipped town the day my sister turned 5 and left my mom with an empty savings account and two months of overdue bills. She tried her best to work doubles as an ER nurse to support us, but I knew it broke her down. I took odd jobs fixing motorcycles and cars around town to help out. I always had a knack for making things run, even though my heart was never really in it. But money was money, and we needed it. I spent my nights sketching and sneaking out to tag random overpasses and buildings around town. I had an itch to see my art on display and it couldn't be contained.
My ma's arms squeezed tight around my neck and I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the slight shaking of her shoulders as she cried. I knew this wasn't what she wanted for me, but it beat the alternative. "It's gonna be okay, Ma. You'll see me again before you know it and I'll be able to send way more money home to help you and Aurora." I told her, stuffing my emotions back down my throat.
"I don't care about the money, Elijah Jude. I just want you to be safe. Just promise me you'll be safe." She pleaded, her blue-grey eyes swirled with the flood of emotion she was trying to hold back.
"I promise I'll do my best, Mom. Just take care of this brat for me." I joked, punching my little sister lightly in the shoulder. At 9 years old, she was wise beyond her years out of necessity, and I hated that for her.
"Ha-ha, so funny. Now get lost, loser," she threw back at me as she snaked her arms around my waist and squeezed me tight.
"I'll miss you most, Bug. Take care of Mama." I whispered to her as I kissed the top of her head. I boarded the bus and watch them wave as I marched forward into my new life.
A knock on the doorway drags me from my memories and I turn to see my business partner and best friend, Everett, standing in the doorway. We opened this shop together last year after we both decided not to re-enlist for another tour. When he told me of his idea to open a tattoo shop near Charleston, I immediately knew I wanted in on the action.
"Hey, that fine piece of ass you've been working on is back in your chair and waiting for you. Please tell me you're going to break your client rule for that one because DAMN." He stresses, peering around the corner to take a second look at her. At 22 years old, he's the true definition of an unapologetic man-whore, but I wouldn't have him any other way.
I chuckle at his crass description of the girl and brush past him. "Never gonna happen, bro. That's all you," I say, heading back to my station.
"Hey, I just wanted to remind you that my sister will be in tonight. She said she left Durham around 7, so she probably won't come through 'til about midnight. I'm supposed to have a client at 10:30, so I told her to just swing by here to get the keys," he says, hanging halfway into my station, eyeing the buxom blonde laying on my table.
"Yeah, I remember. I can't imagine a female version of your ugly ass, so hopefully she got the good genes." I joke, snapping my black gloves back over my hands and getting my tattoo gun ready for round two. "I'll make sure I keep an eye on the door and send any stray women your way, bro." I hear him laughing loudly as he retreats to his side of the studio and I get back to the work at hand.
