Page 7 of Unlocked Dive
It’s been fucking torture.
Basic movements I haven’t had to think about for years make me sweat and tremble. My hand, myright hand—the thoughtless foundation of my whole identity—cramps and slips andterrifiesme. Everything feels intangible, a new barrier claiming space between my body and my brain, making me clumsy and aberrant in my own skin.
After the first month, I fled to Audrey’s to cover my scars.
“It’s way too soon,” she tells me, fingering the tender grooves where the skin is beginning to fade from ugly red to underbelly pink.
“It’s been almost six months.”
“I should make you wait at least nine, probably a year.”
“Fuck that, Audrey. Since when have we followed the rules?”
“It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”
“It always hurts. You’re the one who says that’s part of the fun.”
“I’m a masochist. You’re a hedonist. Trust me when I say this is not your kink.”
“Maybe my kinks have changed.”
Audrey gives me a steady look, and Asha snorts from her perch at the piercing counter. I throw a grin at my friend like it hasn’t been weeks since I’ve seen her. Like I haven’t been shutting her down every time she wants to come to the studio, unwilling to face the humiliation of watching her move effortlessly through the tricks we used to do together. Knowing I have nothing to throw at her now to trigger the competitive envy she thrives on.
Yeah, I’m a coward, but ours is a complicated friendship, forged over years of chasing each other up and down the rope even before puberty and grace solidified my advantage. At theCenter, Asha is the queen bee to my king cock, and I’m not letting myself wonder how she likes ruling alone.
She’s also Audrey’s little sister and the reason I’ve been able to ink myself since three years before it was legal. Audrey started tattooing me in their basement when she was barely an apprentice with borrowed gear, and she’s the only one I’ve ever let mark my body. She’s every bit the badass bitch she needs to be as the only female artist in a shop that caters mostly to bikers and bangers, but she loves me. Possibly more than Asha does. Audrey calls me her passion project, even though ninety percent of what I’ve let her do is simple words and numbers. She likes the story they tell and how her ink and needles make her a part of it. She charges me half what her time is worth, even though she knows I can afford to pay, and in return, I tag her in all my shirtless Insta posts.
“You’ve been dying to get your hands on my right arm for years,” I remind her. “This might be your last chance.”
“Aren’t you training? Asha says you’re still heading off to school in the fall.”
“Mostly conditioning,” I admit with a shrug, glancing over at Asha. I wish she’d fuck off and stay out of my shit today. “No one-arm stuff with a wrap. No release moves.” I keep the words casual. Audrey may or may not understand the implications, but Asha definitely will. “I’ve got another month before I’m allowed to get serious enough to fuck up the tat.”Lies. Cowardly, stupid lies.
Audrey is caving, moving around the space and gathering her tools. I sink gratefully into her chair and hook the armrest stand toward me with my foot.
“And you’re one hundred percent sure about the design?” she asks, hesitating next to her stool. “I appreciate the tragicsymmetry, Echo, but do you really want me to immortalize your broken wings?”
I almost laugh. My wrist is held together with surgical screws and a steel plate. Long after my tattooed skin and the bones it covers have decayed to dust, that metal will be the lastimmortalpart of me, buried treasure at the bottom of my coffin.
“It’s part of the story, Audrey.”Truth. “Can’t call it art if you chicken out at the hard parts.”
Maybe it’s the words or the smile I give her—rueful, with just the right touch of conspiracy—but she stops trying to talk me out of it and gets to work.
She starts at the edges, letting me sink into the familiar buzz and drag before laying into the scar. It doesn’t help.
The first bite of the needle through the virgin flesh is way, way worse than I’m prepared for, and I’m sweating and cursing within seconds. Audrey only grips my hand tighter and doesn’t stop, but I can read anger in her tightly furrowed, pierced brows and the bitter line of her plum-painted lips.
I want to say I’m sorry, but I’m not sure if she’s mad at my ruined wrist or at me for making her add a new layer to my misery.
By the time she’s done, the anger is gone, poured into my skin, and when she wipes the last of the blood away, there’s a dreadful wonder in her expression.
What the hell are tattoos, anyway, but a torrid affair between art and pain?
And we’ve just consummated a masterpiece.
I keep it covered at home. I’m supposed to wear the arm warmer anyway, and I don’t need my morbid new tattoo to make my mother start crying again. I don’t know what my dad would think. He’s always liked my ink and what it represents, in that way that arrogant fathers are secretly proud of their sons’little rebellions. The alpha wolf grooming his favorite pup to take over the pack someday—as long as the pup picks his battles wisely.
But I’m pretending I’m unbroken, so my wrist stays covered, and I hide in the studio and run laps around the walls while my rope hangs limp and idle. I do squats and sit-ups and C-shaping drills until my muscles ache and I can emerge breathless and exhausted. I tell my parents that yes, it’s going great, and yes, I can’t wait to get back in a real gym, and yes,yes, of course I still want my place in Tilburg.
