Page 50 of Won't Let Go
Why?
Because it’s about me.
Not just me, but Bitty and White Boy.
Their breakup. How she’s with Viper. Then… Us—Josh and me.
Debbie: Please tell me she finally put that poor boy out of his misery and agreed to be his old lady.
Loretta: I doubt it. I’ve been waiting too long for them to finally pull their stubborn heads out of their asses and get it over with.
Bink: They’ll get there in their own time.
Seated on my rolling chair, I rub the bridge of my nose before my permanent scowl turns into a headache.
“Just breathe,” Pixie says, her voice tainted with laughter as she plops onto my tattoo bed and pulls her pant leg up to her knee. “Now pick a spot and ink whatever you want. I checked the schedule, and neither of us have any more clients today, so we’ve got time. Take out your frustration on my skin.” She pats my shoulder, and I groan, hating how she can read me like a book. It has been a day. After Josh left, I took the longest shower and obsessively dissected everything that’s happened since I got home from the hospital. It’s not healthy, but I can’t help it.
Gathering supplies, I get my machine wrapped and my table set up just how I like. I pick a drawing I did this week from my notebook and run it through the stencil machine in our back room. We don’t talk when I prep Pixie’s leg or when she stands, so I can apply the small stencil just below her knee. Once I’m satisfied with the placement and ready to rock and roll, she gets comfortable while I get lost in lining, shading, and highlights. It takes about an hour, and for that hour, I push all the bullshit from my mind. The Josh stuff. Hunter. My past. Everything.
Pixie gives me a gift I didn’t know I needed—a break. The nineties rock music bumping through our shop speaker is the icing on the cake.
Wiping her bloody ghost down with a paper towel soaked in green soap, I nod to her fresh ink. It’s common for us to tattoo each other when we’ve got time. I have more than my fair share of Pixie pieces on my skin.
She gets up and checks it out in our full-length mirror, and when she returns, all smiles, our new apprentice, Jasmin, comes over to clean my station.
“He’s cute.” Pixie beams, loving her spooky fella.
“I’m glad you like him.”
Sitting up, legs swinging over the side of my tattoo bed, Pix says, “You know, bein’ an old lady, isn’t bad.”
Oh. Now we’re going there. Just what I wanna discuss today.
“I know that.”
“We just want you to be happy.”
“I know that, too.”
“Let the sisters talk, and if you want to weigh in, you can. Nobody’s gonna judge you.”
“You don’t think it’s wrong that he’s so young, or Loretta’s son?”
Pixie’s wrinkled forehead says she doesn’t like me talking like this. “No. Why would I?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.” Because he’s Josh.
“Does it feel wrong?”
To avoid eye contact, I spin around in my chair. “Kinda?”.
“Is it because of White Boy’s age, or something else?”
“I dunno,” I lie.
It is his age, but that’s only a small piece of it. It’s me, mostly. I’m not the hot, skinny biker chick that a biker who looks like him should want. I come with an entire mountain of baggage and a teenage son.
Pix hums like she doesn’t believe me. “I think you do. But it’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it.”
