Chapter Text
It’s quiet, and it’ll be quiet for months. A respite from the nonstop energy that the college kids provide. It’s the first week of summer break, and all of the outsiders have been shipped back home to mom and dad for the hottest days. Even your own house, normally buzzing with activity, is empty with the exception of your ghost roaming the halls in the early mornings and late at night.
8 bedrooms, 7 roommates, 2 bathrooms. Summer means it’s just you and Mo. Mo’s mom lives in town, so she doesn’t have to stay in the big house with you. She can sleep in her childhood bed, eat dinners made by her mom, and take real baths in a shiny bathtub instead of standing in a shower with mold growing in the corner. It’s one of the many problems on the list for your landlord, never to be addressed. Despite the mold, the cracked tile in the kitchen, the lock that sometimes doesn’t work on the back door, and the complete lack of insulation in the walls – every single one of your roommates signed a new lease. It’s hard to beat $120 a month.
You love the empty streets, the quiet, the way the heat of the sun brings out the details on the otherwise drab streets. Every face you come across you know. This is a small town, really, when the kids are gone. Maybe you’re a kid, too, but you belong to this town, so you’re welcome. Mostly.
Right now your jeans are hanging low on your hips, the ends dragging under the bottom of your boots forever a murky brown color from wear and tear. You’ve had them for years, and you’ll have them until the holes are too big to be patched. You decided to forgo the bra for your appointment. One less thing to worry about while Danny did his thing. You threw a flannel over your black t shirt for modesty’s sake, and so no creepy douchebags decided to take no bra as some kind of invitation. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The nose piercing you got at the shop last week was healing slowly. Slower than it should, it was painful and red for three full days before the inflammation finally calmed. The piercing, a hack job performed by a tattoo apprentice, was a bloody experience that left your roommate sitting on the ground after nearly passing out at the sight of your face. She had her head between her knees while James, the dickhead, was sweating so much while he had his head hovering over your face you could feel it drip onto your own neck. That day you left swollen, sore, and with an important life lesson tucked away in your mind – never trust a piercer with no piercings.
When you reach the shop, it’s dead. You decide to wake it up, throwing the door open – hard – letting the little bell jangle loudly to announce your arrival. The front windows are street level, making it easy for passersby to sneak a peak into the shop as they wander the streets. You know that’s where you’ll be today. Danny will prop you up in the chair that sits in front of those windows, a stage where he can perform his great trick and draw in new customers. That was fine by you, but you always thought it should earn you some kind of discount to be his model for a few hours. Someone always came in when you were in the chair.
“Who’s there?” The question comes from the back room, along with disgruntled muttering about someone breaking the goddamn door. James, Danny’s apprentice, is sat behind the counter scratching at his sketch pad. When his eyes find the answer to Danny’s question, he rolls them, and drops his head back to his drawing.
“It’s your little pet, the Queen Bitch.” James’ usual greeting rubs a little more than it should today. You’re on edge, more than usual, and you have no patience for his bullshit. You show him your middle finger, too annoyed to spare the words, and stand in front of the counter with your arms crossed and eyes glaring. James only cares about the college girls that come through that door, the ones that he thinks might suck his dick if he gives them a free tattoo. The last time you were here you heard the work “dyke” muttered between him and one of his buddies, and you assume that’s why he hates you. Why waste the time? No time for a “carpet muncher,” as he affectionately calls you occasionally. To your face.
“I can head down to Sparky if you guys are too busy for me,” you make sure to call out loud enough for Danny to hear you from the back of the shop. You need him front and center, get some space between you and his minion. Plus, you made a fucking appointment, didn’t you?
There’s a small crash, and Danny’s rounding the corner and buckling his belt. You don’t want to know what he was doing back there, but you hope he was only taking a piss. “Sparky is a fat slob. What do you, fucking hepatitis?” He grumbles as he pushes past you and into the open shop.
“Please tell me you’re about to wash those hands.” Your wrinkled nose and mouth turned down with a sour expression are turned on the old man jerked his way across the room beyond you.
“Don’t start shit, you already know that’s what I’m doing,” and he is, hands running under the little sink sat near the tattoo stations, “I want you in the front today. You ok with an audience, my delicate little flower?”
You give a small involuntary head shake at his sarcasm before a nod in affirmation. You head to the chair, one you’ve been in half a dozen times already, and straddle it to fully expose your back to the empty room waiting for Danny to make his way over to you.
“So, I had to make an adjustment to your design. No complaining. It was too small, and you don’t want the lines fucked to hell.” He hands you the design to check out before he puts the stencil to your back. It’s bigger – by a lot, but you didn’t mind. You don’t tell him that though, you need haggling room. That’s the fun part. You have to put up at least a little bit of a fight.
“Come on, Dan. How much more is this gonna cost me?” You wave the paper in his face for a second, and he’s snatching it out of your hand with a grumble.
“We agreed on $80 initially, I’ll do the revised design for $125.” It’s your turn to grumble.
“Sparky would do it for $100.” Your sing song voice is laced with venom.
“Yeah, and you’d come out with an infection. $115, final offer.”
You pretend to make serious consideration of his final offer, but you both know you’re gonna take it. It’s fair, and it’s still less than you should be paying. You’ve never understood why, but Dan has a soft spot for you, and he always shoots low on the price.
On your first visit to the shop to get a tattoo you pointed to a design from the wall. It didn’t matter to you, it could have been anything. It was a tattoo, anything to mark your skin, to distance yourself. That day your hair still hung low, and you were in the pretty clothes your mom picked out for you. Danny had laughed at you, actually laughed.
“Baby girl, tattoos hurt. Maybe you should go get your nails done and sit in the tanning bed instead.” The smile he wore that day cut deep, and only added to your determination.
You had shocked the absolute shit out of him by falling asleep while he gave you the purple butterfly tattoo on your left hip. That day it was impossible to hide the scars. Danny saw them, you wanted him to see them. He knew from that moment on, pain wasn’t an issue for you.
Today, you look forward to the pain. The feeling of the needle penetrating your skin. Your mind has been loose and chaotic. Being in the chair always helped to bring your focus back. A meditation of ink and blood. Even James keeps his mouth shut while Dan’s working unless he’s directly addressed by his mentor. If you had the cash, you’d come every week, a tithe to your chosen church.
The next hour is a practice of meditation, transcending the scratching pain at your skin. You relax and let Danny work, you’ve learned to trust his arthritic hands. They steady as soon as the gun is turned on and his gloved hand rests on you. You listen to the rhythmic sounds of the gun and James’ scribbling at his sketch book. It’s not until the jingle of the bell at the front door that you’re roused from your sleepy state.
You listen. You’re on high alert always, more so when your back is exposed, and you can’t see behind you. You don’t need a problem, but sometimes one finds you at the worst time. What you hear is the sound of boots scuffing the tile floor, slowing at your chair before making their way to the front counter. Not a word exchanged with you or Dan, but you felt the eyes on your skin, watching the ink mark you.
“Hey man, what’s good?” You let out a little snort, you’re sure Dan can hear. The greeting is overly friendly, something you never hear from James. You can hear hands meeting hands behind your back. James sounds like a little kid, he’s kissing the ass of this new visitor. Not a girl, you know by the person’s gait. They’re sure footed and you can hear the jangling of metal. A wallet chain, you assume.
Danny pauses the tattoo gun to make his own greeting. He rarely tries to hold a conversation with anyone when you’re in the chair, which is appreciated. You want his focus on your body while he permanently marks your skin.
“Eddie, man! I was gonna stop by and see how the shop’s comin’ along once I was done with Ms. Congeniality here.” You bring your arm out to show Dan your middle finger, again thankful for a way to communicate your feelings without having to open your mouth.
A loud laugh, uninhibited, echoes through the small shop. Not Dan or James, they never laugh at you anymore, it’s the stranger, Eddie. You hear the boots click against the tile floor again as Eddie makes his way back to see the progress Danny’s made on your shoulder piece. You can feel him close, this new guy, but you keep your face pressed to the black vinyl of the chair. Anyone that friendly with James cannot be a friend to you.
“You really know how to charm your customers.” The voice is speaking over your back now. It’s deep and coated with honey. You’re very thankful to have your face in the opposite direction of them, because the sound of that voice caused your eyes to pop open unexpectedly. A tingle runs through your body knowing how close that the owner of that voice is to you right now, looking at your exposed skin and appraising it. After another beat, he must have really been inspecting Dan’s work, you hear his footfalls move back to the counter and away from you.
“Store is coming along. I’m getting more product tomorrow. You boys know anyone looking for some part time work? It’s a fucking ghost town around here right now?” Dan and James both let out little noises of ascent. Yeah, it’s summer in a college town and the locals aren’t lining up for part time gigs. A lot of the local shops end up keeping short hours or shutting down all together for a while.
“I’ll keep my ears peeled, brother.” You can’t help but laugh a little at James’ eagerness with Eddie. Brother, what a douchebag. James pretends he didn’t hear you, and continues talking, although a little less enthusiastically, “Ed, take a look at this, I’ve been working on your piece. Tell me what you think.”
The two men at the counter go back in forth in a conversation that doesn’t interest you. You’re letting yourself get loose, lighten and drift. Danny’s steady hand and the gun lull you back into that calm space that only exists in this chair in this tattoo shop. It’s another 20 minutes until the pressure on your skin disappears, and the sound of the gun stops. Dan groans a little as he moves off the stool, “Alright, Trouble, you’re all done.”
You stand, your arm still pushed through the neck of your t shirt, and head to the full-length mirror to take a look. It’s a damn good job, exactly what you asked for, even if it is a little bigger than you initially wanted. It’s better than you thought it would be. Again, though, you play your hand close to your chest. “Hmm, not bad, Dan. Some of those lines, though. Hmm, did you forget your coffee this morning?”
Eddie’s loud laughter, you know now it’s probably something he gives freely, finally brings your gaze to him for the first time. Your eyes’ progression is slow, moving from the black leather boots, up the tight black jeans to find a black leather jacket. Loose curls hang around to frame his face, the rest of his hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. Despite the out-of-date look, he’s gorgeous, and you hope he doesn’t realize it’s taking you far too long to peel your eyes away from him.
“You boys have a livewire here.” His smile is big and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes tell you he’s probably a little older than you initially thought. You narrow your own eyes at Eddie while you feel Danny cleaning and wrapping your new tattoo. You’re trying to get a fix on this guy. Trying to understand why he’s even looking at you and trying to be friendly with you.
“Let’s settle up, boys. I’ve spent enough time in this hell hole.” You move past Eddie to the counter where James is waiting with you. You pull your arm back through the neck of your shirt and wrap your flannel over your chest, suddenly feeling very exposed. You place a stack of bills on the counter, there goes your hope of anything other than ramen and peanut butter sandwiches until pay day. “I still think I should get a discount after you fucked up my face last week,” you mutter out, sadly watching James palm the cash that belonged to you only moments ago.
“Your face was fucked up before you even stepped foot in the door.” James’ jab misses its mark completely because Eddie’s eyes are still on you, and you can’t hear the process the insult.
You slip a couple of 20s in Danny’s hand and head towards the door. Before you step out, you turn back to address the metalhead leaning at the counter. His hip’s jutted out and the light is hitting him like he was some sort of Heavenly creature sent down to provide you with extra grocery money during the off season.
“Oh, hey, Eddie, right? I work at the coffee shop across the street, but I could use another part time gig,” your voice is casual, but you are actually desperate. James opens his mouth to say something, you can hear his breath dragging through his crooked teeth, but Eddie puts a hand up to stop whatever insult he has in mind.
“The Record Exchange on Water. I just opened last week. Come down and we’ll work something out.” Eddie’s hand is open to you, palm up. An invitation.
You nod and duck out. You should have known. The hot metalhead owns the new record shop.