Bella
Just a few short months ago, I used to love coming to work.Some days my boss Bear would have to kick me out after closing, because I could and did stay there after hours working on my designs.Not so much now that his arthritis got so bad he can’t tattoo a straight line anymore and he retired.He gave the Sinful Creations parlor to his nephew Doug, or Doogie, as he wants to be called.Doodie would suit him better as far as I’m concerned.
He’s nothing like Bear and he won’t take no for an answer.No matter how many times I say it, he’s always right there, breathing down my neck while I work, or draw, or stare off into space.I almost messed up a tat the other day because he was standing too close and I kept fearing he was gonna grab me at any moment.
Yesterday was Sunday and he spends those at his Ma’s house on Staten Island.Those visits are damn near sacred to him and he’s always in a foul mood on Mondays.Most likely because he misses his mommy.
Today’s a Monday and I came in mad early this morning, at four AM, partly to avoid him and partly because the scream dream—or recurring nightmare more like—got me good last night.I don’t know if it’s the rainy, cold weather or the fact that the ten-year anniversary of Angel’s death came and went, and I still haven’t plucked up the courage to even visit her grave.
All my designs lately feature pretty girls, with crosses, and leafless trees standing over lonely graves.That’s gotta mean something.And I don’t want to even begin unpacking it.
The front door of the parlor slams open bringing in an entirely different kind of wind that blew on the day Angel was buried.This is the cold and hopeless kind, that was a tingly hot, crazy-making kind.I sat in the garden of my family’s home, not at her grave and not attending her funeral is still one of the biggest regrets of my life.
“You’re here early again,” Doogie says.“We don’t have anyone coming in until after noon.Or do we?Did you mess up another design?”
I slam my sketchbook closed without thinking.Now the ink of my drawing will be all smudged up on top of everything else that’s going wrong lately.
“One time that happened, Doogie,” I snap.“One time.And the customer ended up being more satisfied with the correction than he was with the original design.”
And it happened because Doodie can’t keep his hands to himself.He’d run them down my hair, groaning loudly.
He takes off his trendy trucker hat and jacket and tosses them on one of the plush purple and gold armchairs by the door where customers can sit while waiting to get their ink done in the back.
“I suppose you’re gonna tell me it was all my fault next,” he says, grinning leeringly.
“If the shoe fits…” I come from around the counter to get my jacket and purse, but he stops me by standing between me and the coat rack.
I sidestep him, trying very hard not to let the laser-hot surge of fear show anywhere on my face or my body.I don’t do well with overly alpha men.Too much psychological baggage, not enough love.I don’t go there either.
“I’m getting some coffee and breakfast,” I say.“Want me to bring you something?”
He finally steps aside so I can pass him, but he’s still all up in my personal space as I put on my leather jacket and zip it up tight.
“Or I could just come with you,” he says, looking me up and down, the leering not just in his voice but in his eyes now too.
“Someone has to mind the shop,” I say.“And I have a design to finish.”
I move towards the door, but don’t get far.He grabs my arm, the space between us suddenly non-existent.And there’s no hiding the fear gripping me now.
“Why you gotta always play hard to get like this?”he asks.“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“We’re co-workers,” I manage to say without my voice shaking to badly.
He uses his other hand to brush a strand of hair from my face.“I’d like to be so much more than that.Come on.Just one kiss.I promise I won’t bite.”
“Let me go!”I scream just as the door opens, bringing in more cold air.It’s the best thing I ever felt.
But Doogie is still holding me and leaning down like he expects that kiss he asked for.
“I think you need to do like she said,” the guy who walked in says in a voice I haven’t heard in over ten years.A voice that’s both as cold as the worst winter wind and as warm as the sweetest summer breeze.
Doogie turns to him without letting me go.“Yeah, what’s it to you?”
“Everything.”Blade could always be counted on to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.
Somehow even the memory of my nightmare isn’t as sharp anymore after hearing him say that, let alone Doogie’s crazy pass at me.
“Or do I have to make you?”Blade adds.
