Shaking my head, I gripped the door handle to the town car. “One day, you’ll realize this isn’t worth it.” I gestured to my entire body, thinking of how it was a pesky meat suit and once I died, nothing else mattered.
He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment before they met mine again. “You’re worth everything, kid. I’ll spend the rest of my days reminding you of that until you remember yourself.”
A noise akin to heartbreak left my mouth before I rushed out, unable to admit how much I hated and appreciated his constant presence.
He loved me even when he should’ve walked away. My parents paid him to be here, but somewhere along the way, he didn’t abandon me when he should’ve. He didn’t even let me pay him now.
I took out my key and opened the back entrance of the shop, not wanting anyone to see me going in through the front. The sky darkened with the sun setting, it was after hours, and the shop closed at five during the week. Today was no different.
The lights were dimmed, but I could hear them talking and someone—probably Carrig—strummed an acoustic.
This was how we met.
This shop.
It marked a part of my life where hope nestled in me.
“Broski!” Stony hollered, his tone a little sedated. Alstone ‘Stony’ Nguyen was the closest thing I had to a brother since I cut Cars out. He was Vietnamese, had the blackest hair and softest eyes, His cheekbones were sharp, and his nose was narrow and a little crooked from an old break. There was a scar beneath his right eye, one he’d cover before going out or on stage. He never told us where it came from but it must’ve been important to him.
When he wasn’t smiling, he seemed pensive, like the entire world rested on his massive shoulders. Yet, he was the nicest person you’d ever meet. His kindness reminded me of who I was before my parents died. While the world hardened most people, he didn’t allow it to touch him too much.
Stony’s parents never wanted him to join a band, let alone a metalcore one. After a few years of their anger, they came around, deciding his happiness mattered more than their ideals. Plus, they met the band and realized we weren’t all that bad.
Even if we corrupted Stony, getting him tattooed all over.
“Hey, shithead,” Memphis called out, his eyes trailing my shirt. Somehow, he knew. It was obvious how he stopped on my arms, narrowing his gaze. He didn’t say anything.
None of them ever did.
Memphis, our bassist, had fire-engine red hair and a liver as potent as a liquor store. His skin was hidden with a cloak, much like mine. Escapism existed in those who barely allowed themselves to live. We were one in the same, even if he showed his heartbreak, whereas I hid mine.
Irish, tall, with a short beard, he kept his hair long and sometimes braided. An asshole in his own right, but kind when you earned it. His eyes were a mixture of whiskey and grass, and when he was sad, they seemed to be mossier than normal. Out of us all, he had a penchant for heartbreak and sad stories. It was something that tied us together. He and I were the same person in different fonts, but I appreciated the bond, nonetheless.
“Birthday boy is here,” Carrig mused, his eyes red from whatever drugs he’d taken.
Carrig Hyland was the softy of the group. Too wise, a smartass, but with a heart of gold. He was Black, built, and tattooed all over. Out of all of us, he had the biggest heart and would take the shirt off his back for anyone. He had dark eyes, full of stories and wonder. Ones that hid the gem beneath his hardened exterior. His nose was wide yet sharp, and much like mine, his was pierced.
Besides the booze and Xanax I’d consumed, I was fairly sober.
Not that tattooing hurt. It made me feel, something I’d been unused to most days. They sat in the room where Carrig’s, Noah’s, and Juni’s—another part time artist—chairs were. It seemed they’d be tattooing here.
The shop always felt welcoming. A few years back, we basically hollowed it out and revamped it. The walls were covered in artwork we’d created, line work of tattoos plastered across the wall and epoxied down like wallpaper. It felt fitting, black and white, with blue accents. Each part of the room was designed for each member. While we hadn’t lost any to new places, we’d have to adjust for new people if they came.
“What’ll it be?” Stony asked, waving a bottle of vodka.
“Are we talking ink-wise or booze?” I asked, unsure of where he was going with his question.
He chuckled, pouring me a Solo cup full of it. “Vodka it is. We already picked the tatts for each other.”
“Yet, I wasn’t here,” I mused.
“That’s because this is a birthday surprise. Don’t ruin it,” Carrig rebutted, smirking at me. “Sit your bitch ass down and drink some Goose.
I sat at the chair, offering the little blank space on my back, right above my t-shirt line. “Here.”
“Not over that shitty Bulbasaur?” Memphis joked from somewhere behind me. I stared at the plaid leather of the chair, thinking back to when I’d done it, knowing that ink alone reminded me of a memory I tended to store elsewhere.
“Here,” I answered, tapping the blank skin, unwilling to add on any information.
They sat around me, whispering to each other, before Carrig got everything wrapped and ready. “Happy birthday, Reav.”
Then the pinch of the needle came and somehow, this birthday wasn’t so bad. Even if they put a shitty razor blade with blood dripping from it where everyone could see my wrongs inked on me forever.
Chapter Twenty-Two
All I Want – A Day to Remember
Madden
Did you dump him yet? I typed out, deleted, then typed it again. The cold beer in my hand dripped as the heat of my skin warmed it. I left for my tour soon and the guys were practicing our new songs. The loudness, mostly drowned out by the sound room, hit my system like a drug and needle at the same time.
I’d sung my part so many times, I felt the words hug me, fueling my fire to click Send on the text to Andy. It took five minutes and a few drags of Carrig’s joint before she responded.
We shouldn’t talk about this, Madden. Her text made me grip the bottle tighter. Did she want me to go over there and convince her with my mouth... my tongue... any part of me she’d allow inside?
Does he do it for you? I asked instead, ignoring her by knowing exactly where my mind existed right now. If my half-erect dick was indicative of anything, it was that last week wasn’t enough.
Do what? The way she seemed innocent through text but moaned for my touch were vastly opposite definitions of her.
Does he make you come, Andy? Does his cock satisfy you? Do you scream his name at night because he hits the spot? Does. He. Do. It. For. You.
“Reav, we need to practice the set again,” Alstone said, coming toward me as I hid my phone. He narrowed his gaze, his face one of curiosity but also suspicion. Everything he’d see, he was sure to tell Carson who would then try to reach out.
At first, when Cars contacted me after my parents died, it took a lot out of me to deny him and avoid it. He was my lifeline, snipping that off, disconnecting, it felt like death.
Our friendship died because I’d poisoned it, allowing a festering of wounds to rot inside me, slowly killing the limb of him that kept us attached.