"Signs?" I snickered. "What do you mean? Like from God or some shit?"
"From God, from the universe ...” Her hand waved gracefully around in the air. “Wherever."
I laughed and shook my head. "Doc, I thought you were a woman of science, and then you gotta throw in some religious B.S.."
"Is it B.S.?"
I lifted my eyes, leveling her with a condescending glare. "Yes. Yes, it fucking is. Signs are bullshit. God is bullshit. The universe is bullshit. It’s all bullshit."
"You're getting defensive again," she said pointedly.
"No. I'm not. I'm getting honest. None of us have a plan laid out for us by some almighty, mythical being. We're all mistakes on this mistake of a planet, floating through our lives of good shit and bad shit until we die. The end."
"That's very bleak, don't you think?"
I snorted and tipped my head back to assess the popcorn ceiling. "Can't spell Blake without bleak," I muttered under my breath.
"What's that?"
"Nothing."
With the sigh of the defeated, Dr. Travetti tossed her clipboard unceremoniously onto the coffee table and said, "I want you to read what I wrote."
"Oh, I have your permission?" I questioned condescendingly.
"Yes." She gestured toward the paper, and I leaned forward with a smirk I wasn't quite proud of.
Dammit, I really was being defensive and I wasn’t proud of it. In fact, I felt like a child. But she'd struck a nerve with that God shit. The weak and desperate fell on God, while the realists see the world for exactly what it is. Is it depressing? Sure, but so is the brutal and tragic reality that some kids are born perfect, full of potential and promise, only to have their problematic brother steal it all away.
With a bored sigh, I lowered my gaze to the page, and there in bold black cursive, I read, "Why won't he give himself a chance?" The question was circled once, twice, and underlined, like this was the good doctor's purpose in life to answer this one, stupid question.
I looked back to her and asked, "What do you want me to say to this?"
She dropped her pen into her lap. "I want you to tell me why you live like this. Why you're so pissed off. Why you won't let yourself live your damn life."
"I already told you, my br—"
"You blame a lot on Jake, I know, and maybe that blame is justified to an extent. But you're not the only one in a situation like this, Blake, and many of those other people live their lives the best they can. So, what is it about your special situation that makes you different from them? Why is it such a struggle for you to live?"
Anger, rage, and the ever-persistent sting of guilt injected itself into my veins. It was hot, scorching, and I jumped from my chair, startling the good doctor. I stabbed my chest with a finger as I loomed over her, like the mythical being she apparently believed lived in the sky, and began to shout.
"Because what gives me the right to live? Tell me that, you know-it-all bitch! What gives me the fucking right to go about my miserable fucking life, finding love, finding happiness, finding success in whatever-the-fuck, when he had it all ripped out from under him?”
The smooth, slim column of her throat shifted with apprehension as she swallowed her shock. Her tongue flicked out, wetting her lips, and she asked, "But why is that your cross to bear, Blake? Why do you live your life like you're some prisoner to your brother?"
"Because nobody else will," I stated simply, knowing immediately that it was only partially the truth. So, with the need to speak more honestly and to spit the poison from my tongue, I added, "And because it's my fucking fault."
***
The needles jutted, in and out, in and out, threading the ink through the skin of Shane's calf. The tender, naked flesh tightened beneath my gloved fingertips, flinching involuntarily with every hastened prick. Hunched over his leg, I traced the lines with my machine, as he chatted with Celia about his time at ModInk.
"Wasn't it owned by your dad in the seventies?" she asked, her voice pulled taut with excitement. She'd never admit to fangirling over the guy, but she was totally swooning in the girliest of ways. I looked up from my work to smirk suggestively at her, and when she noticed, her eyes widened with a stern, silent warning to keep my big mouth shut.
"Yeah, it was," Shane answered. His voice held that euphoric quality a lot of people adopt when in the throes of receiving new ink. The haze. The high. I knew it well, and listening to him now, nearly breathless and serene, I was jealous. "He left it to me when he retired. That was nine years ago now. Crazy how fast time flies."
"I remember when you took over," she said. "The internet exploded. Nobody trusted you."
The room filled with Shane’s short, gruff laugh. Like the memory still held insult for him. "Yeah, nobody likes change. But I'd like to think I've done a good job. I mean, I love my dad, but things had gotten pretty stale, in my opinion. He didn't like to take many risks, you know? He was very set in his ways, in the styles he liked, and didn't want to venture outside of it."
Celia winced apologetically. "I remember. He showcased a lot of traditional artists, standard piercings, and not much else."
Folding an arm beneath his head, Shane nodded. "He was afraid of the controversy that might come up if he, I don't know, showed off a killer set of microdermals or subdermal implants. He didn't wanna piss off the reader base." He chuckled lightly. "The guy hated the idea of stepping on toes. He hates confrontation. Hell, you should see him on holidays. The family starts talking politics or religion, and he flees the scene."
"Sounds like my family," Celia laughed with him. Flirtation bled from the sound and I made a mental note to tease her about it later on.
But for now, I simply quipped, "Sounds like every family."
"God, isn't that the fucking truth," Shane muttered, shaking his head.
The needle dipped close to the ridge of his ankle bone and he flinched. I lifted my machine on reflex and flitted my gaze to his, making sure he was okay. “You good?”
"Yeah. Sorry, man." He smiled with the embarrassment of a guy trying to be tough but who couldn't shy away from the pain of needle hitting bone.
"No worries." I took the opportunity to wipe his skin of excess ink and blood and change my gloves. "Just a little more line work, and then we'll take a break before I start shading, okay?"
"Sounds good." He lifted a thumbs up. “I could use a smoke.”
"If this guy gets too rough, don't be afraid to kick him in the face," Celia teased, rounding the table to brush her knuckles against my shoulder.
"Nah, I'm good. No pain, no gain, right?" A chuckle rumbled from Shane's chest as he eyed Cee with half-hooded lids. I knew carnal interest when I saw it, and I smirked privately, dipping my head to return my attention to my work.
"So, Blake, how long have you been tattooing?"
The realization that I'd forgotten about the interview laid over me like a too-hot blanket. "Hey, uh, Shane ..." I leaned away from the table, sat straight on my stool, and pulled my gloves off before scratching at my ear. "I forgot to mention … about the interview ..."