“You got it,” she answered, smiling, moving on without giving me a chance to protest.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, but he was already backing away.
“I know. Good night,” he said again, and then he was gone, leaving me with my gifted drink in hand, feeling… confused.
It wasn’t as if it were the first time a man had paid for my drink.
My meals.
My wardrobe.
A foreign property here and there.
That island, out in the Indian Ocean.
I was beautiful, like every other woman who bore the same mark I did, and had been impeccably trained in the art of charming money, information, and any manner of other things out of men.
That was supposed to be behind me though.
And… yeah, this was just a hot tea, but it still felt… weird.
I couldn’t dwell on that.
I got my ass back across the street, through the shop, up to my apartment. By the time I got myself back into my comfy lounge clothes, my tea had cooled enough to comfortably sip.
In the window.
While I watched.
Maybe he’d blended in before, but this time, nearly an hour after I’d been home, I spotted him coming through the door. He stood in front of the shop with a group of guys for a while, talking, laughing, just… being.
He was beautiful.
I hadn’t lied about my lack of interest, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t look.
I got really, really, exhausted with myself sometimes.
It was a state I’d never – to my memory – experienced until this past year or so. Maybe I’d been too mentally occupied before, with analyzing my past performance or planning future excellence, but these days… man.
I was really on my own fucking nerves.
That was the only way, even privately, I could articulate how it felt to be standing in the mirror, the sharpest of my blades in hand, unnecessarily dramatic as I contemplated carving off my rose.
It was ridiculous.
Logically, I knew that, and yet… I didn’t feel like I could live with it, a single second longer.
It had been there as long as I could remember, branding me as an asset rather than a fully-realized person. A single red rose, petals beautifully spread and intricately detailed – a loveliness that belied the underlying cruelty it represented.
An exquisite flower, on a dangerous woman I didn’t want to be anymore.
Didn’t have to be anymore.
And yet… I was still marked.
On a deep breath, I lifted the blade to my skin, barely flinching as I pressed it into my flesh. It pricked, yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to draw my own blood, even though I’d been trying for the last hour.
Histrionic much?
I tossed the knife onto the dresser, running over the tattoo with my fingers instead. It was flat to the touch, but even with my eyes closed, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there – it was too deeply embedded, in more than my skin.
An ugly stain, in the fabric of who I was.
Yeah.
I can’t look at this shit anymore.
I quickly ruled out the knife, knowing damn well I’d never gather the fortitude to flay it off my skin – not under these conditions. In some type of high-danger, life or death situation, I’d slice the damn thing off and keep it pushing.
In a reality where I could just as easily walk across the street for a tea and leisurely enjoy it from the comfort of a plush chair in the coffeehouse window without a care in the world?
Not so much.
Full removal required more paperwork and follow-up than I was comfortable engaging quite yet, so it wasn’t an option. I knew a few other girls like me, who’d opted for a coverup, and felt at ease with that option.
Now that I’d started making the mental shift from “survive” to “actually have a life” … maybe that would help me, too.
This wasn’t going to be like the pathetic persuading I’d had to go with myself to go to Urban Grind.
Nope.
I didn’t give myself time to think it over, I threw on some clothes to cover the naked state I’d been in since I exited the shower with slice-and-dicing on my mind.
And then I headed out the door.
DistInk’d was… loud.
Aurally, and visually, both in an aesthetically pleasing way.
The music was loud, the people were loud, the walls plastered in pictures and drawings, several ignored flat screens flashing everything from news to binge-streamed movies and shows. I got a few curious glances as I walked in, but I mostly went ignored except for the girl behind the front counter, sporting at least four facial piercings.
She smiled as I approached, putting down her cell phone to give me her attention. “What you need, love?”
“A coverup,” I told her, distractedly, as my eyes scanned the wall behind her, taking in what I assumed to be the work of artists on staff. Once my gaze landed on one I liked, I pulled aside the wide strap of my tank top, showing her the rose. “I don’t ever want to see this again. And I want to work with whoever did that,” I said, pointing to a photo of a hyper-realistic koi fish inked across someone’s shoulder.
She glanced behind her, her gaze following my directive. “He’s gonna be expensive,” she warned, once she landed where I was pointing. “Especially for a coverup.”
“I don’t care,” I told her. “Is he here right now? I’ll pay extra if I can walk out of here with something new, today.”
She raised an eyebrow at me, her gaze falling to where my strap was still pushed aside. “You getting over a bad break-up or something?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
Her pierced lips stretched into a sympathetic smile as she nodded, sliding off the chair to stand. “Aiight. He finished up with somebody else a little while ago. Let me go see if he’s up to it.”
She disappeared behind a beaded curtain leading into the back of the shop, while I took the opportunity to do a bit more looking around. I had this gran plan to have the rose covered, but no idea what I wanted to be in its’ place.
What, exactly would be significant enough to dampen the rose’s power?
I wasn’t sure.
But what I was sure of, was the energetic shift that happened in tandem with the sound of that beaded curtain being pulled back again. I turned around in time to watch the neighborhood hottie make his entrance.
As soon as his attention landed on me, a slick smile spread over his whole face – not just his lips, but the glint in his eyes, the sudden flare in his nostrils.
“This can’t be the eager customer, Pri,” he said, addressing the girl from the counter as his dark-eyed gaze remained on me. “This woman isn’t interested.”
My eyebrow went up. “Really?”
“Stop it, Tristan,” Pri scolded him as she took her seat back, and picked up her phone. “She had a bad breakup, help her out.”
“I didn’t actually say that,” I corrected, but she was already grinning at her phone, not concerned with either of us anymore. So I repeated it to him, instead, and only got a deepened smirk in return.
“You’re not saying it isn’t true either,” he rightly countered, and I crossed my arms.
“I’m not sure why it matters, at all, anyway. Can you cover my tattoo?”