Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,5
stretched out on the chair before me, the map of my previous work exposed and calling to me to make it complete. Reminding me that there were still things in my life I enjoyed doing.
I heard the sounds of filming behind me, but my vision honed in to just the ink in front of me. The hum of the tattoo machine, the buzz of it in my hand. I dipped the needles into the ink, grabbed my prepped towel, and went to work.
Hours passed. I felt it in my back and my neck mostly. I wasn’t as young as I used to be. Forty-five was by no means old, but damned if tattooing didn’t make me feel every one of those years. Still, the draw of the piece in front of me helped me grit my teeth through the discomfort, and Mike sat beautifully, hardly ever needing a reminder to stay still.
And then I did the finishing touch. I wiped down his back, the smell of peppermint thick in my nose. We used it in our cleaner, and it triggered a Pavlovian sense of satisfaction each time, as well as helping clients who had been deep in their minds during the work come back to reality.
“You’re done, man,” I said, my heart racing uncomfortably against my ribs. “Want to take a look?”
“Fuck, yeah, I do.” Mike stood, stretching and wincing. “I gotta tell you a secret first.”
All eyes in the shop were on us. I felt the audience and wished for… I don’t know. Something I wanted but couldn’t define regarding the art and its reception. “Yeah?”
“I haven’t looked at it. I’ve been avoiding mirrors on my back since we started.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s been months, Mike. Why?”
He shrugged. “Most gifts are best in their completion. This was your gift to me, and I wanted to see it as you intended.”
“If you make me cry on TV, Mike, I’m going to charge you double.”
Everyone laughed and it gave me a needed moment to collect myself. Brace myself for the reveal, which now wasn’t just to the audience, but to the client as well.
“Let’s do this, Reagan,” Mike said with an encouraging smile.
I walked with him to the mirrors we had set up to allow clients to view larger pieces with ease. Mike took a deep breath and turned. He looked. He sucked in a gasp; I held my breath. Every particle in the room seemed to pause in motion, caught up in the horrible magic of waiting for a reaction.
Mike burst into tears. Full-on sobs with none of the craptastic machismo of trying to stop them or hide them. He beamed at me once he got himself a bit more under control. “I feel like my dad is with me when I look at this. It could not be more perfect. You’ve given me a bit of him back, and I don’t feel as alone. Thank you”
Well, fuck. A tear escaped my own eye. When I looked around, there were fewer dry eyes than not. I hugged Mike, careful not to squeeze the freshly tattooed skin. “It was a fucking honor, Mike.”
After that, there were the more clinical shots—Mike turning this way and that for cameras, some staged scenes to edit in later. And then, fuck, yes, the director called it. We were done, if only for a few months. But it felt like a breath of fresh air.
Dane had ordered pizza and Mateo and Javi had brought beer (along with ginger ale for Trinity), and after all the film crew left, we had an impromptu party—just the Get Ink’d crew. We were tight, there for each other through thick and thin. Having the crew around—just the crew and none of the camera people—was a balm for my soul.
“Good job, B-boss,” Javi said as he brought me a beer. “That piece was wicked g-good.”
Dane started doing the running man. I groaned, but Dane said, “No, seriously, it was so bomb I can’t help but dance. Reagan, you’re a goddamn artistic genius.”
I held up my hands. “Please. Not the dancing, Dane. Anything but the dancing.”
But a smile was plastered on my face despite the attention and antics. I was still buzzing from the reception of my back piece. That was why I did what I did. Something about art made me feel like I was flying, freed from the day-to-day bullshit.
With just the crew, it felt like home. But, I thought with a brief pang, it was missing someone. Three years