PM.
I’m a few minutes early, so while I wait, I take in the room around me. Two giant windows line the back wall, lighting the room in what’s left of the setting sun’s rays. Below the windows are a row of black shiny toolboxes with a butcher block counter resting over the top. A backlit easel sits upon the counter with a stack of fresh stencils in the small open drawer beneath.
I follow the direction of the new-looking multi-tone grey wood floors into the center of the room where a big, comfortable black leather couch and chairs divide the workspaces on each side with a low glass coffee table between.
Each workspace consists of a tattoo table, swivel stool, and an additional tool box like on the back wall, except these are on wheels.
The wall over one of the workspaces catches my eye. It’s covered in a graffiti version of the landscape of Logan’s Beach, complete with a tiny, spray-painted cock and balls on the water tower. I chuckle to myself that Preppy’s vandalism made it into such a work of art. Looking over the rest of the town, I can even make out the rooftop of my pawn shop. The details are incredible, but then again, I couldn’t draw the cock and balls on the water tower, never mind a masterpiece mural like this one. So, I may not be the best person to judge art for the exception of maybe how much it’s worth. I spin on my heel and continue on to the other side of the room where the art covering almost every inch of space in an intricate collage is different than the mural and yet somehow even more incredible. They’re mostly canvas black and white portraits, close-ups of women’s faces or faceless nudes. I recognize one of the faces as Poe, Nine’s girl, and another as Thia, Bear’s wife.
My chest constricts when I see Mickey’s face staring back at me from one of the portraits. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I plop down onto one of the chairs and rest my elbows on my knees, rubbing my palms over my face. Mickey isn’t up on that wall, I remind myself. When I look up again, the portrait is no longer Mickey, but Dre, Preppy’s wife.
And I thought Mickey was crazy for seeing things.
As the sun sets further into the horizon, the studio begins to glow. The LED rope lighting lining the room casts the walls and floors in shades of neon green and orange. The soffit above the windows has a sign that reads King’s Tattoo, on a neon sign depicting a skull wearing a crown and a bow tie with the number nine in the center. The skull is symbolic of Bear, the crown of King, the bow tie of Preppy, and the Nine in the middle is a recent addition, for of course, Nine himself.
I find myself staring back at the mural again and wondering if I’ll ever be able to prove myself in this town. I don’t even hear King until he’s standing directly behind me. “I’m the one who painted it, and even I find myself staring at this shit all too often,” he says.
I turn my head to see him with his big arms crossed over his chest. The neon lights cause the spikes on the belts wrapped around his arms to glow bright white.
“I don’t know shit about art,” I admit with a shrug, “beyond what it’s worth. I couldn’t tell you if something is good or bad, but just looking at this shit, I have to say it’s pretty fucking amazing.”
“Not nearly as good as my girl’s stuff,” he points to the other wall with his smoke. “She’s got the real gift. I can make something look good, while Ray—” He smirks and shakes his head as if he can’t believe it himself. He absentmindedly rubs his thumb over a tattoo of a black bird on the back of his hand. “Her shit makes you feel something. That’s real fucking talent.” His voice is filled with pride and wonder. Again, I find myself thinking about Mickey. If things were different, would I be speaking about her the same way? Doesn’t matter. She made her choice, and I’ll never find out. I try to shake off the thought, but it’s like shaking off a tick that’s already half-burrowed into your skin. Hard to get rid of and might cause an incurable disease. In my case? The disease is love.
Love?
I…shit. I