Indelible (3 page)

“Sure about this?” Luna selected the black ink and slipped the protective covering from the needle. “We’re about to hit the point of no return.”

Angie paled, but didn’t protest. Luna was impressed.

Tori nodded. “I’m positive.”

Luna pushed the button, relaxing with the snick-click as the gun engaged. The low-grade hum as the needle pistoned in and out comforted Luna, the sound so engraved in her routine that the stresses of life receded when she heard it. She let her hand have its way, guiding the needle across Tori’s skin with easy, steady progression.

“Angie, sweetie, I need you to let go of my hand.” Tori’s voice sounded strained, and Luna paused.

“Everything okay?”

“Will be when I get Angie to turn loose.”

Angie gripped Tori’s hand, her knuckles white with the pressure. She stared at Tori’s shoulder with her mouth slightly open. Finally she looked and jerked her hand away from Tori’s. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Didn’t realize.”

Tori shook her hand out. “It’s okay. Nothing a little minor surgery can’t correct.”

Luna resumed her work. “Angie, tell me why you came with Tori today.”

“She asked me to.” Angie’s gaze was again riveted to Tori’s shoulder.

“I figured you’d see it’s no big deal and get one with me.”

Angie shook her head and backed up quickly. “Nuh-uh.”

“Stop being such a baby. It doesn’t hurt at all.” The tremor beneath Luna’s fingers belied Tori’s casual dismissal of the pain, but other than that, she hid her discomfort well.

“You’re not wearing a tank top at my house ever again.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Luna didn’t think Angie was kidding at all.

“The last thing I need is Oliver asking for one of those.”

The mention of a male who obviously shared Angie’s home piqued Luna’s interest. Angie gave off distinct dyke vibes, so who was the mystery guy? Maybe she was a bi-curious lesbian-virgin desperate for Luna to turn her out. She’d given up playing tour guide years ago, but the thought was full of sexy possibility.

“He’s seen tattoos before, Angie.”

“Well, he’s not allowed to see yours.”

“Who’s Oliver?” Luna immediately wanted to take her question back. She was not a part of their conversation and had no right to interject herself into it.

Angie looked away from Tori’s shoulder, the constant progression of black ink into tanned skin, and met Luna’s gaze for the first time since entering the work area. She regarded Luna for a moment, then said, “My ten-year-old son.”

She didn’t look away, seeming to wait for
something
, but Luna didn’t know what that might be. What could she possibly say? “Oh.” Anything would have been better than such an insipid reply.

Angie smiled slightly and sat in the guest chair, no longer watching Luna work. Luna scrambled mentally for something to correct her blunder, to take away the look of disappointment from Angie’s face.

“Ten? How old were you when you had him?” Luna asked.

“Too young,” Angie answered. Her voice was flat, but her eyes flared. She obviously didn’t like the subject.

“Oh.” For the second time in as many minutes, Luna was at a loss. She didn’t know what to say and didn’t understand why she cared. Yes, Angie was hot, and terribly sweet to stay with her friend in a situation that obviously made her uncomfortable. She was also acting like the worst kind of tourist in Luna’s world: narrow-minded, judgmental, and vocal about it. Another white-bread American mom who thought she was above it all.

“At any rate, it’s not like he hasn’t seen tattoos before,” Tori said. “Sandy has at least five.”

“That we can see.” Angie didn’t sound impressed.

“Right, so why the objection?”

Angie sighed. “He looks up to you.”

Luna forced herself to continue working, focusing on the emerging pattern before her rather than the off-limits woman with a child at home and full measure of baggage to go with it. Not to mention her vanilla hang-ups about Luna’s passion. She acted like getting a tattoo was the first step in a rapid descent to hell and that her son would be able to run out and get a tattoo by himself tomorrow. Luna snorted.
Yeah, right.

“What do you think, Luna?”

“What?” Luna switched guns, selecting purple next. “Don’t drag me into the middle of this.”

“There is no middle. Just tell Angie she’s acting like she’s a ninety-year-old nun and she needs to get over it.”

Luna laughed. She’d thought plenty of things about Angie in the past forty-five minutes that would earn an endless amount of Hail Marys and Our Fathers, but none of them included Angie wearing a habit and ninety-year-old skin. She smiled at Angie, putting her dimples to work for her. Women loved that shit. “She’s definitely not a nun.”

Heat flooded Angie’s cheeks and she cursed her damned fair skin. Even with a tan, she never could hide her embarrassment, or her excitement. She needed this field trip to hell to just be over. Why Tori wanted a tattoo was a mystery, more so that she insisted on dragging Angie along. The only redeeming part of the evening was Luna, even if she did tattoo people for a living. And despite her flirtatious nature, she already had a girlfriend. Angie better remember that.

She focused on the wall behind Luna’s head, blocking out the nausea-inducing noise of the tattoo gun. If she didn’t look, she could convince herself it wasn’t really happening.

“Almost done.” Luna’s low voice held a soft reverence and Angie glanced over despite her best intentions to resist. The mix of dark ink and blood smeared across Tori’s shoulder made her stomach lurch. Luna wiped it away with a gauze square. “What do you think?”

The completed design—a small black-lined triquetra, filled in with purple—was red and puffy, and not nearly as bad as Angie expected.

Luna spun the chair so Tori could see her shoulder in the wall mirror with the aid of a hand-held mirror. “Nice.” Tori looked completely pleased, unlike Angie, who still wasn’t convinced it was a good thing.

Luna covered the new ink with a bandage, gave Tori directions for care, and escorted them to the front of the store. Tori slipped her shirt into place as she went, moving with careful deference to her sore shoulder.

“Work should be fun until that heals,” Angie teased.

“Shit.” Tori grimaced. “Totally didn’t think about that.”

With their transaction completed, Tori zeroed in on Perez, leaving Angie alone with Luna.

“It was nice meeting you.” Angie wasn’t convinced but saw no reason to be rude.

“I enjoyed it, Angie.” Luna grasped her hand with the same intimate familiarity she had displayed earlier, before Ruby arrived. “Maybe we could do it again some time.”

Ruby smiled over Luna’s shoulder, all predator and sex and not at all friendly. Luna obviously had no idea Ruby was there. Angie shifted, her palm sweaty in Luna’s hand, and watched as Ruby slipped out the front door. She didn’t know if Luna was hitting on her or trolling for more business. Either way, she
needed
Luna to let go, but she desperately wanted her to continue holding her hand. “Right.” She cleared her throat. “Um—”

“Ang, you ready?” Tori stood by the door, jacket in her hand. Angie would bet money that she had Perez’s number in her pocket.

“Yes.” She tugged on her hand, forcing Luna to release it. Luna resisted, then finally eased her grip. “Bye, then.”

Tori grabbed Angie’s hand and dragged her out of the shop, similar to how she’d dragged her in. As they exited Coraggio they ran into Ruby, who stood against the wall to the right of the door, exhaling plumes of cigarette smoke out her nose like a dragon.

“You can’t have her, you know.” Ruby didn’t look at Angie as she spoke.

Angie straightened her shoulders and did her best to appear indignant. “She’s all yours.” She led Tori away from Coraggio—and Luna—and hoped she didn’t sound as disappointed as she felt.

Tuesday, July 14

It felt odd to Angie, sitting at the kitchen table doing homework again just like she did in high school. Except this time around it was all on her laptop, and this fall her son would be sitting next to her while she did it. She’d started her first—in what appeared to be an endless line—college course about a month ago. She hadn’t gotten used to the idea of being a student again. Still, unless she wanted to wait tables forever, she had to do something. A business degree seemed a good place to start.

“Taste this.” Her dad, Jack, held a wooden spoon to her lips. Angie had to sample what he offered or possibly choke on it. Thankfully, it was usually good. For a while he had decided chocolate should go in literally everything, but he blamed that on a bad case of the munchies. He hadn’t done it since, so Angie was willing to forgive.

Marinara, like nothing available in the store, but still lacking
something
. “Basil?”

Jack snapped his fingers, set the spoon on the counter, and wiped his hands on his apron. “I’ll be right back.” He rushed out to the back deck, his skirt swishing around his calves, and returned with a single basil leaf from his planter garden.

Oliver licked his lips. “Can I taste it?” At ten he was growing like crazy and always hungry.

Angie held out a hand to block Jack from handing the spoon to Oliver. “What’s in it?”

Not that a small taste would likely hurt Oliver, but she’d rather not expose him to the wonders of cooking with marijuana quite this young. And with her father, you could never tell. Was he making the sauce for their dinner or to take to a potluck? Old hippies were big on social gatherings.

“Nothing to worry about.”

Angie pulled back her hand, Oliver tasted the sauce, and Jack waited. He took great pride in his cooking and his grandson. The boy’s opinion mattered. If Angie hadn’t insisted Oliver do some reading from his summer book list, he’d be at the stove cooking with Jack.

“Mom’s right. Basil.”

Jack nodded and chopped the herb. He stirred it in and returned the lid to the pot. “I have a date tonight, but I’ll be home for dinner.”

“I won’t.” Oliver threw the statement out casually and Angie resisted a laugh. That was the hardest part about being a parent—holding back laughter when her son said something absurd.

She put on her carefully practiced “mom” face—stern, loving, but no pushover. “And where do you
think
you’re going?”

“Rich and I plan to hit the mall.”

“You do, huh?” She arched a brow and waited for the theatrics to begin.

Oliver closed his book. “Mom, don’t act like it’s a big deal. His brother said he’d drive us.”

Rich’s older brother was a rolling disaster. Someone would get seriously hurt around him soon, or he’d end up in jail, or both. Angie no longer found the situation amusing. “No way.”

“Mom,” Oliver whined and Angie cringed. She’d take surly and argumentative over whiny any day.

“Don’t ‘mom’ me. I just canceled your plans.”

Oliver shoved his chair away from the table with much greater force than necessary. “Fine!” He stormed out of the room, and his bedroom door slammed a moment later.

Angie shook her head. “He makes me tired.”

Jack stirred the marinara and shrugged. “He’s ten.”

“I didn’t act like that.” Angie remembered being ten. Her father was barely present at that age and wouldn’t have noticed a loud door.

“No, honey, you didn’t.”

Angie wondered if he really remembered. He’d spent the majority of that year half-baked at the beach with a woman named Monica, who painted icons on the sand just so she could watch them wash away with the tide. She claimed to be very existential. Angie thought she was flaky.

“You should probably change for your date.” The sauce was simmering and it wasn’t time to cook the pasta.

Jack looked at his clothes—the long dress ended just below his knees. Even though she should be used to the visual combination of feminine skirt and hairy legs, she still found it disconcerting.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” He hung his apron on a hook in the pantry and began to pull his housedress over his head.

“Jesus, Dad, in your room. I don’t want to see that.”

“How did I raise such a prude?”

His question was legitimate. He was a dress-wearing hippie, a free spirit who let the moment determine his actions. The thought of floating through life like a damn leaf made Angie shudder. She wanted control. She made plans, worked hard, and adjusted. She refused to just let life happen.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

Learning that her family was different was a lesson that came in degrees for Angie. Her first day of kindergarten, she came home and asked where her mom was. Jack’s answer—“Honey, she loves you and will be back soon”—lost its power when year after year the woman never reappeared. She was long dead, for all Angie knew. Her first soccer game—second grade, Running Hornets—all the other fathers showed up wearing jeans and T-shirts. Her dad wore a lovely skirt and work boots. A friend had dared him and he—in a giggling fit—couldn’t resist a good prank. He’d liked it so much it became a habit.