Chasing Stars (9 page)

Back at Mystic Ink, I find myself fidgeting, my eyes glued to my laptop screen as I wait for a Portia fan site to display the latest pictures of her. Sickening. I ought to be ashamed. I’ve become her stalker. Pathetic? Yeah…

Though it’s been a week since I met her, for the life of me, I can’t erase her gorgeous face from my mind.

A series of pictures of Portia plop on the screen. Though I’ve seen them a thousand times, I scroll down again. In one picture, the musician Tarry Francis—I hate the guy already—has his arms draped over her shoulders and is kissing her full lips as they leave a nightclub. According to the site, their romance is stronger than ever, she is pregnant, they just eloped, and she caught him in bed with his band’s male drummer. The gossip goes on and on.

All bullshit, I know. These photographs are not poorly angled shots taken out of context and manipulated to sell. The moron has his tongue down her throat. The following footage shows Tarry flipping the finger to the paparazzi as she beams, before she hides her face on his shoulder. I recognize the smile. It is the flirtatious one, saying I don’t give a crap.

I shove the top of the laptop closed.

“Whoa, sonny boy. You shouldn’t navigate those sites, if you know you’re not going to like what you find,” Rick says from behind the shop counter.

Rick is the founder of Mystic Ink. Technically, he was my father’s partner. Meeting him was one of the things that perfectly lined up for me after Dan entered my life. For reasons beyond my understanding, there is the time before Dan when everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and the post-Dan, where everything that could go right went right. Weird, huh? Also mind-blowing.

I met Rick when I was eighteen. Dan and I had gone over my long and repulsive record. You know, it’s the file social workers keep as there is no one other way to share how cute I was at the age of six or when I lost my front teeth. The types of crap parents remember about their children.

Anyway, Dan read the record from the hospital where I was born, and he noticed an important tidbit of information. Before my biological mother gave me up for adoption, she claimed a man named Joseph Colin was my father. My heart constricted for a full minute until we found, attached to the papers, a letter from the State of New York notifying the hospital’s social worker had attempted to contact Joseph, but discovered he had died of drug overdose before I was even born. To our surprise, the record contained Joseph Colin’s home address and Mystic Ink as his place of employment. Curiosity got the best of me.

With Dan’s support, I visited the parlor. When I arrived, I almost gave Rick a heart attack because I kind of look like Joseph. We talked and Rick told me details of my parents that really changed my life. He remembered both my parents. Most importantly, he recalled how excited my father was about the pregnancy.

According to Rick, Joseph planned to do a DNA test right after I was born and file for full custody. It healed something inside my heart to know someone had wanted me.

Until this day, I don’t understand the force that compelled Rick to disclose what he told me. Rick informed me that not only did my father worked there, but also they were partners. Rick told me that the parlor had faced a bad time when he met Joseph, who expressed interest in inking and offered Rick a partnership. Joseph was twenty-five years old at the time, but recognized the great business opportunity. He sold a property he inherited, and injected cash into the business, keeping it afloat. In exchange, Rick taught Joseph the ins and outs of inking. Not long after, Joseph became one of the best tattoo artists in Manhattan.

Fifteen years later, they still had not legally become partners. When Joseph died, Rick sought for family, especially my mother and me, but found only an old uncle who wanted nothing to do with the shop. Rick is careless, has more tattoos on his body than you care to count, likes his whiskey too much, and has the worst taste when it comes to women. But, the man is honest to a fault.

After I almost gave him the heart attack, he told me the story and he insisted I took over the partnership he had arranged with my alleged father. Skeptical, I said thanks and got the name and address of Joseph’s uncle.

This man, who wanted nothing to do with the shop, also wanted nothing to do with me. After Dan’s persuasion—seriously, who can deny a pastor anything?—he agreed to DNA testing. The result was an eighty-nine percent probability of a relationship. I swear, inheriting my father’s partnership in the shop was awesome, but to know my origin was priceless.

Rick taught me how to ink and became my mentor just as he had with my dad. I’ve seen pictures of my dad’s work and I am convinced I inherited his talent with ink.

“What the fuck happened here the day she came over? You check that site of hers about every damn minute.” Rick pulls me from my reverie.

“Nothing man. I am just star-struck, I guess.” My hand rakes nervously through my hair.

“No shit. You don’t want to tell me, that’s cool. I’m old school. I understand when a man needs to lay low.” He continues to sketch.

“Draw a half loop to the button part, it will add dimension to the background,” I suggest over his shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking about her, man. We kissed, that was all. But I just can’t forget it.”

“No shit, dude.” He peers at me from behind the counter. “And may I ask why nothing else happened? C’mon, with a woman like that in my hands, I would go to seventh heaven and back.” He points to my silver ring. “No offense, man.”

“None taken,” I say dryly and gather the schedule book, checking the times for any upcoming appointments.

“I really hate the evening gigs. But this is good money.” I flip the pages as if it is crucial. “Are you going to be around Saturday night?”

“Are you kidding me? I can’t miss when my lady has a party.”

A client walks in and I am relieved to busy myself.

I rub my eyes and stretch my neck and shoulders. Five damn hours of tattooing and I am beat. It is past eleven p.m. on Saturday. I just want a good dinner, and I want bed. Side note: We don’t always get what we want.

After taping off the tattoo, I instruct my client on its aftercare and bid him good-bye.

Before my client left, I had snapped a picture of the massive tattoo covering his entire back. The meaning I find behind certain jobs gratifies me. This tat is a beautiful piece of artwork. I examine the clean lines of the pointed roof shape found in the traditional Indonesian house. It took fourteen visits to complete. A photo of the dude’s childhood home inspired the ink. It turns out his parents died in the tsunami of 2004, and he decided to honor them by marking his skin with their home. That’s damn beautiful.

I discard the needles in a sharps container and disassemble the gun, placing the tubes, tips, and grips in an ultrasonic cleaner. I sanitize the entire surface, gathering the inks and putting them away. When the equipment is clean, I seal it and transfer it to the autoclave. Before I begin the sterilization process, the front door opens.

“Sorry, we are—” Before I finish the sentence, the singer Tarry Francis props the door open and ushers in Portia and another girl. I hear their giggles and watch flashes from the photographers outside. Tarry closes the door and bolts the lock.

“Hey, man. I hope you don’t mind that we barged in, but we saw the open sign on.” He drapes his arm around Portia’s shoulders and she intertwines her fingers with his. Her lips turn up in a slow smile.

“Hey, Will,” she says in the flirtatious way she owns.

“Hi,” I say.

“This is Tarry and Niki, my best friends.”

A taciturn Tarry waves at me and Niki outstretches her hand, uttering, “I heard so much about you. It is so good to finally meet you.”

“Nice too meet you too,” I say.

“This must be our lucky day. We have always wanted a friendship tattoo and who better to do it than the god of all inks,” Niki says, trying to lighten the awkward moment.

“Sorry, guys, I was about to close for the day.” Celebrities think we all should bow to their demands.

“Oh.” I hear the disappointment on Portia’s voice, and it almost undermines my decision.

“It’s kind of late. Tomorrow, I should have an opening,” I say.

“C’mon. It is not a big one and we will not have an opportunity like this any time soon,” Niki says. “Please, I am not beneath begging, you know.” She continues with a soft and calm voice, very different from Portia’s. She gazes at me, and her hazel eyes are sweet and pleading. How does anyone say no to her?

I rub the drowsiness from my eyes and inhale, “What you guys have in mind?”

Portia beams, Niki claps her hands, and Tarry rolls his eyes at their excitement.

I gather my sketchpad and point to the table. “Let’s get started.”

Their plan is to get a matching tattoo, but after a few minutes of deliberating, they are unable to come to a consensus on what to ink. Portia wants a star, Tarry a small music symbol, and Niki a dragonfly. No offense, but they are not very original. Well, that’s why I am here, the god of all inks.

“What if I do this?” I quickly pencil the three figures, melding them together and forming a small circle. It is a unique design that is meaningful to each of them. “It will be a little bigger than each symbol alone, but if I overlap each symbol at the right angles.” I intertwine one inside the other. “It will still be a decent size.”

I notice Tarry raising an eyebrow. “Sweet, man.”

“I so want one,” Niki exclaims.

“It will be a few hours to complete the ink on the three of you.” I hand them hard copies of the aftercare instruction and liability waivers.

“What if only Tarry gets his tattoo done today and we set a future date for ours? He is going back to LA tomorrow,” she says.

“Sounds good.” Tarry signs the waiver. “Can I use your bathroom first, man?”

I walk to the front window and pull down the blinds, the nonstop flashes from the paparazzi momentarily blinding me.

“I’m getting a refill on my coffee, you want some?” I say over my shoulder as I stride to the back of the shop.

“No, thank you.” They both shake their heads.

“Be right back.”

As I fill my cup, I hear the studio door open and close. I glance over and Portia is standing in the middle of the room. For a moment, she seems unsure of what to do.

“Sorry for intruding,” she utters.

“No, problem. Does anyone ever succeed in saying no to your friend?” I put the coffee down and search for sugar.

“Yeah, Niki has this way of persuading people. You have no idea of what she forces Tarry and me to do.” She lets out one of those throaty laughs of hers and, against my better judgment, I laugh too.

I examine her face, in search of the passion I saw in her eyes the time we kissed and I see it there. Before I have time to think, my body betrays me and I close the space separating us.

The fire ignites in my body the moment my arms embrace her and I feel her body yielding to mine. My lips crush against hers, with a hungry kiss. My fingers pull her hips closer to my erection. I am lost in the perfection of each soft curve of her body. Time and space disappear. Fueled by desperation, need, and desire, I tighten my embrace and thrust my pelvis against hers. Hell, I need this woman.

The doors open and my eyes pop open. An apologetic Niki immediately shuts the doors, but the moment is broken.

“Sorry.” I step back. My breathing is irregular, my pulse is zooming, and my body’s temperature increases to what feels like a thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

“Yeah, you say that a lot. Well, I am not. Actually, I am sorry that you are sorry, but I can’t help that, huh?” She spins on her heels and disappears out the door.

For a moment, my idiotic body wants to follow her. I step back and fight the urge. My hands clasp the kitchen counter, and I try to calm my erratic breathing. Frustrated I punch the counter and droplets of coffee spurts over the counter. “Damn it.”

After regaining control, I head back to the shop. Portia is nonchalantly peeking from the blinds. She glances at me and an indifferent mask is in place.

Tarry must notice the tension. He approaches Portia and cups her face in his hands.

“Are you all right, peaches?”

I could kill him for touching her with so much intimacy. But, Portia and I don’t belong to each other.

“Oh, I am fine, it’s just these paparazzi. I wish they would leave.” She smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I stride across the room, retrieve the signed paperwork, and shove it inside the drawer. I gather the equipment and point to a corner seat. “You can sit right there.”

Tarry strips his shirt off and lounges in the chair. Instinctively, my eyes scan his torso and arms. I notice the tats and the needle bites on his arms. The track marks seem recent. “Are you clean, man? I won’t tattoo anyone stoned,” I say bluntly.

“I’m cool, I’m with the girls.” He frowns, somewhat exasperated.

“Good. Where do you want the tat?” I ask.

“I thought of along the ribs,” he points to his left side.

I examine his inked body. His left arm has a sleeve of diverse symbols. His chest has an eagle, a guitar, and musical notes. My eyes are attracted to the lonely tat on the inside of his right bicep. It is a script of the names
Portia
and
Nillie
linked by three chain loops.