Pretty In Ink (13 page)

As I continued to lose myself in thoughts of our future together, the sound of a distant voice caused the hair on the back of my neck to rise.

“Asher, where are you?”

Stevie turned to face me, her eyes wide and hew mouth agape.

And, although I hadn’t intended on doing so just yet, I knew the time had come to reveal the complete truth.

STEVIE

I rushed to get my dressed as Wilson ran toward the bed after his pajamas. As he fumbled to find his clothes, I pulled on my pants and grabbed my shirt.

“Your mother?” I asked as I fought to get my wife beater on.

He nodded his head as he shoved his legs into his pajama pants. “The one and only.”

“Is she going to be cool?” I asked.

“I suspect not, but don’t worry,” he said.

The look on his face said all that was necessary. He was truly worried. From the stories he had told, he didn’t seem to care much about what she thought, but as with all parents, being in their presence was always different. As we stood silently and stared at each other, her voice became increasingly closer.

“Asher, who’s with you?” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders and tossed his head toward the bedroom door. “Come on.”

“You want to go alone?” I whispered.

“Absolutely not,” he said.

I cleared my throat, tossed my hair, and nodded my head. “Okay.”

He reached for my hand and took it in his. It was comforting that he didn’t ask me to hide in the closet, or run for the back door. Having him walk from the room with my hand held in his was a reassurance that he truly felt the way he had expressed, and he wasn’t going to let his overbearing mother make decisions for him any longer. As we stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway, we were met by what I would later learn was the most uncouth and uncaring bitch on the planet.

“Oh heavens,” she shrieked as her eyes shifted toward me.

Neither of us realized she had made it all the way upstairs, but nevertheless, there she stood. Dressed in a turquoise colored jacket and matching skirt, and covered from head to toe with gold, a contrasting yellow alligator purse hung from her elbow. From the tips of her fingers dangled a pair of designer sunglasses. She looked like the filthy rich wife of a Hollywood movie producer.

One who had just seen a ghost.

“Asher…” she gasped. “A harlot?”

You heartless cunt.

I released his hand and pressed my palms into my hips. “Excuse me?”

“Stevie, hold on,” he said as he raised his hand in the air.

“Mother, this is Stevie,” Wilson said as he motioned toward me with his raised hand.

“I’m going to be sick,” she said as she raised her hand to her mouth.

You fucking bitch.

“Mother,” he said. “This is my
girlfriend
, Stevie.”

“Oh, Asher, have her go away. I can’t look at her while I talk to you,” she whined.

“Mother, she’s not going anywhere, she lives here,” he said. “And I love her.”

She dropped her sunglasses on the floor and covered her ears with her hands.

“Mother!” Wilson snapped. “Stop.”

I felt sick. Seeing her act the way she was acting, especially in my presence, was unsettling and made me feel like a fool. I realized Wilson hadn’t done anything wrong, but listening to her and watching her theatrics was just too much for me to handle.

“I’ll go downstairs,” I said as I planned to walk past her and toward the staircase at the end of the hallway.

She uncovered her ears, glared at me, and sighed.

“Go
home
,” the witch snapped.

“This
is
her home,” Wilson growled.

“She’ll rob you blind. Oh this can’t be happening…”

“You fucking bitch,” I bellowed. “You think because I’m covered in tattoos that I’m a thief?”

“Asher, Asher, she’s assaulted me,” she shouted.

“I haven’t, but if you keep talking shit, I sure as fuck will,” I assured her.

“Stevie,” Wilson said through his teeth as he raised his hand in the air.

“Mother, go home. If you can’t act civil and accept that I have a life beyond whatever plans you have for me, don’t come back,” he said.

“She’s got you taking drugs, doesn’t she? You’re a drugger,” she wailed.

“I fucking swear,” I seethed.

“Go home, Mother. And don’t bother coming back. Not until you’re willing to apologize,” Wilson said.

Her face contorted as she reached for her sunglasses. “Apologize? For what?”

“For being you,” he said. “Now go.”

He gripped my hand in his, turned toward the bedroom, and dragged me behind him as he walked toward the bedroom door. Childish, maybe, but definitely necessary, as he tugged me through the doorway, I turned toward her and stuck my tongue out.

“Could have gone worse, I suppose,” he said as he pulled the door closed behind us.

“Really?” I responded in a very sarcastic tone.

“She carries a gun,” he said.

“So do I,” I snapped back.

He shook his head, gazed down at the floor, and cleared his throat. “Aggravating.”

“Very,” I said.

“She called me a whore, a thief, and told me to go home,” I said, laughing as I recalled everything she said.

It was far from funny, but I couldn’t help but laugh. As much as I loved Wilson, his mother was a bitch. Her son wasn’t fifteen, he was thirty. And his decisions regarding his lover should be his own. For her to say, especially in my presence, what she said…

Unbelievable.

“Does she come over like that often?” I asked.

“Never,” he responded. “Probably came over to discuss the sale of the company, I imagine.”

I turned to face him, gave my best pouty lip face, and shrugged my shoulders playfully. “I’m sorry I called her a bitch, but she was really being rude.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t hit her,” he said.

I held up my hand and positioned my thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart. “That close.”

The sound of a car driving away, obviously her, caused both of us to stop and listen.

“That’s her Jag. Distinct sound. We were, uhhm, too
busy
to hear her coming,” he said with a laugh.

“You were too busy coming to hear her coming,” I said.

“So do you think you can get past this?” I asked.

“Past it? I am past it. I truly don’t care what either of them think. They can embrace it or forget about me, one or the other,” he said.

“Do you mean that?” I asked.

“Wholeheartedly,” he responded.

“Good,” I responded as I reached around his neck.

As we embraced, I felt better about the situation, but by no means good. To think that his mother
believed
she had the power to make the demands she was making was almost too much for me to comprehend. And for her to act in the manner she had acted was inexcusable. I had my reservations as to whether or not I would ever be able to forgive her even if she did eventually accept us as a couple.

And, as we stood silently beside the door in each other’s arms, I decided it was my duty to Wilson to forgive her.

And it was mine to never forget what she had said or done.

WILSON

“My only concerns would be having a prenuptial agreement drafted by Heathrow,” my father said.

“Not in a million years,” I responded.

“Something you should think about, Son,” he said as he raised his glass of scotch.

“I trust her. If for some reason we part, she’s entitled to half of what I have. I would want it that way,” I said.

As he sipped his scotch and nodded his head, he glanced over each shoulder. “Don’t tell your mother I said so, but that’s an admirable response.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. By my best recollection, I hadn’t spoken to my father in almost a decade about anything of any value. Growing up, he was never home, and as an adult, nothing changed. For whatever reason, now that we were sitting and having a rather civil conversation, I couldn’t help but wonder how much my mother’s abrasive personality attributed to his absence?

“It’s the only response I have,” I said.

“So where did you two meet?” he asked.

“The grocery store” I said.

He coughed a laugh and lowered his glass of scotch. “Since when do you buy groceries?”

“I went to…” I paused and considered my response.

“I had to mail a letter,” I said. “She was standing in the rain and didn’t have a vehicle. She’s ridden her bicycle to the store, and in the time it took for her to gather her groceries it had begun to rain. I gave her a ride home.”

He nodded his head and placed his scotch on the bar. As he turned to face me, he grinned. “Again, admirable. I’m proud of you, Son. I’m excited to meet her.”

“Just in case Mother hasn’t warned you, she has tattoos,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Who doesn’t anymore? You can’t swing a dead cat in this city without hitting a tattoo. Times have changed.”

“She has them from her fingertips to her shoulders,” I said.

“Have you a photo of her?” he asked.

“I do,” I said as I reached for my phone.

It was reassuring to have my father be, even if only for the few moments we were spending together, a
father
.

“Here,” I said as I handed him my phone.

He glanced at the phone, squinted, and pulled his glasses down from his forehead. After situating them carefully on the bridge of his nose, he gazed down at the screen.

“Lord have mercy. She’s breathtaking,” he said.

“You think so?” I asked, beaming with pride.

“Think so? Hell no, Son, I
know
so. Girl like that would make a puppy pull a freight train,” he said with a laugh.

“Your happy. That’s first and foremost. Hell, she could look like a wart-faced witch as far as I’m concerned. If you’re happy, I’m happy,” he said.

He paused and reached for his scotch. “Take your mother for instance. She’s a hateful bitch. I’ve lived my life trying to avoid that woman at all costs. Can’t really say that I’ve been miserable, but I’ve been damned close. Now, had I been forced to be at her side for my entire life…”

He shook his head, took a drink of his scotch, and turned to face me as he lowered his glass to the bar. “You’d have scraped my brains off the garage wall long ago.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Hearing him say the things he was revealing to me was not only shocking, but in many respects, life altering. My views on my father were changing with each passing moment and each spoken word.

“Well, I can assure you, I’m happy,” I said.

He stood from the barstool and smiled. “And I’m happy for you. Now, I can’t say I’m pleased with your decision to sell the company, but it is yours, and yours to sell. Now set up a dinner with your girlfriend and I’ll make time to attend. Don’t worry, I’ll leave your mother at home.”

“Thank you,” I said as I extended my hand.

He glanced at my hand, raised his eyes to meet mine, and opened his arms. Even as a child, my father offered nothing but a handshake. Something within him had clearly changed, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was me, in his eyes, becoming a man.

As we embraced, I held him in my arms, cherishing the moment for all it was worth.

And as far as I was concerned, it was priceless.

STEVIE

I had always believed my parents were as bad as any parents could ever be, but after meeting Wilson’s mother, and later spending some time talking with him about his childhood in depth, I felt far more fortunate about the childhood I had than the one he was forced to live with. It seemed everything in life could be put into perspective. It only required something drastically different than what I was accustomed to.

“I thought my parents were fucked up until I met his bitch mother,” I said as I swept the floor of my station.

“Sorry it didn’t go well,” Riley said.

“And look at you. Your mother is like your sister. She’s sweet, loving, hot, and loves having us all over for dinner. I guess every family is different. You’ve got the perfect mom, I’ve got a dicked up one, and he has one who is a cunt,” I said as I swept the dust bunnies into the dust pan.

“And then you’ve got me. No parents,” Blake said. “I would have much rather had a mom who was a cunt than one who was murdered. But we don’t get to choose, do we?” Blake said.

I had completely forgotten about Blake’s parents being murdered. Riley had explained everything to me about her father, Blake’s mother and father, and the mass murderer who her mother eventually testified against, but I never considered it when I opened my mouth.

Blake’s childhood situation clearly placed him in a totally different category, but by all means well within the limit of our discussion. The difference between his childhood and mine was equal or greater than the difference between Wilson and me. As I walked to the trash and considered the differences between us, it dawned on me that Riley was somewhere between us all. Each and every one of us should stand grateful, I supposed. To see that things could be different, and much worse, all we had to do was look around us.

With open eyes.

“Anyway,” I said as I walked toward the rear of the shop.

“It’s over now,” I said as I hung up the dustpan.

“So what now? Just going to avoid them?” Blake asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll do whatever he wants to, I suppose.”

The sad part about it all was that my life with Wilson was nothing short of perfect. To have his mother and father accept me would make my life, or lives, perfect. Not having them accept us didn’t necessarily change things, but it would definitely loom over us for a lifetime like a dark cloud, especially during the holidays.

Holidays at my home as a child weren’t filled with presents, they were filled with Vicodin and Budweiser. I had visions of a normal life with normal holidays – something I had always wanted – with Wilson.

I realized as I walked to my station that we could still have wonderful holidays together. We’d simply be alone.

I turned toward the door as the buzzer sounded, frustrated that Riley had forgotten to lock it.

I gritted my teeth as the witch herself walked in.

Dressed in the exact same type of outfit, only different colors, she purposefully walked toward the receptionist counter. I turned away but did my best to listen as she began to speak to Riley.

“I need to speak to
her
,” I heard her say.

“May I tell her who’s here to see her?” Riley asked.

“Constance. Constance Wilson,” she said.

Constance? Really? That figures.

“Sure. Hold on a minute,” I heard Riley say.

In a few seconds, Riley stepped by my side. “She wants to talk to you. She seems nice, at least for now.”

“I heard the bitch,” I whispered. “Okay, fine.”

I walked to the close side of the counter, figuring it may be best to have a few hundred pounds of wood separating us as we spoke. As I leaned against the counter, she adjusted her sunglasses and forced a grin.

“I’m offering an apology for my actions the other day, but I would like to clarify a few things. I have a good reason for acting the way I did,” she said.

“I’m listening,” I responded.

“My husband spent a lifetime cheating on me. As hard as it is for me to admit it, it’s true. He cheated on me from the time we started our relationship, and he still cheats on me today. I simply have chosen to look the other direction. The reason I am telling you this is because my husband’s action, his choices, if you will, they’ve had an effect on Asher,” she paused and shook her head.

Get to the point, bitch.

“Asher was exposed to our fighting, my complaints of my husband’s actions, and his father’s infidelity. When Asher broke up with his girlfriend years ago, we were so torn by his decision. I went to his girlfriend – without his knowledge, of course – and talked to her. It didn’t come as a huge surprise that he had been cheating on her – with prostitutes. No differently than his father,” she hesitated, reached under her glasses with her index finger, and wiped away a tear.

What?

“I’ve seen him time and time again with prostitutes, and I’ve tried to get him help. I only assumed you were yet another in a long line of many, and for that, I apologize,” she said.

I widened my eyes and studied her. She stood without emotion and stared back.

“Prostitutes?” I said with a laugh.

She shook her head. “It’s terrible, I know. But it seems to be what men of wealth do. His father was the same way. The apple, as they say, doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Whatever,” I said.

She glanced at her watch. After a long gut-wrenching second of waiting for her to say whatever departing remarks she had prepared, she glanced up and shook her head.

“Well, it’s Tuesday, and it’s eleven am. I suspect he’ll have the little Russian girl over there he always sees on Tuesdays around noon. If you weren’t at work, you’d see for yourself. I suppose it’s all too convenient that you work,” she said as she turned away.

“I’m truly sorry,” she said over her shoulder.

Go crawl in a hole somewhere and die, bitch.

I turned and walked toward my workstation, aggravated that she’d even stopped by. She hadn’t come in to apologize, she clearly came to aggravate me and do her best to convince me Wilson was a man-whore, and banging bitches on the side like there was no tomorrow.

But I knew better. 

“What did she want?” Riley asked.

“Apology, that’s all,” I said.

Riley swiveled back and forth on Blake’s stool and grinned. “Well, that was nice, I guess.”

“Not really,” I replied.

I glanced at the clock.

11:10.

The shop opened at noon, and typically on Tuesdays, we all came in early and just hung out and talked before we opened. Tuesdays, to us, were like Mondays anywhere else, as we were closed on Sunday and Monday since Blake changed to typical tattoo shop hours.

I glanced around my spotless work station and turned to face the clock.

11:11.

I glanced at Blake. He stood quietly working on a tattoo machine. I shifted my eyes toward Lightning’s station. His war-torn weird ass sat on his stool reading a book.

“I’m going to grab a Red Bull, need anything?” I asked.

They both shook their heads. I nodded mine and grabbed my purse. After walking to my car and driving to the gas station a block away, I sat in the parking lot sipping my Red Bull. I glanced at the dash of the car.

11:21.

I shifted the car in reverse, backed out of the stall, and pulled out of the lot. If I absolutely hauled ass, I could drive by our house, confirm his mother was a cunt, and get back to work before noon. I hated to even drive by, and to ever question Wilson, but after having been fucked over by every man I had ever met, there would probably always be a part of me that didn’t trust anyone one hundred percent.

I pulled onto the highway and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. Within a few seconds I was flying down the interstate, passing cars left and right. Five minutes later, I pulled into our neighborhood, and a few minutes after that, I turned onto our street.

As I drove past the neighbor’s house and past the large landscaped fountain, my heart sank.

A red Mercedes-Benz coupe sat in the driveway.

That could be anyone’s car…

I pushed button on the garage door opener and sped up the driveway. As I pulled into the garage, a six foot tall skinny bitch with thirty pounds of tits walked down the steps and into the garage. Wilson’s car was gone from his parking spot.

I stomped the brakes and got out.

“Who the fuck are you?” I fumed.

Of all things to be wearing, she was dressed in a skimpy plaid schoolgirl skirt. Her white shirt was unbuttoned to her belly and her black lace push up bra – which she far from needed – pushed her tits out into the open.

“Who are you is better question?” she said with a thick Slavic accent.

“You fucking whore,” I screamed as I balled my hands into fists.

“You are whore,” she murmured.

  I held my fist at my waist and clenched my jaw. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I seethed.

“If must know, I was taking bath,” she said as she turned to walk around me.

“Why are you taking a bath in my house?” I screamed.

“Oh. Your house now? Well, apology for me. I use your house for fuck Asher,” she said.

I unleashed my right hand, catching her in the bottom of the jaw. She stumbled backward, tried to regain her balance, and as she did, I grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head down into my quickly rising knee. As they connected, I felt her teeth breath loose as they hit bone.

Be a lot easier for you to suck dick now, you toothless bitch.

I turned toward my car, fuming mad, and incapable of making sense of anything. As I climbed into the seat, I pushed the button on the dash, started the car, and glanced in the rearview mirror.

And I began to sob.