Page 4

Chapter four

Ashia

The Next Day

Thanks to the nice tip from that guy I took after closing last night, I can go see Jason tonight. I rummage through my dresser drawer filled with clothes just for when I go see him. Tank tops and shorts that help keep me covered, but stretchy enough to move down and away when necessary. I rarely ever wear a bra when I see him, there’s no point really considering half the time I need to take it off, but I'll have one on for work so I can just put it in my bag when I change.

The thought of a man touching me in any way other than art is repulsive. I’ve had my fair share of unwanted touches, and I will never endure that again. As hard as I try to not let the images invade my mind, it’s near impossible sometimes. Especially when I go in to work on my tattoo. Sometimes he traces the right spot, and the moment the stinging sensation feels the same from that night, it almost sends me into a panic.

Jason’s been doing my tattoos for a few years now. He came in for a haircut and was telling me about starting his apprenticeship. Now, he owns his shop and is doing really well for himself. I was his first tattoo on real skin, and now whenever he wants to try a new brand of ink, or a new after care routine he calls me and gives me a discount to work on the piece. I don’t mind skipping group; I mainly go because Serena says I seem better after. But really, I feel like it just keeps stirring memories back up to the surface.

I don’t need to talk about what happened. It happened, and I lived. It was years ago now, and I don’t feel like I need to keep hashing it out. Especially when my head does that enough for me. The gasps as I wake up in a sweat, and the physical jumps to loud noises remind me all the time. Memories playing out and turning my dreams into nightmares is enough recollection for me.

I pack my tattoo bag and grab my smoothie to head down to the shop. The door swings open with a creaky squeal, and as I look down to step over the floor transition strip, I see something resting on top of my welcome mat. Bending down to look, the realization of that something being a flower warps my brain. I look up and down the hallway, leaning into the cold chill running up my back and into my neck, making the hair stand straight up.

I know this isn’t from Cooper, he’d never leave me something so beautiful. But who would? I pick it up to feel the smooth stem, and cool, moist pedals. It looks like a tulip, but it’s black. Tulips aren’t black, are they? Though, it’s not completely black, as if it’s unnatural, but a very dark, red purple. It's beautiful and smells sweet to my nose. I twist it, admiring its dark beauty, when a card nudges my hand, being held on by a silk, black string.

I flip it over to check for a message, and there isn’t one. Just my name, written in gold with calligraphy lettering. Each curl and swipe of gold is hypnotizing against the matte black cardstock. A wave of curiosity slams through me, but the thought that someone would want to leave me something so beautiful plucks at my fear. Every ounce of my sense of danger is screaming at me to throw it away. To ignore it and go about my day, but if I throw this beautiful creation away, I’d feel like a menace. Not that the flower is alive or will be hurt if I did, but to discard something so luminous should be a crime.

Leaving my bags in the hallway, I step back inside my apartment, grab a glass of water, and stick the flower inside. My mind becomes lost in thoughts of the ghost that left the beauty in front of my door and I admire the way the dark color reflects off the water, making the glass appear gray. It feels familiar to me, as if in that moment, the reflection and I have something in common.

I eventually tear my thoughts away and make my way downstairs to the barber shop. Opening the door, I begin my morning routine. Getting things ready by turning on the towel warmers, preparing the barbicide, and charging my clippers. I mostly cleaned last night, but I left some hair in a pile near my station. I went upstairs right after doing that guy, Carter? I think he said his name was.

Yes, because I remember comparing his hair to the color of a wooden board. Carpenter Carter , I had said that in my mind to remember his name. He had a friend waiting for him outside, so he didn’t stay and chat, and other than asking for my name, he didn’t talk much. He had good hair and did really need it cut. And a new style. He said he thought his girlfriend would like it, so I suppose he was happy. Must have been to leave me three hundred dollars.

But the man outside was about as captivating as the flower upstairs. I had looked out of the window, thinking I would find a shadow. Instead, I found this striking man. Hardened with soft muscles from head to toe with his angled, defined jaw, and captivating icy blue eyes that complimented his warm, slightly tanned, white skin. Monochrome tattoos covering his left arm. His longer, layered, modern greaser styled hair was almost as dark as mine, and the way the front curved down to touch the bridge of his nose did nothing to hide his masculine beauty.

All of that wasn’t what almost captured me though, it was his stare. It was as if he was reading me like a book. Solving all of my mysteries and adding my series to his collection of souls. It made my heart skip a beat, as if it knew he’d come for me at any moment. The second my eyes met his, a shiver ran down my spine, and I had to look away, practically cowering. That instant fear was quickly cast out when Carter noticed my stare and announced he was his friend. The fact that the exhilarating man could have a friend was slightly comforting. So, I went on with my normal business and didn’t look his way again.

He's been on my mind ever since, plaguing my thoughts in a haze. A black curtain of fog in front of twinkling blue stars. I've never seen someone so attractive and alluring, yet so mysterious and dangerous. Every dark romance readers dream, but probably one of the monsters that lurk in the dark. I've never felt a reaction like this. One as terrifying as it is longing. It’s been so long since I've even thought of a man’s physicality that I wasn’t sure I had a type. Well, come to find out, I do, and he checked off every single mark.

The thought of being attracted to such a man doesn’t ease my fears, showing in the shakiness of my hands, or the rumbling heat I feel in my gut, revealing itself in my hardened nipples and throbbing clit. This isn’t like me. I'm asking for trouble, or to be hurt again. I shouldn’t want such an obvious warning label, and I definitely shouldn’t be aroused by it. His hungry stare was most likely nothing more than a lapse in judgement for him. He probably has some hot model normally hanging on his arm. He wouldn’t pine for a Damaged Darla like me when he could have any Model Melody that walks the earth.

Trying to cast my thoughts of them aside, I unlock the main door and turn the lights on as the men begin to walk inside. My gaze searches the small crowd for the mysterious man, hoping to catch a better look on the off chance he came back, that the flower upstairs was from him, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and I can’t decide if that’s motivating or disappointing.

My friend, Tony, is the first to walk in. He’s an officer for the local police department and comes in fairly often for haircuts. He went to high school with Serena and I, and unfortunately, was the responding officer that night the neighbors called the police during my attack. He comes in every other week, and most of the time he texts me on the off weeks to check up on me. Super nice guy, a little too nice if you ask me.

“Morning, Tony. Anything new on the streets?” I question him enthusiastically as I grab my cape from the back of my chair.

“Not that I can talk about, Ash.” He takes off his bullet-proof vest and hangs it on the coat rack.

“You mean before you sit in my chair and spill all of your secrets anyway, right?” I wiggle my brows, and he chuckles at my attitude.

“Exactly.” He slyly retorts.

“Well, come on over and start spilling.” As he sits in my chair, I drape the cape over him and start the same bald fade he’s had for six years. Running my fingers through the short, light brown locks.

“So, what do you want to know?” He asks obliviously, as if I didn’t always want to know the juicy and gory scenes he witnesses.

“I don’t know, anything exciting in the last two weeks, I guess.” I say, shrugging my shoulders before I go back to cutting.

“Well, we stopped a robbery, busted three young adults with meth, and now we have a mass murder. Devil’s Hands struck again last night.” That draws my attention to his eyes in the mirror in front of us. DH has always yanked at my curiosity. I don’t know if it’s a person, or a lot of people, but when they strike, they strike hard. I admire that. After my drug filled past, or should I say my parents’ drug filled past, I find comfort in what they do. I never knew my parents sober, so they may have been good people at one point in their lives, but from my knowledge, there wasn’t much good in either of them.

My experience in fucked up shit started when I was young, and as unfortunate as it is, just when I think there can’t be much worse in the world, Dust proves me wrong. So, anyone who takes down those assholes are okay in my book.

“What'd they hit this time?” I ask curiously, and he slightly leans his head to the side to whisper, and I lean in a little to hear him.

“A Dust cocaine operation.” My eyes widen, not necessarily out of shock, but of intrigue.

“Really? How many this time?” I whisper back.

“A warehouse full of about twenty men. We found one female body, but the bullet matched the gun belonging to the dealer we found next to her, so we don’t think it was DH.” The words about the unknown woman pierce my heart. That poor woman must have been terrified. Having to face the barrel of a gun, knowing that your life could end in a literal flash is one of the worst feelings…

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah. We found evidence of other girls being held there, but they were nowhere in sight. Hopefully they got away.” He rolls his shoulders as if he’s trying to ease the tension in them.

“I hope so.” I add, my voice laced with sympathy.

“Us too. We were gathering intel on the warehouse, enough to get a warrant, but you know as well as anyone that the courts tend to take their time. Chief wants DH, almost as much as Dust.” I rear my head back as if I dodged a slap.

“Why? It sounds like DH is helping you guys.”

“Yes, but murder isn’t right. Regardless of who gets killed. We have a judicial system for a reason, Ash.” He squints his eyes as if I’ve offended him.

“Yeah, Tony. I remember how that system works all too well.” His face sinks, and I can see the sympathy in his eyes. However, his compassion doesn’t change my opinion about his statement. It’s bullshit. Some people deserve to be ripped apart. Jail and prison aren’t enough for them. I fully support DH, but of course, I’d never tell Tony that.

His family has been a part of the police department for decades. I think it was his great-great-great grandfather that was the sheriff once. His whole family are very good, law-abiding people. Boring as hell if you ask me, but I suppose I could say the same about myself. After all of the shit I’ve seen, I try like hell not to break the law.

I’m so focused on that thought, the front doorbell surprises me, sending a jolt of fear through my body and leaving an icy path in its wake. Tony is used to this from me and knows how not to react when I have my spells. Now, he won’t even look me in the eyes when it happens. A part of me is grateful for it. It’s easier to get over it knowing that he’s not harping on it. As I look over, my ninety-two-year-old client, Charlie, is being escorted through the door by his nurse, Jamie.

“Hi, Jamie. Hey, Charlie! You got another hot date tonight?” I try to speak as smoothly as possible, careful not to share my shakiness.

“Oh, you know it, dear. I gotta look my best!” I giggle at him and his adorable, scratchy, old man voice. He’s frail, but still kicking it the best he can.

“What’s this one’s name?”

“Lucille, her name alone makes me hard.” I burst out laughing at Jamie’s horrified face. Charlie is rather crude, but he has the best intentions. I think he just likes hearing everyone around him laugh.

“Now, Charles. We’ve talked about this! You cannot talk like that in public!” Jamie is Charlie’s live in nurse. Poor thing, I can only imagine what she hears. Especially if these ‘dates’ go as well as he says they do.

“Oh, Ashia doesn’t mind, and everyone else in here has a penis, so they understand. Isn’t that right dear?” He says looking in my direction. If anyone else called me dear? They’d get piece of my mind. Charlie? Eh, fuck it.

“You got it, Charlie.” She helps him sit and walks over to my half wall. This sweet woman I’ve come to know is about my height, dark red hair, brown eyes and cute little freckles. She’s about ten years older than me, in her mid-thirties, but you can tell that she’s wise beyond her years and has a good head on her shoulders.

“Hey girl, I need to run some errands for him. Run to the store and grab groceries and his meds, and then he wants his nice suit pressed. I would take him with me, but he’s extra horny today, and he likes to get grabby with the lady at the cleaners.” Tony and I both chuckle at that remark.

“You’re fine, Jamie. He’s good here. It’ll be a while before I can get to him anyway. Go get some lunch before you come back, take your time. Charlie knows better than to get handsy with me.”

“You’re amazing. I'll catch you in a bit.” She turns and walks back over to Charlie, who has made himself quite comfortable in the very first chair in the waiting area. I swear, everyone knows he’s claimed that chair. I might as well put his name on it. “I'll be back Charlie, if you even think of leaving you know Ashia will kick your ass.”

“Oh, give me a reason why don’t ya.” He scratches out.

I lay on the tattoo table, chest half exposed, and breathe in the sweet relief of the tattoo needle piercing my skin. It does tend to feel like the tip of the shears that caused the initial damage. However, this pain is my choice. My doing, and I find comfort in that. Every time I visit Jason, we work on my arm and chest pieces. Adding little details, another small ship, or some more shading. There’s not much bare skin left showing on that arm. That’s how I want it. I don’t want a single scar left visible. My tattoos make it almost impossible to see them, and tonight’s session will ensure the very last one is covered up.

When Tony and Serena rushed me to the hospital that night, they weren’t sure I was going to have any function left in my arm. Cooper was drunk and upset about my profession and friendships again and decided that he would take it into his own hands. He cut up my arm with my own shears, practically shredded it. He hit so many nerves and arteries that Tony was surprised I lived. He was even more surprised when I came back to work. I was bound and determined not to let that asshole ruin me anymore than he already did.

It took a lot of physical therapy, a few surgeries, and a fuck ton of hospital bills, but I came back with all of my motor function. My skin on my arm definitely looks fucked, but the placement of the major pieces on my arms covers every scar with a line, or a curve, or something dark to hide it. That’s why there’s no color. After this piece is complete, we’ll move on to something else. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. This is the fourth ‘last touches’ we’ve done. It’s not that his work isn’t impeccable, it’s just my insecurities. I always manage to find something else to cover up.

“What do you want your next piece to be?” He asks me.

“I'm not sure, I really like those under-boobs, ribcage tattoos. You know, the ones that look like a necklace for your tits?” We chuckle and I feel my face heat up. I’m suddenly embarrassed by my words. “Sorry, Charlie came in today.”

“No biggie. Sternum pieces? Yeah, I love those. I think they look awesome.” He grins at me.

“Why don’t you give one to Tiff?” Tiffany is his wife. She is very sweet, and absolutely beautiful. Their daughter shares her bright red hair and hazel eyes. They’re a cute little family. Seeing them together warms my heart. Thinking back to when I first met him and comparing it with who he is now softens my heart. I love seeing good people live happy lives.

I’ve thought about kids before, even wanted them at one point. However, my fear of being with another man like Cooper, or having a family remotely like mine, has kept me away from even considering the possibility. It’s a good thing my parents are dead, otherwise I’d have to live to see them be grandparents one day. That thought almost makes me sick.

“You know Tiff doesn’t like tattoos; I was lucky to give her the one on her wrist without a huge fight.” Jason says as he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, I guess they say not to take your work home with you.” I joke.

“Very true.” He says, not tearing his eyes away as he looks over my arm more. I feel bad for him, I’ve kept him here three hours past his closing time. But he knows how much I work, and how uncomfortable other people being here makes me. Not quite so much anymore because the scars are covered, but any time I have to bear my chest like this I get nervous. I wish I was more like Serena. Not completely though, she gets way too much dick, but the thought of not being terrified, while starved for affection from a man must be nice. “How’s the shop?” He asks curiously.

“Good. Really good. I do enough clients now that Emmett can stay home on Wednesdays too.” I say, thankful for the distraction.

“You are a great person, you know that?” He slightly looks up at me before looking back down to my arm. His words send a conflicting warm shiver through my spine. Tiffany is a very lucky woman. Jason is very sweet, and the majority of his clientele is women. He doesn’t flirt, but he does a very good job of making the women that he sees feel good. He always has a sincere compliment and understands that tattoos mean something to the people getting them. One of his specialties is the tattoo of Medusa, and he’s always sure to handle his clients with care. We’re good friends, and he says I helped him realize that his work does more good than just plastering art.

“Thanks, though I don’t feel like one sometimes.” I say honestly, that shiver showing in my voice.

“Hey, not everybody would work the way you do for someone. My artists certainly don’t, and I don’t see any of the other barbers doing what you do.”

“It’s not a big deal.” I hear that modesty isn’t attractive, but I don’t really give a fuck. I'm nice to people. Most of the time. It doesn’t take money, or extra energy to do it, and Emmett is a really sweet guy. Why wouldn’t I help him if I can? Serena’s family helped me when I needed it, and Emmett gave me every chance I could have possibly asked for. They probably saved my life. What I do isn’t extraordinary. I’m not DH. I don’t stop evil or donate to charity. I just do what I can in a shitty situation.

“How’s Charlie?” He asks, changing the subject once again. Everyone that comes to the shop knows Charlie. Hearing him speak is like a rite of passage.

“Horny, as always. He had another date tonight, so he came in this morning.”

“Did you have to sing for him again?” He bobs his head from side to side and I giggle as he jokes.

“Yeah, but Jamie brought him back by after close again. He knows I hate doing it in front of other clients.”

“Yeah, but you have an awesome voice. You should do something with it.”

“I prefer to live under the radar.” I slowly slide my free hand through the air as I speak, trying to keep the mood cool and collected. He’s silent for a moment before putting his tattoo gun down, taking a hit of his vape, and looking at me.

“He’s not stupid enough to confront you, Ash. Last I heard he moved to Seattle or some shit. You don’t have to worry anymore.” He says sincerely. His brows furrowed in a concerned state.

“I'm not worried.” Bullshit I’m not. I know that mother fucker would gut me if he had the chance. He said I made his life hell after I pressed charges finally. Go figure. “I just don’t like people, and I don’t need them liking me because I can sing. That’s vain, and I can’t stand it. I’ll sing for Charlie, it makes him happy, but I won’t do it for other people to judge me when they know nothing about me.”

He looks at me genuinely.

“You’re a wonderful, beautiful person, Ashia. Someone is going to love you the way you need one day. All you have to do is let them.”

I keep my eyes forward and try not to acknowledge what he said. I don’t need anyone to love me. Love is an excuse people use to fuck up someone they secretly loathe. True love doesn’t exist. People can love each other, I know that. Serena’s parents are a great example, but is it really possible to be able to trust someone else with your heart completely? I haven’t seen evidence of it, and I’m not sure that anything could change my opinion.

Instead of arguing, I just give him a small smile and put my ear bud in to start my ‘Sleep Token’ playlist, hoping to end the conversation. I will admit that I have the flaw of avoidance, but I’m not quite ready to combat that yet. Is it really avoidance if we’ve already had that conversation? Or maybe he’s had it with himself and I just blankly listened. Same thing.

I don’t normally climb out onto my balcony on the fire escape, but the cool air and rock songs pouring out of the bar across the street might be the thing I need to calm myself down. I was having a pretty decent day, and my tattoo was feeling great. Until I drove home.

It’s never hit me like this before, maybe because we’re finally done with it, but the stinging in my arm isn’t comforting tonight. It’s haunting. Finishing the art on my arm tonight has the same feeling you get when you close a certain chapter in your life. Perhaps holding on to that pain was the only thing that kept me sane and grounded. The thing I had to grab onto to keep me from burning with my world around me.

Why couldn’t he love me? Why was I not worth the slightest bit of decency? I don’t understand. I’m not Holy Mary, or a Saint, but I’m not a terrible person. I would never have hurt him the ways he hurt me. The mind games he played still linger in my brain when a client asks me an innocent question or some random man at the grocery store accidentally bumps into me. I hate the feeling of a ghost following me. The ghost of my past.

Most of the time I’m okay with being alone. I don’t have to answer anyone or explain myself constantly, but sometimes, like tonight, I miss being with someone. Not Cooper in particular, I could never miss that, but just someone. The small moments I had to grab and mold into something they weren’t, was the only way I survived that man. The only way I was able to continue standing as he beat me down. Small moments where I believed his poisoned words of love or took his light touches as affection instead of manipulation.

I want someone to caress me gently as they take in my features, and not cower when I try to do the same to them. I want someone to bring out things in me that I didn’t expect from myself. I want to melt into someone as our bodies collide. The thought of someone wanting and loving me so much that they can’t contain themselves is alluring, and I want someone to mean it.

Girls all dream of the same things when they’re little. That they’re the princess in the tower waiting for Prince Charming to come and save them. All they had to do was make it out of the tower and past the dragon, and then they’d live happily ever after. That once the bad was over, there’d be nothing but happiness and ever after’s. I wish fairytales had taught me that it was a lie instead.

My eyes begin to sting to the realization that my Prince Charming is never coming…that type of love doesn’t exist, and even if it did, I’m too fucking damaged to accept it…

I’m so tired…I’m tired of seeking out love from others and myself. I’m tired of walking around every day with my head held high like it fucking means something. I’m tired of lying in my bed at night and hating the coldness next to me…not having another person’s heartbeat to find comfort in…tired of pleasing other people and tearing myself down in the process. It’s exhausting.

I’m so fucking tired, but I’m so fucking scared…What if I escaped one evil just to find another? What if the next is worse than the last? Predators always find their prey, and that’s exactly what I am. A meek little lamb raised for slaughter. Easy pickings for any wolf or lion to devour. I may have escaped but that doesn’t mean I ever could again. I’ve fallen too far into this deep hole of a routine that keeps me physically safe, but mentally, I’m a train wreck. What does safe matter if I’m not truly feeling? Feeling any type of emotion other than overwhelming fear and paranoia?

In the moment, I’ll laugh at jokes, and I’ll feel sympathy for something bad that happens, but I want to feel something that completely takes my breath away…I’m so tired, and my demons are slowly taking over. My mind, my body, my soul is so tired. Tired of not being loved…or cherished…I want a connection that’s suffocating.

I know I have people that care for me, especially Serena, but her life wouldn’t end if mine did. No one’s would. I suppose it’s toxic of me to want that. To want to be loved by someone so much that they would let the world burn for me, for my Prince Charming to arrive…

And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for yearning for that touch, for that kind of love…hugging myself tightly just to get a slight glimpse of what that would feel like…and I hate myself for being so fucking terrified of even the thought of it…I barely survived Cooper, and he didn’t even remotely love me…but fuck I thought I loved him, and his injuries to me physically weren’t the only thing that almost killed me…it was my own thoughts too…

Especially the ones from when I first moved into this apartment, looking down from the balcony wondering if it was tall enough to kill me if I ‘slipped’…papers already written out on the cheapest and easiest way to dispose of me after my ‘accident’, because I knew then Serena wouldn’t know what to do with my body.

I know how selfish that was, but I’ve been nothing but a burden…nothing but a walking hazard that needed to be watched over, and that night, I just couldn’t take it anymore. It took every ounce and shred of soul I had left not throw myself over the side. Picturing Serena’s face in my mind was the only thing that kept my feet on the creaky metal stairs…

The thoughts of those nights send tears streaming down my face. I’ve never told anyone about that night. Especially not Serena. I’ve kept it inside for so long, allowing it to accompany the other memories, and I’m just so tired of being strong, so tired of no one noticing that I’m not okay…that I might never be okay again. That even though I survived, I never healed.

I weakly fall to my knees as they crumble, no longer able to hold me up. The tremors in my limbs bouncing their way through to my toes. Icy air sinks into my chest as I gasp for air through my sobs. I absorb the stinging feeling in my lungs and right arm, allowing it to be my only reminder that I’m still alive.

Well, that and a lone black flower…