Page 11

Scarlett

The birth of October means the coming of all my favorite things.

Balcony cigarettes always taste a little better when the air starts to get colder, the menthol hitting a little harder. The autumn breeze chills me to the core, sending goosebumps down my neck and shoulders that take shelter under the warm cardigan I threw on before stepping outside.

Nothing beats sweater weather for me; the extreme temperature contrasts of summer and winter are too much for my body, and spring is just too bright. There’s a peacefulness to watching all the trees prepare for their seasonal slumber—to see their leaves transform before they die and paint the ground like it’s one giant canvas of dirt and grass.

What’s even better is that it’s Friday the 13 th , which means the tattoo studio will be flooded with eager people, and Jill has finally given me the green light to tattoo on real skin. Penelope has let me do a few small ones on her already, but this will be my first time actually taking on outside clients—so long as they’re okay with being tattooed by an apprentice.

I’ve spent the last two weeks drawing a bunch of flash sheets made of cute little spooky designs, so all people need to do is choose one when they come in, and the rest is easy .

Theoretically.

The nicotine is betraying me, doing nothing to calm the building nerves in my gut that are threatening to collapse me. The woods behind our apartment help a little, giving me something else to focus on as I watch the wind blow through the trees and shake their vibrant leaves. Stamping out the ember on my cigarette, I take a final deep breath of autumn air before getting in the car.

The drive to the studio is even more beautiful than the view from my balcony, with trees lining the backroads that lead to my destination, creating canopies of color that flood my vision. I tap rhythmically on the steering wheel to “venus fly trap” by brakence, singing along to get myself pepped up enough for the social drain I’m about to experience.

As expected, when I pull into the studio parking lot, there’s already a line of people at the door waiting to be let in. Jill and the guys are in the lobby talking with a few clients about their design choices, so I join them and set out my own flash sheets with a special note that labels them as apprentice tattoos.

Unfortunately, the first set of visitors seem to prefer the other artists and their flash…which is totally fine, and I’m not at all jealous or disappointed or sad or dejected. I watch them file in, one by one, then leave all the same. The sound of the bell ringing doesn’t even faze me anymore, so I don’t bother looking up until I hear rambunctious laughter pushing into the lobby.

Fuck me, no.

Skylar and his band of bros stand there unabashed, flipping through the flash on the table. Please don’t pick mine. Please don’t pick mine. Please don’t—

“Hey, Red! These yours?” Tommy Pritchett shouts across the distance between us, waving me over.

There’s no getting out of this. If I soil the one chance Jill has given me to actually present myself as an artist to the public, she’ll never let me continue.

Begrudgingly, I drag my feet on the way to them, still hoping they’re just fucking with me and won’t actually force themselves onto me as my first real clients. I approach and give a small wave, keeping my distance. “Hi. Yeah, these are all mine. But I’m just the apprentice, so you guys probably want to look here at Jason’s stuff or—”

He cuts me off abruptly. “Nah, I definitely want you. I want this one here, the butcher knife.” He points to the design on the page before turning to the others. “What about you guys?”

They all take turns flipping through my collection of drawings, and as if this wasn’t already enough of a nightmare, Skylar picks one as well. All four of them want something, and this is sure to end in fire and brimstone—true to the holiday season.

They’re going to psych me out and I’m going to fuck up, then they’re going to shit all over me and the studio for letting someone so inadequate permanently mar the general public.

I run all of their stencils through the thermofax machine, then go through the steps in my head for proper application. Shave the hair around the area. Apply alcohol to clean and dry the skin. Rub in the stencil gel. Place the stencil. Let it dry.

Barely holding on to my sanity, I excuse myself to have a cigarette while their stencils settle. The biting chill is back, comforting my overheated skin until the sweat is gone and I can finally breathe again.

I don’t know what to fucking do. I can’t do this…I just can’t.

I can’t make small talk with them, and I can’t handle their inevitable criticism. Skylar and I can barely stand being in the same room with each other when we’re forced into tolerance around our parents. But here, in public? There’s no way.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Skylar and Julian emerge through the front door. I’m prepared for the barrage of battery that’s sure to come from their mouths, but instead, Julian just asks for a light. I didn’t know Skylar even smoked, but here we all are, huddled at the corner of the building and sharing a cloud of smoke between us.

“Have you done a lot today? ”

“Huh?” I’d just come to terms with the fact that I might have some peace and quiet among this awkward exchange. I wasn’t expecting them to talk to me again, so my mind was miles away.

“The flash. Have you gotten to do a bunch of them today?” It’s Julian who’s asking, puffing on his cigarette while he leans against the brick and looks down at me.

Fuck, he’s pretty. His eyes vaguely resemble sapphires—such a deep blue, there’s barely any shine to them in the sunlight. The color sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the visit to Eden when I made Penelope give me her Sapphire mask.

I’m still in recovery from that one.

Just thinking about it causes a phantom tightness in my throat that makes it hard to breathe. That night was such a turning point for me, driving me away from my mystery men and into the arms of a new, more thoughtful partner.

He’s come to my rescue twice now. After Casanova abandoned me during my first visit, he found me and finished me off. Then, when Broody tried dancing with me, he stepped in to scare him away.

My new guy takes care of me; he fucks me without the fight and pleasures me without the teasing. It may be safe, but it’s comfortable.

“You’re actually my first. I hope that’s alright. Seriously, I won’t be offended if you want to go to another artist. I know you’re already working with Jason on your back piece.” If I thought I could manage one last plea for them to change their minds, I was severely mistaken.

“It’s alright. We don’t mind.” He’s still looking at me with those deep pools of blue, and it makes my skin crawl.

Why the fuck is he being so nice? He’s Satan’s right hand. He’s supposed to be picking on and torturing me, seeking approval from his master. And why does he keep looking at me like that? His gaze is penetrating, burning right through me with an intention I can’t decipher. Like he’s trying to read me, see inside me, or find some weakness I’m not willing to show .

We finish our cigarettes in silence, and it takes all my strength to avoid his stare. That doesn’t do me much good when the alternative is looking into Skylar’s eyes—the green edges of his irises burning into the brown around his pupils.

They’re electrifying, and I don’t get the sense he’s feeling his usual hateful self. When I interpret his glare, there’s an unsatisfied longing I know can’t be meant for me.

Maybe he’s as desperate to get out of here as I am.

“Okay, let’s get started then.” I toss the butt of my cigarette into the receptacle against the wall and lead the boys back inside.

Tommy is the first to go, opting to get his flash directly on the face of his forearm so he can watch and taunt me the entire time, no doubt. I’m careful to set up my station, making sure I run through the checklist in my head to avoid missing any steps that may embarrass me.

When I’ve confirmed that he’s ready for me to start, I click the lining cartridge into my machine and hover the tip over his stencil. If I breathe deep enough and completely ignore his wandering eyes, it’s pretty easy to get lost in my head and drown out my surroundings.

The needle lowers into his skin effortlessly, and I hold my breath when I pull the first line, staying as steady as possible. I make it through lining the handle of the knife, so all that’s left is the long, straight lines of the cleaver blade.

I sense the sneer on his face, as if he knows this is the part I’m most nervous about. He’s ready to attack and ridicule, and I’m the prime target.

Julian is standing directly behind Tommy, and I don’t know why I do it, but I glance up at him. The kind smile he gives me throws off my prior perception of his character, yet it calms me, nonetheless. There’s something so soothing about his presence here, way beyond the good looks. The little curve of his lips gives me the confidence I needed to push through.

To everyone’s surprise—none more than mine—I manage to pull the line flawlessly, connecting the blunt edge to the tip of the blade. From then on, I only need to shade the handle, then we’re done .

Tommy almost looks disappointed for the tattoo to have turned out so good. Fucking prick. I clean the wound and apply a second-skin bandage before breaking down my station and setting it up for Julian to go next.

All in all, everything goes smoothly.

It took another hour or so to finish all their pieces, but now the boys are checking out the tattoos together in the mirror by the lobby. Tommy got the butcher knife on his forearm, Julian and Skylar got plastic vampire teeth on their biceps, and Nathan Carr got a ghost on his tricep. They’re quick to pay and leave the studio, but on his way out the door, Julian tips his head to signal for me to follow them out.

Curiously, I oblige him, even if it’s just an excuse to share another cigarette together so I can get lost in the ocean of his eyes and decompress from that roller coaster session.

I find him and Skylar in the smoking corner again, but it looks like the other two guys have left already. I preemptively toss him my lighter, waiting for him to return it before I light up my own cigarette.

“Thanks for being so cool back there, I really wasn’t expecting anyone to get my stuff.” I stare down at my feet, shuffling around awkwardly to avoid making eye contact for now.

“Why not?” Julian asks.

He’s not even mocking me, but I’m not sure I can trust any civility that comes from these men, knowing who they are. Nothing has changed; Skylar is still Satan, and Julian is still his partner in crime.

So why does it feel like we’re gripping two ends of an olive branch?

“It’s just the way things are in the industry. Apprentices usually spend months trying to convince their friends and family to drag themselves in for free, shoddy work.” A soft chuckle escapes my lips, and when I look up at him, he’s staring directly at my mouth. “Just…I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Julian’s eyes travel up to meet mine, and that heartwarming smile is back. Briefly, it’s interrupted by the cigarette sliding between his lips, and I study the way they purse around the stick—his cheeks hollowing slightly when he sucks in—and the way he blows out the smoke.

I monitor every movement, completely entranced by how sexy such a small action can make his mouth seem. Like I could imagine those lips doing other things with the same delicate maneuvering. Kissing. Licking. Whispering.

Fuck, I’m horny as shit.

When the smoke dissipates, it reveals a cheeky smile with perfectly white teeth. I suddenly realize I’ve been biting my own lip while watching. I hadn’t even noticed, but he sure did.

“Relax, Scarlett. It’s good work, you did fine. No groveling gratitude needed here.” Our eyes meet again, and if I had blinked, I might have missed the little wink he gave me. “Anyway, what are you doing for Halloween?”

Ah, Halloween. By far the best thing about October, because not only is it the most spooky and glorious holiday, but it’s also my birthday.

“Julian…” Skylar butts in before I can answer, apparently unapproving of the obvious invitation hovering on Julian’s tongue.

I guess he doesn’t have a hand in this olive branch—not that I’d expect him to. I never did anything to warrant the hatred he feels for me, so there’s no hope for us. He decided a long time ago how he wanted things to stand between us.

Something is different about him though, it’s just hard to put my finger on it. His beard does look a little shorter, and for a second, I get this horrible thought. In a way, he shares similar characteristics with one of the men from Eden’s Deliverance—but that can’t be right.

The texture and length of their hair isn’t the same, and Broody’s voice is much deeper and smoother than Skylar’s. He also hates my guts, where Broody and Casanova have this weird fucking obsession with me.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” I say to Skylar before turning back to Julian. “Me and Penelope are going to stay in and do horror movies or something, nothing special. ”

“Well, can’t do much on a Tuesday night, so Tommy and Nate’s frat are hosting something the weekend before. It’s gonna be this huge costume party at the Psi Rho Kappa house. You’re more than welcome to come.”

Psi Rho Kappa. PRK. Pricks…nice one.

“Thanks, Julian. I’ll definitely think about it. Well, I should get back in there and fight off all my adoring fans. Thanks again, and just let me know if you have any issues with the healing, okay?”

I get another thought, then. If Skylar was Broody, it wouldn’t be a farfetched idea that Julian could be Casanova. Their heights seem about the same, but Casanova’s hair is curly and much darker. Julian’s voice is also much sweeter and calming.

He nods, eyes following me as I toss out the remnants of my cigarette and go back inside, into the safety of my solitude. The truth is, Penelope and I already have plans to go to the party at Eden for the weekend before Halloween. We received personalized invitations almost two weeks ago and have been thoroughly working out our costumes since then.

There’s no way Skylar and Julian would skip their friends’ frat party, but you can bet I’ll see Casanova and Broody at Eden.

I don’t know if this is normal for other attendees, but I’ve already been making plans with my new partner. The Pearl Prince , I’m calling him, since he all but swept me off my feet when I needed him the most.

We discussed it last weekend, and we’re going to have a sort of date at the party. No fumbling with random strangers—despite still being unknown ourselves—just two people who enjoy fucking…making plans to do it again.

If last week was any indication, the mystery men got the hint and have decided to give up on me in turn. I didn’t spot even a glance of them at the club. No hovering bodies against my back, no stares from the bar, no manhandling on the balcony. I felt the absence of them.

I still do .

A part of me misses them—or rather, the excitement of it all—and how every visit was different and full of splendor.

The Pearl Prince is far from being like Cunnilingus Casanova or Broody Brody. He does leave me satisfied, but the sex leaves me thinking about them sometimes. He doesn’t hold me down, slap me around, or choke me out. He’s safe. Not completely devoid of the passion I’m looking for, but the flame is muted compared to the bonfire those two stoke in my soul.

I’m just too afraid of being burned.