Page 12

12

Ronan

T he feeling of the needle driving back and forth through my skin is like a scorching flame I'd walk through without hesitation. I’ve been under the tattoo gun for hours, but the pain barely registers.

Since being free, I’ve drifted in and out of myself—some days are better, some worse. I keep half-expecting something to happen, for cuffs to snap around my wrists, and for some cop to haul me back to a cell that once felt like my only place of protection.

When I got out at twenty, after going in at seventeen, I knew I'd be going back. This time it was no different, I was sure of it. Now, though, something has shifted. A strange worry shadows me with the thought of going back, like a storm gathering on the horizon, heavy and tense, but refusing to break.

As the tattoo artist leans in closer to inspect her work, she shuts off the machine and squirts saline solution, wiping away the excess ink and blood. She’s working on a spot on my upper thigh, as my upper body is scarce of room.

This kind of contact, tied to the sting of the needle, is the only touch I can tolerate without wanting to strangle the one doing it. It’s a discomfort, a physical sensation that’s manageable, unlike the emotional weight that comes with an unwanted touch.

Before my appointment, I instructed her not to touch me besides what was absolutely necessary. Outside of selecting her due to her talent with color, she’s a lesbian. I stalked her social media before making the appointment. I’m not in the mood to dodge flirting right now, and as much as I really need to fuck a hole, it isn’t hers I’m interested in.

“Looks great,” she comments, drawing the paper towel once more across it.

Until now, I haven’t had a single colored tattoo. I’ve always preferred them dark, like my attitude toward living. However, I feel like it’s fitting since recently I’ve started to see a bit more pigment in my life.

She leans back and grabs the second skin, thankfully without asking why I chose this design. Even I can’t fully explain why I went with it. It’s a silhouette of blue spruce trees, framed by a sky that’s alive with color: deep purples, reds, and oranges blending seamlessly upward into cooler blues and turquoise.

And I don’t care what she says—her favorite color is turquoise, not teal.

After paying, I’m outside resting against my bike, checking my missed texts. A few of them are from Ken, and I see one from Calista… I’ll check with my friend first.

KEN

I know you just got out and all, but could you help me out?

I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. This little shit screwed me over

I’ll get you what you need

I shift over to Calista’s text next.

Calista BG

I ordered pizza. It’s in the garage fridge. I’m going to the local bar for drinks with my friend, I have a DD

No invite, that’s rude

I don’t expect a response right away and move back over to my conversation with Ken.

What do you want me to do?

KEN

You know exactly what I need, big guy

I don’t, but I guess when do you need me?

KEN

Flirting with me, I like it

You free tonight?

My phone buzzes, and I shift over to Calista.

Calista BG

To just be rejected? No thanks

Can’t take a little bit of rejection, baby girl

Calista BG

Please stop calling me that…

I don’t think so. Ask me

Calista BG

No, fuck you

Don’t be brave behind a phone, Calista. Do it

Calista BG

UGH!

Will you come have drinks with me tonight?

No. Don’t drink and drive or I’ll beat your ass.

I ignore the follow-up “fuck you” text and move back to Ken, typing out my response.

Yeah, I’m free. Send me the meet-up location

Would I rather go out to drinks with Calista? That’s a complicated question.

Since the week after that dinner at her mother’s, I’ve struggled not to make any move on her. It’s this sense of control and domination, not necessarily physical. I want to see her drop to her knees and beg for everything .

Does she want to take a shower? Beg for it.

Does she want to have a cup of coffee? Beg for it.

Then when she forgets to do it, I want to see just how pale her ass is and turn it red under my palm.

Just because I’ve not allowed any man or woman to touch me, doesn’t mean I’ve denied myself the pleasures I crave. Most give me what I want with their eyes off of me, hands and knees smashed to the ground, giving me all they are good for: a hole to fuck. That allows me to be satisfied, because that’s all sex is—a hungry beast, always waiting to be fed.

The need these days to satiate that craving with Calista has been incredibly difficult to ignore.

What’s different is I want her flat on her back so that I can see her face turn red with shame at me coming all over her chest and face. To use my fingers to gather my cum and shove it into her mouth, cause her to gag while I force her to swallow what I give her.

I want to make her cry, scream, even try to run. I want her to feel the fear, to see the monster I am. I need her to stop looking at me like I’m some broken thing, something that just needs patching up to fit society's version of “redeemable.”

And yet, there are moments when I want to let her touch me, to see if her fingers wouldn’t hurt, or without stirring that violent feeling in me. In those times, I wonder if it’s possible to feel anything other than hate.

It’s those exact feelings that brought me here, ditching Ken to sit in this godforsaken bar, beer in hand, watching Calista chat with her friend.

Her friend’s pretty—no surprise, considering Cal is too. They both look like they’d be the popular cheerleaders in high school, which explains the attention they’re getting from nearly every guy who walks in.

I’m going to chalk up my decision to come tonight to my concern over her so-called ‘rough fuck’ from a few weeks ago, or maybe a need to see who said designated driver was. To say I was grateful it wasn’t some guy, is an understatement. The relief that washed over me was foreign.

I’ve been here about an hour now, ignoring Ken. I didn’t completely ghost him—I’d intended to go help him, but the pull to be here was stronger. So I told him something came up, that he’d either have to wait or call someone else, then silenced our texts. I didn’t want distractions.

From this distance, I can’t make out much of their conversation, but Calista says something that makes her friend toss her head back, laughing.

I finish off my beer just as a group of guys move in on them. My blood simmers. Talking is fine; but they’d better keep their hands off Cal.

She’s had one… no scratch that, five too many drinks, and I can see in the soft droop of her eyes that she’s far too drunk to make good choices. I’m not here to be her hero, but I’ll be someone’s villain if needed.

I’m grateful her friend appears to be the responsible one. She’s only had one beer, and now is sipping on water.

For the most part, the four guys keep it respectful. One of them leans over the table and snags a chip from the basket that’s been sitting there untouched for the better part of half an hour.

Calista says something, and her friend points a finger at the guy, probably telling him to fuck off. They all laugh, shoving each other playfully. But then one of them makes a stupid move, and I find myself wondering if this place has cameras.

He rests his hand at the curve of Cal’s shoulder, fingers edging toward her neck. She tries to swat him away, but he insists on staying too close. I keep myself in check—until she tries to pull away again, and he still won’t release her.

Then she hits him. Not a slap either; that firecracker goes straight for a closed-fist, jaw-cruncher. The guy barely staggers back, probably more stunned than hurt. I’m edging out of my chair the moment his hand goes for her arm.

This is exactly why I’m here. Villain it is.

When Cal’s friend stands up and hurls the rest of her water in the guy’s face, one of his buddies grabs her wrist.

The screech of my wooden chair scraping against the floor is drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears. I weave through the crowd of onlookers until I’m just a few steps away from them, and that’s when her chartreuse eyes lock onto mine. Her mouth opens wide, but I can’t quite read her expression. For some reason, she shakes her head, almost pleadingly.

“Don’t!” she screams.

A little too late for that, unfortunately. I was ready to produce some violence with Ken, but this feels much more productive of my time.

Grabbing the one that has her in his grip, I yank him back and grin, just as my fist collides with his nose.

In the movies, people hesitate to react, scream out “what the hell, man” and “who are you”. That shit doesn’t happen in reality. It’s why I’m prepared for the punch coming straight at my face.

I take a step back and dodge the hit, grabbing onto his wrist just as my fist makes contact with his elbow at the perfect angle to pop it out of place. He screams and before he can gather himself, I take his shirt into my grip, then slam my forehead into his nose.

I grip his dislocated arm and pull him forward, using his momentum against him. Just as he reaches the point where I can strike, I deliver a swift kick to his knee, sending him crashing to the floor alongside his friend.

I’m so tunneled, all I see are the other two squaring their shoulders to me. I don’t hear shouts or worry about anyone else, just the other two ready to fight.

Raising my hand, I gesture for them to come at me. The moment one begins his swing, bright blonde hair comes into my view.

The tunnel vision shatters, and the world snaps back into focus. Calista stands defiantly between me and the approaching man, forcing him to halt. But in my moment of distraction, I feel an arm wrap around my throat, yanking me backward. The surge of rage inside me triples at the contact. I swing my elbow back hard, connecting with his ribs, feeling the satisfying crunch.

“Let go of me!” Cal shrieks.

When I look, one of the men has grabbed her, but not to drag her off. Instead, he roughly shoves her against the table, and her head bounces off the surface. I’m grateful her friend is there to support her from falling to the ground.

“Get her out of here!” I growl, and throw my head back, the one holding me grunting as I make contact.

Her friend doesn’t hesitate, puts Cal’s arm around her neck, and ushers her away.

“No, no, wait! Wait! You can’t!” she argues, but I’m now focused where I need to be, and not having to concern myself with her.

Now it’s time to retreat into the one place I know best—where violence is both my catalyst and my shield. It’s what I’ve relied on for the past twenty-eight years, shaping me into who I am.

Screams erupt, pleading for this to end before it spirals further out of control, but these assholes have put their hands where they don’t belong, and they clearly had no intention to stop, and neither do I. I’m more than ready to match their energy.

One of them swings a fist at me, but whether he’s drunk or just clueless about how to fight, his move is awkward and easy to dodge. As his shoulder brushes past my chest, I drive my knee hard into his stomach, and a loud “oof” escapes him as I shove him into the nearest table.

A punch connects with my cheek from behind, but it only grazes me, doing more damage to my ear than anything else. I snap my elbow back, landing a solid hit on his mouth and hearing the satisfying crack.

Another guy lunges from the front, but I counter with a fist right between the eyes of the bastard who threw Calista. His nose erupts in blood, spilling down to his chin like a crimson river.

Just as I start to relish the chaos, a punch comes from my side, hitting me in the temple. God, does it feel good. I roll my shoulders and grin, but my excitement is cut short by a loud bang that sends everyone shrieking and scrambling to escape.

Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.