Page 597 of Hell Hath No Fury

He takes my hand as he leads me over puddles of murky water. “I’m pretty sure your smile took care of most of it.” I squeeze his hand and follow him inside.

The smell hits me as soon as we cross the threshold—cleaning products, air freshener, and a metallic tang that I also taste in the back of my throat. It’s also ridiculously cold, the huge A/C unit in the back, furiously pumping cold air. To our right is a glass counter piled high with various three-ringed binders. Inside the display cases are a multitude of piercing accessories and after-care products.

Misha greets the man behind the counter, a scruffy beast of a guy with colorful ink on both of his arms and a full beard, though his head is completely shaved. “Jake, good to see you.”

“Misha, man. I’d like to say it’s good to see you, except I know why you’re here.” Jake grabs Misha’s hand and pulls him into a one-armed, back-slapping hug. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Misha grabs my hand. “Jake, this is my friend Stella. Stella, this is Jake. He’ll be torturing me today.”

I give Jake an easy smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Glad you could come with our boy here,” Jake says. “I guess we’ll see how he does under the gun.”

Nodding and looking around at the artwork on the walls, I say, “You’ve got a nice place here. I may have to come back.”

“You got any ink?” Jake asks as he leads us back to his immaculate station.

“No, not yet. I’ve always been interested, though. Just haven’t found anything that speaks to me yet.”

“Misha, take a seat right here, buddy.” Jake wiggles his eyebrows. “You’ll have to lose the shirt for me, though.”

That makes Misha smile, and any reservations I had about bringing him here when he’s so obviously hurting wash away. Maybe taking ink into his body, memorializing his grandfather’s memory permanently, is his way of carrying that memory on with him forever.

Misha crosses his arms in front of his chest and peels off his shirt. My mouth goes dry and I nearly miss the chair I’m aiming for and fall ass first onto the sparkling white linoleum. Thankfully, I only fumble a bit and manage to sit without looking like a total idiot.

I shouldn’t be staring at his bare chest when he’s mourning this way. I absolutely shouldn’t. When a quick glance turns into ogling, I force myself to pull away and study what Jake is doing—anything to take my mind off his powerful shoulders and tapered abdomen.

He gathers up what looks like little paint caps full of brilliant color, a tattoo gun, sterilizing materials and paper towels. Around us, a couple other artists are working on other people at their stations. The atmosphere pulses with music blasting from an ancient boom box and the chatter as people try to yell over the volume.

“How did you meet Misha?” I ask as he buzzes the tattoo gun a couple times, then sets it on his stainless steel tray. They share a look, and I realize that must be a personal topic. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just making conversation. Totally looks like I put my foot in my mouth.”

“No,” Misha says, putting a warm hand on my knee. “Not at all.”

“Not a secret,” Jake adds. “Misha here was my daughters doctor.”

“Oh,” I say. “What happened?”

Jake takes an outline of the tattoo and applies it on Misha’s shoulder. He holds it there while he finishes the story. “She was six when she got into an accident, semi driver fell asleep at the wheel and slammed into her mother’s car when they were coming home from a friend’s birthday party. Misha was working the ER when she came in.”

I’m almost afraid to hear the end.

“She didn’t make it,” Jake says gently, and I realize, stunned, that his soft tone is more to comfort me than himself. “Misha, though. He didn’t give up for hours. He worked on her until the end. He never gave up. I told him, when I was able to think straight enough, that his first tattoo was on me.” Jake shrugs out of his button up shirt to show me a shockingly realistic portrait of his daughter.

“He pestered me until I agreed,” Misha corrects.

Jake waves that away as he changes into a fresh pair of gloves. “Now I can pay him back for everything he did for my girl.”

Misha keeps his eyes on his lap, but not before I see the sorrow painting his face. I don’t say anything, but I take his hand in my own as Jake goes to work on his tattoo. We don’t talk much as Jake works, aside from me asking questions about what Jake’s doing or Misha griping to bust Jake’s balls.

But the connection is there. Real.

Because he doesn’t let go of my hand the whole time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

By the time I get back to Mom’s house, it’s nearly midnight and I can barely see straight. It takes three tries before I’m able to fit my key into the lock, and even then I have to focus to put one foot in front of the other to get over the threshold. The place in my chest where my heart is supposed to be is numb from overwork, from bleeding for Misha, from being torn in two directions.

I know what it’s like to be without a father figure. To wonder and worry and be hyperaware of the empty place at the dinner table, at soccer games and graduations. If I’d actually known my father and lost him after having a full life of those memories, that emptiness would be unbearable.