Chapter 2
TRIPP
This place is the one that makes me the happiest; it’s my safe place.
I’m free here to create whatever I want in my own space without judgment.
There’s no fighting or nitpicking or dirty looks shot across the room.
The only raised voices are those of either happy clients or that small handful of clients who don’t have the highest threshold for pain.
Resting my helmet on my desk, I settle into my seat and pull out my sketchbook, flipping to the piece I’ve been working on for the past few days.
The sketch is still rough and the pencil has smudged a bit, but it has a solid base.
It’s been hard to find inspiration in many things lately, so this single piece making progress feels like a big deal to me.
“You’ve got mail,” someone calls out, throwing on his best AOL-bot voice.
My best friend approaches with a box in hand, pulling open the top of it to dig out a smaller box from inside of it.
“We have needles for you,” he announces as he tosses it to me. Grabbing the other, he says, “And needles for me.”
“Cartridges,” I correct him for the ten thousandth time as I take the box from him.
I met Connor what feels like a million years ago, not long after I left the faith and was forced out of the life that I knew right along with it.
We ran into each other during our apprenticeships, mine for tattooing and his for piercing. I let him practice on me a handful of times and vice-versa; he’s responsible for every hole that’s ever been in my head, and in turn, I’m responsible for the few pieces of ink littering his body.
“How did things go with the princess?”
“The princess,” I chuckle, “still wants me to sell the shop.”
“And you said ‘screw that,’ right?” He asks with an arched brow.
“I sold one of the bikes,” I tell him. At the concerned rise of his brow, I raise a hand. “Not the R7.”
“Want to take her out later?” He asks over his shoulder, tucking the box underneath his arm as he moves toward his station.
My eyes flit to my phone and the thought of the wife who may or may not be waiting up when I’m finished here tonight. If she is, she’ll most likely be engrossed in some new ebook or, if she’s really bored, trying to get the gunk out from between Drumstick’s nails.
I’ll walk into the house and I’ll either shout my goodnight up the stairs or we’ll share a quick peck on the lips and an even faster hello.
Then we’ll either part ways for the night or we’ll start arguing about something stupid; like whether or not we should leave a light on in the kitchen before we go to sleep.
“Yeah,” I finally nod, “absolutely.”
My gaze trails toward the large digital clock hung on the back wall of the shop, then over to Connor’s station. Pushing myself off of my chair, I stride toward it and lean closer to take a look at the displays set out in his case.
Blocks upon blocks of displays host different types of body jewelry – gemstones, precious metals, diamonds, and engraved pieces; barbells, hoops, and posts – the options laid out seem almost endless.
Reaching into the case as if he’s reading my mind, he pulls a block from inside and passes it to me across the counter. I turn it over in my hand, scanning the various end pieces held throughout, and finally settle on one in the shape of a spider.
“I wouldn’t. That one is liable to snag on…well, on your wife,” he teases, smirking with a suggestive lift of his brows.
“Not a concern,” I tell him, setting down the small display. “I am in a committed relationship with our shower at this point.”
“Been there,” he laughs. “Unfortunately live there.”
Pulling the jewelry back into its cabinet, he turns to the small storage compartments hung on the wall behind him.
He spends a while pulling open the drawers only to push them shut again before he finally returns to me with two small peel packs in hand, dropping them onto his table before he slips into a pair of gloves.
“You’re overthinking it,” he tells me. “You don’t need it to be flashy for it to look good.”
Reaching toward me, he uses his pinkie fingers to stabilize his hands against my face as he takes hold of the jewelry in my lip, carefully pulling to separate each piece from one another.
After replacing the lower piece with his face inches from mine, he feeds the jewelry back up through the piercing.
“Drop trou and bend over for each other already,” one of my artists says with a snicker as he steps into the studio, headed for his station.
“Fuck off,” I bark.
Connor makes quick work of finishing his task, securing the rest of the jewelry into place without offering any of his attention to the artist as he moves to his own station.
“You cool?” I ask him quietly.
He nods. “It doesn’t bother me,” he insists. Reaching for a mirror from his kit, he hands it to me, jerking his chin in my direction. “Now tell me I did a good job and get out of my space.”
The gemstone ends of the piece have been replaced with a small black bead of smooth metal at the top, connected to a matching piece that comes to a sharp point at the lower end. Not flashy, but still something to suit my style.
“You did a good job,” I teasingly coo to him, dropping the mirror onto the counter space next to me.
Leaving him to clean up and prep his station for any incoming appointments that he might have, I offer a playful pat to the top of his head and cross the studio to step into my other artist’s station.
He’s sitting in front of a sketchbook, using a pencil to scribble out a few pieces of flash to offer his clients.
Dropping my forearm onto his shoulder, I lean closer to him and lower my voice to nearly a whisper.
“Make a comment like that again and you’re out of a job,” I tell him quietly, but firmly.
“Relax,” he says, “it was a joke.”
“Jokes are funny.”
I leave with a pat to his shoulder, more in warning than it is in camaraderie.
This shop isn’t just my safe place; when I opened it, I intended it to be a safe place for everyone.
We’ve hidden a couple of girls in the back office when a controlling ex has come looking for them. I’ve let a client leave their suitcase in the shop while they waited for an opportunity to get out of the house where their family refused to stop deadnaming them and referring to them as ‘him.’
The sticker on the window has resulted in someone spray painting the place or breaking our glass on more than one occasion, and if and when I send Rob packing, he very well might do the same.
I’m not an idiot, and neither is Connor. We both knew what would inevitably happen, should he come out or even so much as a rumor about him start in the shop. It’s easy for people to pretend that they aren’t bigots with people they don’t see every day.
It’s not so easy to hide when it comes to a coworker.
While I work on my clients, I keep an eye on Rob and, instead of having an earbud in my left ear like I normally do, I listen for any more snide comments or shitty ‘jokes’ that might be made, either across the room or directly to the clients on his table.
It’s a good thing for him that those comments never come, because while I’m not a guy who’s quick to violence, I am quick to fiercely protect my family.
The circle of people that I consider to be family might be practically microscopic, but Connor is one of the very few people right at the center of it.
“Hurry up, Evel Knievel,” I shout in the direction of the admin office.
“You joke,” Connor says as he steps out of the office, “but all of those pretty tattoos are coming off if you ride asphalt, and I’ll be fine.”
Pulling the zipper on his suit brings it to a close over the lone tattoo on his chest – a greyscale image of a compass that I did for him maybe three months into my apprenticeship.
To my eye, it’s obvious that it’s one of the first pieces I ever put onto a living canvas.
It’s blown out in two places, the line work is a lot more shoddy than I’d like it to be, and the cardinal directions are more like suggestions; but he’d never let me cover it up for him.
I’ve offered – begged, actually – at least ten times since, and he’s continually shot me down.
As he slides his helmet onto his head, I whack mine against his hip, and the two of us make our way out of the shop to head for our bikes.
I tap through my phone to turn on my riding playlist and force it into Connor’s Cardo, stifling a chuckle as he groans into the comms unit.
“No,” he laughs as the first lines of Britney Spears’s ‘Toxic’ come through the speakers.
“Don’t fight it,” I tell him.
We’re careful as we pull out of the lot, and for the first few minutes on the street, until we find a groove.
On a more open strip of road, we open up our throttles and push our bikes faster, weaving through lines of traffic. I offer a quick two-finger salute or a wave to each car that we pass, mostly to be friendly, but maybe a little bit in an effort to keep them from calling the cops on us, too.
The rider of an oncoming cruiser pats the top of their helmet twice, alerting us to cops up ahead, and with a quick nod to each other, we hook a right hand turn onto a different road.
“We’re nice boys, officer, I swear,” I say, throwing the pitch of my voice up a couple of octaves and adding in what I think is supposed to be a southern accent.
Connor’s laugh crackles through the Cardo. “I don’t know how true that is,” he argues. “At least, where you’re concerned.”
“A little felony now and then never hurt anybody,” I tell him with a wave of my hand.
Pulling back my accelerator, I speed up before bringing myself to a standing position as we fly through an empty tunnel. I stick my arms out wide at my sides, letting the air whip against my bare skin.
The first time that I asked Julia to throw some bleach into my hair and take away the dark, cocoa-colored locks that come with my family name, I got a taste of freedom.
The first time I got on a bike, the world opened up around me.
I didn’t have to be the pious, God-fearing church boy that they wanted me to be.
I could take risks. I could let myself feel something other than fucking anger and uncertainty.
The first time that I rode without gear, I knew I may as well have tossed my money into the trash. I’d never wear it again. The wind on my skin, the thrill of knowing that every move I made was just a little more risky without it, that every ride could be the last one…nothing beats it.
Connor has no fucking idea what he’s missing out on.
We spend at least an hour on the road together, maybe two, before we finally part ways.
It’s a good ride; one of the best I’ve had in a while.
The only sound when I walk through the garage door is that of the bell on Drumstick’s collar, jingling as he trots down the stairs, headed toward me.
“Hey, D,” I whisper, reaching to pet him as he lifts himself up onto his hind legs to claw at my thigh.
Scooping him under my arm, I trek up the stairs with him, kicking off my Chucks as I walk into the bedroom.
Julia is already tucked into bed, surrounded by the ridiculously-fluffy duvet that she seems to favor, and the lamp next to her has been turned off with her e-reader next to it, plugged in to charge overnight.
I set Drumstick at the foot of the bed and climb on after him, dropping into the space next to my wife. Brushing her hair away from her face, I lean over her to press a kiss to her cheek.
“You smell like gasoline,” she grumbles, her voice no higher than a whisper.
“I know,” I tell her, “I’m about to take a shower.”
As she rolls to face me, her lips meet mine. Soft, and just a little bit sticky from the balm that she puts on them every night. It tastes like cinnamon candy.
I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t remember the last time that I laid next to her in our bed; and as my tongue slides past her lips, I realize that I can barely remember the last time that I kissed her like this.
“I can come with you,” she offers.
Despite how badly I want that, despite how much I miss the plush pillow of her hips in my hands, I press my lips to hers one more time and tell her, “It’s just gonna be a quick in-and-out. I’m wiped.”
“Oh, sure,” she says almost dejectedly before rolling back to her other side. “Don’t forget to use the purple shampoo.”
I know I’m an asshole. My wife wants to connect with me. She needs to feel wanted. I do want her, lord knows I do; it’s just that every time we try to have sex anymore, my mind drifts to the last thing we fought about, and to whatever it might be that we’ll fight about next.
If I’m not thinking about us fighting, we’re actively fighting.
It’s exhausting.
“Tripp,” she calls out as I cross the threshold into our bathroom, “I love you.”
Bracing my hand against the door frame, I pull my lips into a tight smile and tell her, “I love you too, baby.”
Maybe more than anything else in this world or the next.
When I climb into the shower, I make the effort to remember to lather my hair with her purple shampoo. I let it sit while I jerk myself off, rinsing both the evidence and the lavender-tinted suds down the drain when I’m finished.
Standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around my waist as I scrub a toothbrush against my teeth, I watch my wife while she sleeps. She used to be a heavy sleeper; the kind of person who could sleep through any alarm and any sudden loud noise.
She doesn’t seem to sleep well anymore, and I think that I’m partly to blame for that. The couch is practically permanently indented with my shape at this point and our bed isn’t. She didn’t do that; I did.
It’s easier to tell her that I love her and keep the two of us separated than it is to come upstairs and hope that we don’t fight.
We’ve never gone to bed angry at each other.
I don’t want to start now, even if that means ignoring how much I want to climb into bed with her and hold her body against mine.
As I throw on a pair of pants and quietly trek down the stairs, I hear the same mantra that’s been playing in my mind for the past six months.
I’m losing her.
I’m losing her.
I’m losing her.