Chapter 17 #4
“More years than I can count.”
“Well, good to meet you—?”
“Xavier,” I supply. “It’s very nice to meet you, too. I’ll tell Reuben you said hello.”
“Tell him there’s a quiz at the pub next week.” He pauses. “He can bring you along if you like.”
I’ve been invited to the Met Gala and numerous other highly fashionable events, yet none of those has touched like this diffident invitation. Maybe it’s the implication that I could be a part of this community. Maybe it’s the way he links Reuben and me so easily.
“Thank you,” I say finally.
He tips his hat and moves on, hailing a woman loudly on the other side of the street.
I stand still for a moment, looking at the bright buildings and the glittering sea.
The thing is, I can see myself here. I can see myself going to that quiz and meeting more of Reuben’s friends.
But that’s not logical, is it? He’s rooted, and I’m not.
He’s found his place and where he fits, and I still have no idea about where I fit in life.
He’s said he’s saved a place for me, that I’ll always be welcome. But Reuben deserves peace and happiness, and when have I ever brought him that?
This week together has been a place out of time where Reuben’s been making amends for past wrongs.
Now his conscience is clear, and he can move on and find someone who actually fits his life.
I had the old Reuben—the restless nomad addicted to danger and thrills.
Some other bloke will get this Reuben. Life is so fucking ironic.
An annoyed huff recalls me to my surroundings. A lady is waiting to pass me. I mutter an apology and step into a shop doorway to let her go by. Bernard rises to his back legs and puts his paws on my hips. Reuben is right. He’s going to be fucking huge.
“Shall we go and get a coffee?” I ask him, and his only answer is a groan as I scratch his ears. “You’re such a good boy,” I croon.
I become aware of hammering and the smell of paint and sawdust just as I hear a bang and some vicious cursing.
Turning, I peer through the half-open door.
It’s a small shop that’s obviously being gutted.
Half the floorboards are missing, and the walls are stripped back to bare plaster.
The cursing continues and grows admirably inventive.
“Everything okay?” I call. No one answers, and I step through the door, dragging Bernard with me. “Hello?” I call.
The cursing stops, and a man appears from the back of the shop. “Who are you?”
I blink. “Xavier. Who are you?”
He’s easily six foot five and lean, his arms covered in tattoos that stretch up to his neck. His hair is long and dark and pulled back into a ponytail, and his eyes are a warm brown. Something about him seems familiar.
“Rhys.” He offers a hand, and we both look at the cloth he’s holding on it, which is rapidly turning red.
“I don’t think I’ll bother,” I say finally.
“Good call.”
“That looks bad. What did you do?”
“Hit it with a claw hammer.”
“Ouch. Aren’t you supposed to hit nails with that?”
He snorts. “Ah, that’s where I went wrong.” He runs his uninjured hand through his hair, knocking the ponytail even more askew, so strands fall around his face. “I’m a better tattooist than I am a handyman.”
I brighten. “You’re a tattooist?” The penny suddenly drops, and I stare at him. “Oh, my god.”
He blinks. “Are you having some sort of religious conversion?”
I wave my hand excitedly. “You’re Rhys Johnson. I saw you in the Master of Ink. You were very rude to the contestant in the watercolour section last season,” I add, unable to hide the reverent tone in my voice at the thought of his biting sarcasm.
“Well, he deserved it. A cow could have done that tattoo better, despite not having opposable thumbs.” He gives me a quick glance, his mouth twitching. “And you’re Xavier Conway.”
“You know me?”
“Maybe I’ve seen your face all over the magazines in the shop.”
I eye him dubiously. “You have Vogue and Elle here?”
“You’ve got me. I’m actually friends with Reuben.”
“Well, of course you are. Is there anyone on this island he isn’t on close terms with?”
“Try Sam Dryer. They had a row over the extension Sam was planning.”
“That sounds very Reuben-ish.” I look around the shop.
“So why is one of the most famous tattoo artists in the world in Tobermory removing his thumb with DIY?” He grabs a battered old first aid box from the counter, and I rush to help him.
“Sit down,” I say. “You’re far too dirty to deal with a cut. ”
His lip twitches. “Yes, it’s definitely you. Reuben said you were incredibly bossy.”
“I’m pretty sure he mentioned my arse before he focused on my temper.”
“Well, I’m sure your arse is lovely, but he does seem to admire your bad moods more.”
“He’s such a fucking weirdo,” I say affectionately. I look down at Bernard, who is watching us like he’s at Wimbledon. “Am I okay to let him off his lead?”
“Can he plaster walls?”
“Probably not. He’s not terribly obedient with anything.”
“Might as well, then.”
I unclip Bernard’s lead, and he immediately walks over to put his paws on the windowsill and peer out. He’s a very nosy puppy. I grab an antiseptic wipe and clean my hands, then take another to clean the cut. “This is deep,” I say. “You might need stitches.”
“Nah. I haven’t got time.”
“Oh, you’re definitely Reuben’s mate. If he cut his leg off, he’d stick it back on with gorilla glue.” I look up at him as I set the bloody cloth down. “How long have you been friends with him?”
“God. Many years. We met in our twenties in Ibiza. We were both after the same bloke at a club.”
“Did he win?” He scowls, and I laugh. “You can say it. We know it’s the truth. He’s irresistible.”
“You seem to have managed to resist him all these years.”
I freeze in the act of opening a plaster. “Ah. Have we reached the judgemental part of this conversation?”
“Hardly. I can barely handle my own shit without taking anyone else’s on.”
“Wow. You’re like Gandhi.”
He laughs and watches as I fix the plaster on his cut. “You’re exactly as he described you.”
“Beautiful and a showstopper?”
“Kind, sharp as a tack, and extremely wilful.”
I conceal my pleasure and shoot him a wry smile. “Lucky you. You’re having the full Xavier experience.”
“You’re not quite as homicidal as he led me to believe, though.”
“Ah, it’s been a slow morning.” I’m tempted to ask him questions about Reuben, but I already know he won’t answer them. “So, why are you here?”
“This place is my uncle’s. He’s a tattoo artist and trained me. He’s having an op on his hand and asked if I could help with the shop renovation.”
“You have a shop in Ibiza, don’t you?” I say idly. I step back. “There. All done.”
He twists his hand to look at it. “You’d make a good nurse.”
“Ah, my temperament sadly says no to that career path.”
He eyes me curiously. “So, you like tattoos?”
“Oh yeah,” I say enthusiastically. I turn and raise my shirt, showing him the watercolour dragon that stretches from my shoulder blades to just above my arse. “I had this done last year in Amsterdam.”
He whistles, and I feel a finger run down my spine, tracing the lines of the tattoo. It’s not intrusive—the gesture is completely removed from everything apart from professional interest. “I love that he’s breathing flowers. This is Marcus Sampson’s work.”
“How do you know?”
“The colours and style. No one does watercolours like him.”
I lower my shirt and turn around. “Yeah, it was him. One of the highlights of last year was getting this done.”
“You’re lucky. Marcus doesn’t take on many clients now. He’s too busy with his show.”
I wink at him. “I’m hard to resist.”
“Yes, Reuben mentioned that too.” He seems to find my blush fascinating, chuckling as I glare at him. “Well, now you’ve had one done, you’ll get another. It’s a bug.”
“I can’t get any more while I’m modelling.”
“Can’t they cover them up with makeup?”
“They can. They just don’t always want to. Plenty of pretty men have plain skin.” I wander over to the flashboards that are resting against the wall. “Is this your uncle’s stuff?” I call. He nods, and I look closer and whistle. “Wow. These are amazing.”
“He’s very talented. Taught me everything I know.”
I run my finger down the picture of a rather cheeky-looking mermaid. “The lines are so good on this. It almost looks real. It’s so hard to get personality on a living canvas.”
When I turn back, his eyes are alert. “You know your stuff?”
I shrug. “I watch tattoo shows when I can’t sleep, which is a lot of the time, and I like to draw.”
“I remember Reuben saying you were a very talented artist.”
“Did he?” I can’t conceal my startled pleasure.
He asks, “That’s more of a compliment to you than him mentioning your looks?” When I nod, something sparks in his eyes. “Draw me something.”
“Pardon?”
He gestures to the old laminate counter, where a pad and a pen lie. “Draw me a pin-up in the fifties style.”
“Okay,” I say, humouring him. I quickly sketch a mechanic in overalls smoking a cigarette and flexing his huge muscles. When I hand it to him, he laughs. “Not quite what I was imagining when I said pin-up.”
“Then you should be more specific.”
He examines the little image and whistles. “This is fucking good.”
“Really?” The compliment sends warmth through my chest because he doesn’t look the sort to offer flannel.
He nods. “See this line here?” I nod. “That’s wrong. But the rest is good.” He pushes the pad back to me. “Draw something else.”
“Like what?”
“Make something up. Whatever comes into your head.”
I think and then sketch a snail wearing running clothes and a pink bandanna.
He drags the pad over and laughs in delight. “That’s epic.”
“It’s just a snail.”
“No, it’s a quirky snail.”
“If you say so.”
“Artwork like this begs to be made into a tattoo.”
“Wow. It’s just an old thing I used to doodle.”
He sets the pad down on the counter. “Want to learn how to do that on a person?”
I gape at him. “Pardon?”
He gestures to the door behind the counter. “Everything in the backroom is still set up. My chair is in there. I was just getting ready to break it down.”
“You want me to tattoo my snail on you?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“What if it’s shit?”
He shrugs. “No one will notice.” He eyes me steadily. “And I don’t think it will be. You’ve a good eye and a steady hand.”
“It helps with the day drinking.”
He laughs. “Well?”
I examine him, and excitement kindles. “Yeah, okay. I’d love to have a go. What about Bernard?”
“Who?”
“My dog.”
“Ah, I don’t want him tattooing me. His paws are a bit big.”
I snort. “Can I bring him where you tattoo?”
“It’s breaking every hygiene law, and I’m a stickler for them, but fuck it, we’re not open, and you’re not charging me, are you?”
“Perish the thought,” I say demurely. My phone rings, and I grin when I see Reuben’s contact picture. “Are you on the way home?” I say as I answer the call. There’s a very long pause, and I cock my head. “Hello?”
“Oh yes. Sorry,” he says hoarsely.
“You okay?”
Another pause. “Never better. Erm, are you ready to be picked up?”
“Not really. I’m about to tattoo someone.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m tattooing a snail on someone.”
“Well, of course you are,” he says slowly, and I laugh. “Well, you certainly move quickly on a day out. Something to remember.”
“You already knew it anyway.”
I’m pretty sure he’s remembering just how fast I do move, and it’s confirmed when I hear his voice say huskily, “So, are you tattooing anyone I know, or just doing forced tattoos on the local residents?”
“It would be hard to reach skin here. Everyone seems to be wearing forty layers of clothes. It’s actually a mate of yours. Rhys.”
“How the fuck did you meet him?”
“I’m a sociable sort of person, Reuben.”
Rhys gestures at me. “Tell Reuben to bring some fish and chips back with him.”
“They’re fat-dense and deep fried,” I say, shocked.
He raises an eyebrow. “And? That is what makes them delicious.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I speak into the phone. “Can you bring Rhys some fish and chips? And if you could locate a salad for me, that would be great.”
He snorts. “Of course. I exist to wait on you both. Am I in danger of being drawn on when I get there?”
“Sadly, no. Not unless you’ve been very naughty.”
I click to end the call and look at Rhys. “Let’s go,” I say excitedly.