10. Kit
KIT
Cover-ups get a bad rap, but I like them.
“Hold still, okay?”
I smooth the stencil out over Pearl’s skin as she awkwardly balances on the leather of the chair, her skirt hiked down over her hip.
I like original work, of course I do. But working on top of something, removing the fear of the blank page—I don’t know. A cover-up gives you something to start with, some parameters to work around. Kind of like an inkblot test. What could I make fit to this?
And…well, maybe I’m sentimental, but I like knowing that I’m fixing something for someone. That my art’s not just making something beautiful, but blotting out something ugly.
I feel like maybe that’s what art is for.
Certainly has been for me.
“How about…that?”
A few firm passes of my hand and I peel the paper away to reveal the bluish lines of my sketch. I pass Pearl a handled mirror from my cart, and she angles it at herself, looking back and forth.
It’s a classic favorite image of mine. A kind of fairytale maiden, a little bit Mucha-inspired, a little bit Waterhouse.
Eyes closed, long hair tumbling over her naked body and a string of pearls around her neck.
Her waist tapers to a sinuous, scaled tail that perches atop an even larger pearl, all framed with a seashell.
Original, it is not. A mermaid for the Mermaid. But again, I liked having that thing to go on. Her shitty ex’s name gave me the frame. Her own name, fake as it may be, gave me the inspiration.
Besides, I like drawing mermaids. I really do.
I always have. Mermaids, fairies, pixies, storybook maidens—that’s all my sketchbook has ever been.
And after getting my lights punched in more times than I can count over my gay little pictures, I think I’ve earned the right to draw as many as I fucking want.
“Wow,” she breathes. Even on her day off, Pearl is painted up: her pouty lips a paler daytime pink and her eyeshadow a more natural bronze, but still unmistakably a Mermaid. “That’s so good.” She looks up at me, a little spark of warmth in her eyes. “You’re such a good artist, Kit.”
“Thank you,” I say, genuine but professional. I always did get along with girls. Being an unthreatening little boy who can draw beautiful fairy princesses will do that for you.
“God, I wish I had that kind of talent,” Pearl says as I retrieve the mirror from her and set it back on the cart. “I can’t do anything except dance.” She laughs.
“It’s not talent,” I say. “I just draw a lot. Anyone could do it if they practice and care enough.”
“Don’t be so modest, Kit.” She gives me a playful little shove in the shoulder, which I shrug off. “I’m just trying to compliment you.”
“Right.” I blink. “Thanks.”
I step to my cart and pull out some fresh gloves. The shop is quiet this early. No Pan talking too loud or Tink clattering around after him. No Blue at the piercing station yet. And no big brother hovering over me. I know Fox means well, but…he’s also Fox.
Not someone you want around when you’re trying to make art. Or want around a bunch of sharp objects, generally.
I survey my cart. “I’m going to do a quick line test first,” I tell Pearl, looking at the options I’ve prepped.
Hatchback pen, round liner needle with a long taper.
Call me a control freak, but I like a little more precision, even for art that flirts with the bold lines of American Traditional, and I don’t mind taking my time.
Plus, the way needles jump around in rotary machines scares the shit out of me.
“Line test?”
I nod. “Yeah.” It’s become a habit of mine, after the sketch but before I actually charge the client.
Too many people passing out or screaming bloody fucking murder under the needle and then bitching me out to reverse the charge immediately when they decide to tap out.
Like I’m their fucking bank. “Just to make sure you like the thickness. And can handle it, generally.”
Something flickers in Pearl’s eyes. “I can handle plenty of thickness.”
“That’s…” Oh. What? I frown, but before I can say anything else, Pearl is practically caressing the edge of the leather cushion at my station. “You need me to lie down for you?”
I uncap the pen and prime the needle with a touch of ink. “If that’s comfortable for you. This won’t take long.”
She does lie down, and I look again at the ink that’s already there, the fuzzy edges of the letters, a faux-Gothic style that would have been half-assed even when it was fresh, and now just looks…ugly. The kind of bad work, bad craftsmanship that makes it hard to argue that this is any kind of art.
For me it is, though. Always has been. Tattoos are where I first saw actual works of art—or versions of them, anyway.
Klimt’s The Kiss trailing its golden lines down an upper arm.
The Vitruvian Man doing his jumping jacks on someone’s left pec.
Botticelli’s Venus and her shell on the flat of a forearm.
Tattoos gave me a safe place to do my art. Nothing’s manlier than getting inked, after all.
Tattoos are art that people will pay you to make. And that’s a hard thing to come by, these days.
I hit the foot pedal and go in.
Pearl scrolls on her phone as I work the pen over her skin, not even a tiny flinch when the needle hits—good pain tolerance, I guess, which is surprising given that there’s no meat on her and we’re working right over bones.
It’s the thickest part of the outline, and the biggest needle I’ll use, so if she can take that, she’s good to go.
I grab a damp cloth from my cart and wipe. “How’s that feel?”
Pearl lowers her phone, looks down at her hip. “Fine.” She smiles. “How’s it supposed to feel?”
“Fine,” I echo. I set down the needle on my cart and get up to grab the card reader.
“I’m just going to finish the outline today,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ve only got another hour before my next appointment, so you’ll have to come back for the color. I’m guessing you want this healed as soon as possible, for work?”
Over on the chair, Pearl shrugs. Eyes still intent on mine, but still like she’s not really listening to what I’m saying.
“So I’ll just charge you the deposit today,” I go on, finally fishing out the reader from under a pile of unopened mail on the counter. “And you can take care of the balance when we finish.”
Pearl sits up now, swings her legs back and forth. “How am I going to pay you for this?”
I frown. Look at the reader at my hand. “Uh. You want to do cash? I’ll take cash if you have it, or I’ve got Venmo. I can run a card, but—”
“No.” Pearl giggles and pops down off the chair.
She takes a step toward me, the strawberry-vanilla scent of her vape drifting toward me as she gets closer.
And closer. “I mean…God, you’re talented and adorable, Kit.
” She slides her hands over my shoulders, my neck, fingertips trailing over the monochrome snake that stops just short of my jaw, and pushes me, surprisingly hard, against the counter.
“I mean like maybe I can pay you some other way, you know?”
Shit, I think. Shit. But it’s too late.
Pearl grabs my face and kisses me. Hot and eager and very wet and—
“Jesus.” I’m not huge, but I’m strong enough to push her back, so hard her high heels clunk against the floor. “What the hell?”
This girl doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. Just tips her head and smiles. “Oh, please, Kit. I’ve seen how you boys look at us”—not me, you haven’t, I think, heart pounding in my throat as Pearl smirks—“and, well, now’s your chance. All yours.”
Her hands find their way back around my neck and she overtakes me again. Somehow, all five-foot-nothing of her, is sucking me in for this pornstar kiss, this professional’s kiss, this one-hand-on-my-belt-buckle, tongue-on-my-neck, fingertips-on-my-zipper—
“Anybody home?”
Fuck. I launch Pearl off of me, and this time she stumbles, knocking into my cart and leaving me with my fly half down and lower lip feeling actually swollen.
“Hello? Is anybody—”
The footsteps from the kitchen slow to a dead halt.
“Dude.” Pan practically crows the word as he stops. He takes me in, takes us in, his eyes wide and brows up. “Are we…interrupting something?”
“No.” I tug at my zipper, wipe at my mouth. A few feet away, Pearl looks put out. “No—Jesus. I’m just…what are you doing here?”
Pan shrugs. “Could ask the same of you.”
“Working,” I rasp. My heart is still pounding, more from sheer shock than anything else. “Or trying to.” Fuck. I run a hand through my hair.
Pan doesn’t care, I know he doesn’t. If anything, he’s just going to find this funny—he does find this funny, judging by the way he’s mugging and muttering hoooo boy over his shoulder—and that’s when I realize he’s not alone.
Tink. Of course. Right behind Pan as always. Sees me, sees Pearl.
I don’t even know Tink that well. Not well enough to guess his reaction. But I don’t have to guess, because he’s just got this…expression on his face.
A kind of huh, didn’t know you were like that, Kit expression.
And I don’t know why that needles at me. But it does.
Except I’m not like that, I want to shout. Shit.
For one thing, gross, I’d never fuck someone in the shop.
For another…
It’s not that I’m gay; that would be an easier explanation.
Yeah, I like guys, but I like everyone. Or no, not everyone.
Some people. Specifically. Like crushes, but more intense.
The idea of fucking someone I just met feels…
like nothing. It does nothing for me. I can see that Pearl is beautiful, that she is a grade-A hot babe piece of ass, or whatever.
But for some reason, I need more than that.
And from what I’ve seen—from life, from living with these guys—there might not be any more. To sex. To love. To…any of it.
Life’s not art. Simple as that.
But before I can say or explain or really do anything further, Pearl pipes up.
“Oh my God, is that a kid?”
What? I follow her stare, to a figure just behind Tink and Pan, and…
I’ll be goddamned. It is a kid.
A girl, that is. Maybe…twelve? I don’t know.