8. Not That I Don’t Love Your Serpent
NOT THAT I DON’T LOVE YOUR SERPENT
WILLA
“I forgot to tell you… I have to leave. Early flight tomorrow morning back to NYC.”
“Damn. I thought we had all weekend together.”
“I wish, but duty calls.”
“You’re rich and powerful. People ask you to come eat for free, drink for free, be seen near their businesses, mention their brands, try on their clothes. How is ‘duty’ calling? You are the brand.”
“I’m going to ride this wave while I still can, Willa. I’m not getting any younger. I’ll need some work done if I’m still going to be a brand in the next two years.”
“What the fuck, Jackie?”
“Seriously, Wills. It could be gone any day. There will always be a new face or a new brand. One bad turn, one wrong move, and I could lose it all.”
“That’s not true. You’re you and you are who people want to see.”
“Until they don’t.” She looks away as she loops her arm through mine and strides along Sixth Street. “So I’m dancing that razor’s edge. Anyway, I wanted to ask a favor.”
“What is it?” I hedge. You never know with Jackie.
“Ink me?” she says but there’s a question in it.
“I’ve asked you forever, and you’ve never agreed. Why now?”
“Because now I’m ready.”
“Okay,” I respond, but am still trying to examine this newfound desire. This is a one-eighty. She’s always been adamant in her refusal. “What do you want?”
“I want you to pick it.”
What in the world is going on? “Hmmm. Anything you don’t want?”
“No Chinese symbols. No flowers. No animals. Not that I don’t love your serpent—”
“Dragon,” I correct.
“—dragon,” she continues. “But I want something that will remind me of what you think of me.”
“Are you dying or something?”
“No.” She pulls me to a stop. “Just want a reminder, when I’m alone, of who I am.”
This conversation has turned depressing and seems eerie after my run-in with Paul.
“What size are you thinking? And where?” I weave us through Thursday lunch pedestrian traffic.
“Smaller than Kulshedra.” I laugh and she continues, “Low hip. Somewhere private.”
“Next time you’re in town?”
“Today? Let’s do it now.”
I stop and turn her to face me. For the first time I notice her face is too thin, concealer hides shadows under her eyes.
“Talk to me, Jackie. What’s going on?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. You know me. I just have too much going on and I don’t want to wait.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” she lies.
We grab an Uber and head to the shop.
I disable the alarm and lock the door behind us. All the employees have keys and codes, and the managers don’t have a problem with us coming and going. We don’t open until three this afternoon, so it’s quiet and private.
“You know this is going to hurt, right?”
“I’m prepared for it.”
“Are you?” I stare into her eyes.
For one moment, I wonder about Exton and his constant communication with his eyes. The request—no, the command—to maintain eye contact. His demand that I watch. Always my eyes. I can’t help but wonder what I revealed to him last night. What secrets did I lay bare?
“Yes,” Jackie responds, lying down on her belly and crossing her arms under her chin.
“Trust me?” I ask. For a moment, I am transported back into his arms. I shake my head, leaving my dream memories behind, glove up, and do the transfer. I am adding ink to the machine when I ask again, “You’re positive?”
“Yes,” she says and lays her head in her arms, turning her head away from me.
The first touch of the needle causes her to jump. “You’ve got this, Jackie. Stay with me.”
She nods and stays silent.
I create, getting lost in my work, in the tenor of the piece, in the shadows and highlights and, thirty minutes later, I look down and am pleased.
Three beautiful stalks of bamboo—two intertwined, one individual—rest on her hip.
Their greens and yellows seem stark now, but they’ll fade into a gorgeous pale lime and honeydew green and honeysuckle and butter yellow.
The outline is in a mossy green, no harsh black anywhere.
One of the intertwined stalks is about to flower, but hasn’t opened yet.
Her angry skin will heal, and the blood blooming there will recede. It will be soft and pretty. Bamboo represents strength, happiness, and wealth. It’s perfect.
“Want to see it?” Her head bobs, but I can’t tell if it’s a nod or shake.
“I want to see it when it’s healed,” she replies quietly, so unlike Jackie. She’s normally bubbly and effusive and, right now, she’s withdrawn.
In all my time. I’ve never had anyone leave without seeing their work. “You sure?”
She nods, and I accept, slathering her down with ointment and bandaging the site.
“No baths. No tight jeans. And keep it moist for as long as you can.”
“Okey-doke.”
“Stay while I do a quick one on myself?” I ask.
“Where else would I go?” she replies and rolls to sit on the table, her tear-stained eyes on full display.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Your tears tell a different story, Jackie. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’ll be better in an hour, I promise.”
“If you say so.”
I quickly sketch out my new piece, get it set up, and begin along my outer right hand, from my wrist bone to my pinky. It’s a tricky spot and hard to do, but the design is easy and I’m mostly ambidextrous. Less than ten minutes later, I’m done and bandaged. I clean up, and we leave the shop.
As I lock the door, I hear the blood-curdling scream.
I never see what hits me because my world goes black.