Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

We went around and around in the concrete garage, parking in a spot near the elevator that would take us to the Grand Canal Shoppes. As we got out of the car, Tim looked furtively around him, as if that blue car would appear out of nowhere again and try to run us down.

Nothing this time, though. We got into the elevator and rode in silence to the third level, getting out and going through the walkway and into the mall.

Ace was not at the oxygen bar.

That was a change. Maybe he had a client.

“I need to make a few calls,” Tim said.

“You can use the office,” I said, wondering when my next client was scheduled.

When we got to my shop, though, my question was answered for me.

Colin Bixby was leaning against the mahogany desk, talking to Bitsy.

They looked up when I pushed the door open. Tim nodded at them and, without a word, went past them to the office in the back. That was odd. He didn’t give Colin even a glance. They’d met a few months back, but maybe he didn’t recognize him.

Bitsy raised her eyebrows at me, but I gave my head a quick shake, indicating she shouldn’t ask now. I forced a smile for Bixby, still unclear why he was here.

“Hi there,” I said.

It wasn’t quite a smile, just a little hint at the corner of his lips. It seemed he was as unclear about his visit as I was. But I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. For once.

“Want to come back?” I asked, giving my head another little shake at Bitsy, whose eyebrows were now almost to her hairline.

Colin followed me to my room, and I indicated he should go in. I closed the door after us.

“Have a seat,” I said, waving my hand toward the client chair.

Bixby stood awkwardly, his hands in his pockets, looking at the chair as if it were a wild animal that might bite him.

I laughed. “It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t have my machine on.”

The joke didn’t do much to change his mood, but he sat tentatively on the edge of the chair. I swung my wheeled chair around and sat next to him.

“I guess you’re not here for more ink,” I said after a few seconds of loud silence.

The smile peeked out then, and his green eyes flashed. His gaze was intense, and I found myself feeling all hot and bothered, but in a really good way. There was definitely something still between us.

“You seeing anyone?” he asked.

I shook my head, not sure where he was going with this. He could’ve asked me that the other day or called me to find out. A personal visit wasn’t necessary.

“I’ve been seeing someone.” His words were like a gut punch, and I found myself struggling for a breath.

Okay, I was really in the dark now.

“Maybe you should tell me why you’re here,” I said after a second. My voice sounded oddly disconnected from my body.

“But it’s not serious,” he continued as if I hadn’t said anything at all.

Something inside me switched, and I felt anger rising. He couldn’t mess around with me like this. What sort of game was he playing? Sure, I’d screwed things up before, but we’d been perfectly happy not seeing each other. Hadn’t we?

“Maybe you should spit it out,” I said, the edge in my voice sharp as a knife.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

He nodded. “I’m sorry, Brett, but seeing you again has sort of thrown me for a loop. It’s brought back some feelings I’d forgotten about. Or tried to forget about.”

I remembered what he’d told me when we met at the university the other day. How he’d just about forgotten me. I nodded.

“But I’ll tell you why I’m here. I know you’re curious.”

I wished he’d get on with it.

“It’s about Rosalie. Marino.”

My confusion about Colin Bixby melted away with the abrupt change of subject.

“What about her?”

“You know about the abuse.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I did her tattoos,” I admitted. “The purple and white ribbons on her arm. The ones that symbolize survival.”

Bixby leaned forward and I could smell his scent: a little citrus and honey with a slight hint of hospital.

“I treated her for the broken bones. The bruises.” He paused a second. “And when she lost the baby.”

Now I really felt as though someone had punched me in the gut. Baby?

He saw what I was thinking.

“You didn’t know about the baby?”

“No.”

“But you’re her friend,” he said.

I wasn’t. I barely knew her. She’d spent a couple of hours right here in this chair, but other than that, my contact with Rosalie Marino had been limited to the last couple of days. Because of our encounter at the university lab, it may have seemed to Bixby as though we were closer than tattooist and client. I shook my head. “No. Not really.”

Confusion crossed his face. “But you came to the hospital to see her last night,” he said. “I thought-”

“No. We’re not friends. But I am friends with her father’s new wife and her son. What’s this about a baby?”

Colin hung his head in his hands. “I should have known.”

He didn’t answer my question. “Should have known what?”

“That things with you aren’t always as they seem.”

Okay, so he was right on that. But he didn’t have to act as if it were the end of the world.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But you did come to me about something. Is Rosalie in trouble? I really am friends with the rest of her family.”

“Her new family,” he emphasized. “And I can’t say any more than that now.”

He shut down, his doctor-client confidentiality held close to the vest now that he knew I wasn’t who he thought I was. His eyes skipped around the room, resting finally on the ink pots lined up on the shelf, the tattoo machine on its side.

“Do you want another one?” I asked softly. I’d warned him when I’d given him his Celtic knot on his breast that tattoos are addictive. It’s rare to find someone who’s content with only one. Maybe he’d never get more than one, but I was willing to bet he thought about it. I had quite a few repeat clients.

When Colin didn’t answer, I tried a joke. “How about a stethoscope on your arm?” I could see it, too, how I would design it, and suddenly it wasn’t a joke anymore. It could be really cool. The stethoscope could start on his bicep and swirl down to the crook of his arm, where I’d place the chest piece, which he’d use to check someone’s blood pressure. I described my idea to him.

Colin Bixby’s eyes flickered, and the temptation had been planted. He liked the idea. Liked it a lot.

“You could do that?” he asked tentatively.

“I could draw up something, see if you like it,” I said, reaching for my pad and pencil. Quickly I sketched it out, shading here and there, and when I was done, turned it around so he could see it.

“Wow,” he whispered, staring at it.

“You could think about it, make an appointment if you think it’s something you want to do,” I said. The last time he didn’t think he would go through with it if I didn’t do it right then, so I had. He’d flinched only at the first touch of the needle, didn’t even seem as if he’d pass out at all-a problem more common than you’d think-which was why I thought perhaps he might not mind getting more ink. Despite his admission that he didn’t like needles.

The thing with the tattoo machine is, the needles only go down into the second layer of skin, where they release the ink. I don’t like needles, either, when they go farther than that. Granted, getting a tattoo still hurts, and knowing that the needles pierce the skin only so far is cold comfort.

I put the pad and pencil on the shelf. Colin got up and brushed imaginary lint off his jeans.