Kenny
The restless, angry feelings slugged it out in my chest as I wandered through the drugstore. I’d come here straight from work specifically to get a bottle of wine, and Mrs. Clarkson’s words echoed in my thoughts. It’s not a betrayal to live your life.
I wanted to live my life. I really did, but whenever a guy approached me, everything inside me shut down. The only time it hadn’t happened was with Patrick, but we were so shit-faced, that didn’t count.
Mrs. Clarkson’s theory was interesting, though—maybe she was right, and my heart was ready. I just had to learn to switch off my brain and let go. Either way, it didn’t matter because there wasn’t anyone waiting to catch me.
It was early, but I grabbed the bottle of wine anyway. Then I wandered to the cards and gifts aisle, stopping in front of American Ink magazine. The model on the cover had long, straight-black hair like mine, and her arms were covered in a colorful pattern that twisted and flowered up her biceps. It looked like the artist had used a watercolor technique, and the year I’d been at Living Arts Tattoos with Carl crept across my memory.
Carl had done elaborate tattoos like these, ones that took multiple sessions to complete, and I’d watched him closely, learning how to take blank skin and turn it into a canvass. I wasn’t there long enough to get as skilled as he, but I’d enjoyed the few works of art I’d created. Most of them were on my own body, from the tear in my hand to the star on my hip. The only one I hadn’t done was the butterfly on my ribs. It was my first ink, and Carl had done it for me after I lost Blake.
When I moved back to Bayville, I’d let that part of me go. I was pregnant, and I needed allies. I couldn’t be the rebellious teenager who’d run off and married the delinquent everybody hated.
Something in me twisted at the loss, and I added the magazine to the basket on my arm. From there, I went to the hair care aisle. Walking slowly, I saw a box for deep violet-colored dye. It had been years since I’d done anything interesting with my hair, and the urge to change everything pulled hard at my insides. The bottle went into the basket, and I headed to the front.
The cashier didn’t even blink when I placed a bottle of wine, a tattoo magazine, and a box of purple hair dye in front of her. As far as she cared, she saw shit like this every day. Whatever. I was shaking things up, seeing if a little change would release the tension.
* * *
Sitting in front of the television with my hair wrapped in plastic, I sipped a
glass of wine as I thumbed through the magazine. I traced my favorite tats into my sketchbook and tried to decide which I would do if I still had a gun.
Men’s tattoos were so straightforward, tribal bands or broad Samoan patterns across shoulders and over backs. I stared at a photo of a pale, skinny guy with spikey blond hair and a square jaw. He had gauges in his ears and both arms were covered in green and black sleeves that were a mixture of skulls and chains. His light eyes pierced out from the pages at me. Trouble was written all over his expression, and the muscles low in my belly tightened. Of course, this was the type of guy Kenny the Tigress wanted to maul. Or was I Wonder Woman?
One thing was for sure, I was buzzed. I pulled myself off the floor, stumbling to my closet, glass of wine still in my hand.
All the way in the back was a box I never opened anymore. Lifting the lid, I dug through the napkins and cigarette books from clubs we’d visited, dried flowers and a diary. I shoved them all aside trying to find it. Was it all the way at the bottom?
A hard cube met my fingertips, and I pulled out a cheap, red-vinyl box that opened with a squeak. Inside was the thinnest gold band anybody had ever seen. It was all we’d been able to afford. I think it cost twenty dollars. Pulling it out, I slipped it on the third finger of my left hand, and my breath hiccupped.
Going back to the box, I dug some more until I found the one picture I still had of us together. Blake had his skinny arm thrown over my shoulder, and I was leaning forward laughing, clutching his waist. A cigarette hung out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were half-closed while he flipped off the photographer with his other hand.
God, we were so young—not that I was so old now, but when this was taken, I’d only been eighteen. Mrs. Clarkson was eighteen when she’d married her husband. But they’d had forty years together. Blake and I only had two.
Staring at the faces, I waited for the tears to start. I braced myself for the gut-wrenching sobs that used to double me over and have me silently screaming. It always happened when I looked at these mementos. How long had it been since I’d done this? A year?
Nothing happened. I sat in silence staring at these artifacts from my past, and that was exactly how they felt. Distant.
My phone rang in the other room, and I pushed myself off the floor. Wobbling back to the living room, I took another long sip of wine, still amazed I wasn’t crying. On my phone face was a girl with a wide smile and light-brown curls flowing over her shoulders. A garland was across her forehead. Mariska.
“Why didn’t you tell me Rook hired a new guy today?” Her voice was loud and taunting.
“Probably because I was too pissed at catching them fucking again.” My voice was a little slurry, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She screamed a laugh. “No. WAY!”
I put my wine glass on the coffee table and fell back on the couch with a loud exhale. I needed to eat something.
“Way,” I muttered, reaching up to touch the plastic cap still on my head. I still had dye in my hair. Great. Dragging myself off the couch, I headed to the bathroom.
“They are so inspiring.” Mariska’s voice had gone dreamy. “Imagine being married to someone that long and still wanting to fuck their brains out all the time.”
My eyes rolled. “It’s more shocking than inspirational, actually.”
“I’d love a sneak peek. Rook’s hot. I bet he has an enormous dick.”
“Please. Don’t. He’s our boss.” The fact was, he did—and I didn’t want to think about it.