Stripped Down

“Night, Angel,” she calls, making tracks for the Bug. Damned if she isn’t going to drive away bare-assed naked. I bite back a grin. The mental picture is almost worth the soaking.

I swim for the ledge. She’s got her head start, but now I’m coming for her, and this time she’s not getting away.

January

ROSE

We’re not in the city anymore. The view from my front door makes that perfectly clear. My new view comes with mountains—and a side of cows, horses, and cowboys in tight Wranglers. The miles between Lonesome and San Francisco assume titanic proportions. We drove up last night and parked the RV in a campground a few miles from Lonesome. Apparently, our temporary stopping place is also right on the edge of someone’s cattle range, and the cowboys are busting their asses wrangling steers or checking fences or doing whatever it is they do besides looking calendar-worthy.

Pretty sure I don’t belong here, and not just because I’m a tattoo-covered, city-loving San Franciscan. It seems like ages since I last saw these mountains and cowboys. The men in the Wranglers may or may not be the same, but Lonesome itself never changes. Not on the outside, at least. The place is missing its heart, though, because Auntie Dee is gone.

A heart attack, or so the doctors said. Quick and merciful. She didn’t see it coming, didn’t have time to be afraid or alone. It also meant I didn’t have time to be here. I didn’t see it coming, either. Didn’t realize I was spending my last hours with her, storing up my final memories. There wasn’t enough time, and now there’s none.

Rory comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and tucking his chin into my shoulder. Rory Olivera has been my bestie since the day we met. I lean back against him, and we stare at the not-so-busy scene. More cows filter by. Or steers. Something with horns, that’s for sure. I probably should have taken the agriculture classes the local high school offered. Bet I’d know all the cow names then. But frankly? Filling in black ink in a tattoo might be more exciting—this is the country equivalent of watching paint dry. We parked here last night because Rory wanted to tie one on at the bar and he’s vehemently anti the-drinking-and-driving after losing his sister to a drunk driver four years ago. I’d been the designated driver, and we’d planned to move the RV out to Auntie Dee’s place later this morning.

Frankly, there’s not all that much to keep us here. I do a quick mental inventory of Lonesome’s “downtown” and my memory supplies two antique shops, one all-purpose general store, a gas station, and a mini-mart. There’s also one church, a storefront doubling as a second place of worship, and two bars, including the one Rory drank dry last night.

My roommate might have a drinking problem. The jury’s still out. He’s a good guy, though, and my best friend. Aside from the penis and balls equipment, he’s as good as a girlfriend. Things between us are and always will be platonic, but he’s also useful for keeping other guys at bay. He’s good-looking in a rough kind of way. He claims to be Black Irish, and he’s got the dark hair and green eyes to back up his claim. Get him drunk enough and he’ll do an Irish impression, too. He and I made a deal years ago. We don’t do each other. We both needed a friend, and it’s worked for us. When I impulsively decided that Lonesome, California needed a tattoo shop stat, Rory didn’t hesitate. He threw his shit in the RV and followed my pink Bug all the way here. Like me, he’s broken on the inside. He uses sex to keep his demons at bay, to make sure he has control over his world. He’s never told me who did what to him, but we recognized each other when we met. We’re both survivors.

You look at him and you don’t know he’s hurt on the inside. The tattoos cover up the scars he wears on the outside. That’s how we met. He came into the street shop where I was working and wanted me to ink his wrists. He said it would be a challenge, and then he gave me a fucking hour. The street shop only does flash tattoos. Our customers come in, usually on an impulse, and we give them a butterfly or a Chinese symbol, an ink quickie, and they leave happy. Rory had a one-inch band of scarring around both wrists. Scars are tricky. They hold the ink differently and the skin beneath the color isn’t uniform. It’s broken, transformed, beautiful in a different way.

He didn’t tell me how he got those scars and I didn’t ask. I gave him a dragon breathing fire. When he puts his wrists together, the flames from the mouth on the left devours the skin and bone on the right. He liked his ink, and we’ve been friends ever since. Right now, however, he looks like he might be rethinking his commitment. Or jonesing for Starbucks.