He squeezes my hand, I squeeze back, then he drops it and nods. “Yup.”
“Nice custom work, you do it yourself?”
“Yup.”
“Cool, cool.” I want to get more into it, talk about the custom shit my dad and me do, but something tells me he knows who I am and he’s waiting for it. So I turn away and look at the pictures on the wall.
“I’m ready,” Blondie says as she turns the corner of a hallway. “Follow me,” she huffs as she turns her back and walks away.
I shoot Big Brother a smile, then do as I’m told. There are several tattoo rooms and hers is at the end. I watch her ass as she walks. She’s wearing those scrubs that doctors wear in surgery. Hers are pink. That makes me smile. She looks like a pink girl. A real girly girl. I bet she wanted to be a princess when she grew up. She turns the corner into her room and beckons me inside with a sigh.
I stop short. “What the f**k?” Every surface of her room is covered in plastic. It’s like the dentist, times a bazillion. The TV is covered, the chair is covered, the counters have plastic over them, and when I turn around to ask her what’s up, she’s got on a pink face mask. I laugh.
She flips me the finger. “Fuck you! You should be happy I’m so hygienic. You will never catch a disease in my room. Sit your ass down in the chair and don’t say another word unless I ask you a question.”
I chuckle under my breath and take a seat. The plastic crinkles underneath me and I slip around a little. “So, Veronica. I never properly introduced myself this morning. I’m Spencer.”
“I don’t need to know your name. Besides,” she says as she slips a visor over her forehead that has a long clear plastic shield attached to it. “I already know all about you.” Her last few words come out muffled and with an echo from behind the mask and the shield.
I smile and wink. “Don’t believe everything you hear, then, OK?”
She ignores me. “Take your shirt off and tell me what you want that awful thing you’re calling a tattoo turned into.”
I slip my shirt over my head slowly, just like I did it this morning. She pretends to be busy with her machine and ink, but I catch her looking out of the corner of her eye. “I’m thinking I need a whole back piece to cover that little lady. I’m thinking ravens, and skulls, and smoke. I’m thinking Blackbirds, of the mechanical variety. I’m thinking all done up in black and red.”
“Ha,” she fake-laughs. “That’s a month’s worth of appointments. I want to know what you want me to do today.”“A Blackbird, Blondie. I want a Blackbird today. The hula girl can wait until we get the design right. Today I want you to start the piece. Give me that paper over there, I’ll draw it out for you.”
She looks at me skeptically, removes her face shield and mask and walks over to the counter top where she’s got a spiral notebook. She grabs it, and a pen, even though there are pencils in the jar she’s keeping her writing utensils in, and hands them over.
I open the notebook and realize it’s her personal sketchbook. I look up at her and she’s got her hands on her hips, like she’s waiting on me to perform. I do the head-tilt smile and page through, trying to look at each of her drawings without being obvious. They are all very detailed with elaborate shading and perspective. She’s a talented artist and I’m dying to see the sketch she did of me this morning.
I find a blank page and uncap the pen with my teeth and start to draw. I can sketch this image with my eyes closed, that’s how often I’ve drawn it, both in real life and in my mind. I was drunk when I let Bobby Choo tat me up with a hula girl. Out-of-my-mind drunk, celebrating after the grand jury refused to indict me and my team for murder. That’s the only way I’d let his dumb ass tat me up. Especially my first time. Because I’ve been planning this bike since I was a little kid and I was still handing my old man tools in our garage as he was building the business.
I’m not sure how much time goes by when Bomb whispers over my shoulder. “Thunderbird.”
I laugh and turn my head. I don’t have to turn it far, her cheek is practically right up against mine. “Yeah, baby. Thunderbird, American-style. The 1956 Triumph Blackbird. I want ravens and rooks. And skulls and smoke. All done up in black and red. But first, I want the Shrike Bikes version of the Blackbird. And this is it.” I stop talking so I can stare at her lips for a moment. She licks them and I almost die. I reluctantly drag my eyes up to her heated stare. Her opinion of me has changed since I came in this room. I rip the page out of the notebook and set it on the counter. “Will you do it?”
She lets out a breath, like she was holding it in. “I’d need to plan it properly, Spencer.”
The sound of my name coming out of her mouth gives me the chills. “Of course.”
“You’d need to help me,” she continues in a whisper.
“I’d have it no other way.”
“I might need a model.” She licks her lips again.
“I have the perfect specimen at home in my garage.”
“You have a ’56 Blackbird?”
“I do. You should come see it, get a feel for it between your legs. Get a feel for me as well.”
She’s undressing before my eyes. I almost have a heart attack and start looking for Monster Bro before I realize she’s got shorts and a girly top on underneath her scrubs. Her hair comes down out of the pony tail and flows over her gorgeous br**sts that are accentuated by the tightly stretched fabric of the Sick Boyz shirt. The next thing I know she’s applying some red lip gloss and snapping her compact closed. “I’m ready.”