Black Hawk Tattoo

Chapter 1-3

“Whoa,” Gabe said, looking up. “Sorry,” he amended quickly, feeling the blood creep up his face again. Cop Hair was going to think he was diseased. “It’s just…that’s pretty harsh.”

“Yes, it is,” the guy said flatly.

Gabe realized he was staring and quickly looked back at the paper. “Right. Okay.” He penciled in the words fast. “You’re going to have to tell me what you want the letters to look like, unless you want me to design them?”

“I’ll find something,” Cop Hair said.

“Great,” Gabe said. He turned the sketchpad again. “So, that’s pretty much what you want it to look like?”

Another unsmiling nod. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”

“Great,” Gabe repeated. “This, uh, you should know that this is going to cost a lot of money.” He made himself look up again, because you couldn’t seem shy when you were talking about getting paid. “You’re looking at around two thousand five hundred for the flash—tattoo design, I mean—and for the labor, since you want this over your entire back.”

“That’s fine,” the guy said, still curt, like he’d expected that.

“And it’s going to take me a few days to finish this, eh? You know, do a good copy. Make sure it’s what you want.”

Cop Hair gave him a smile that barely curved his lips and was completely lost in the tension around his eyes. “Take all the time you need.”

“Great, thanks,” Gabe said. “The tattoo itself is going to take a long time, too. Especially with all the black work there.” He pointed at the helicopter and the part of the sky he knew was going to be black as full night. “Like, probably two months of four or five-hour sittings each week, depending on how long it takes your skin to heal in between. And, well, it’ll most likely hurt like a b***h, especially right over your bones. Like, your spine and ribcage.” Gabe smiled crookedly. “I’ve had clients who never got their tattoos finished once I started on the ribs, and one guy passed out.” Gabe was always honest with the clients, but normally he downplayed the pain a bit so he wouldn’t scare them. He realized he was actually trying to discourage Cop Hair and mentally kicked himself. He’d have to be insane to let more than two grand walk out the door because the client made him nervous. “But, uh, you know, it’s all individual.”

“Pain won’t be a problem,” the guy said.

“Right,” Gabe answered uncertainly. He was used to bravado from guys, but it was rare for someone to say that he basically didn’t give a s**t how much it hurt and sound like he meant it. “Hang on a sec.” Gabe ducked down again and grabbed one of the waiver forms and a pen. “Here.” He smiled apologetically when he bobbed up again. “I’m sure you’re over eighteen, but we need proof, and you’ll have to sign this. Studio policy.”

“Sure,” Cop Hair said. He signed the paper, then took his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open. He pulled out one of the cards and handed it to Gabe. “That’s got my date of birth on it.”

The card was a driver’s license, and Gabe was surprised to see the word “Indiana” along the top in big letters. “You’re American?” he asked, although of course the license said so. He automatically eyed the date of birth. Jake MacLean, with the gorgeous face and calendar-model body and cop hair, was twenty-eight years old, a whole six years older than Gabe, though Gabe had a hard time reconciling the relaxed features and half smile in the photograph to the grim strain on the real-life version standing in front of him. He hadn’t had the scar when the picture was taken. “You here on vacation?” Gabe resisted adding the What do you think of Canada? question every visitor got asked all the time. He slid the card back, disappointment Jake wasn’t going to be in Toronto permanently completely at odds with how relieved Gabe felt about the exact same thing. He was also wondering how Jake expected to have enough time to get such an elaborate tattoo.

Jake took the license back and shoved it into his wallet. “No,” he said as he pushed the wallet into his pocket. “I’ve been here since February. I’ve got dual citizenship.”

“Oh, cool,” Gabe said, brightening. “Uh, I mean, I hope you like it here,” he added lamely when he realized he’d just more or less implied Jake was more acceptable as a Canadian.

“It’s kind of hot,” Jake said. He picked up his picture of the helicopter and carefully refolded it. “Do you need this?”

“Um, yeah, if that’s okay,” Gabe said. He took the creased paper back from Jake, being careful not to touch his fingers. “It probably won’t be this hot for very long.”

“I know,” Jake said. “Are we done?” he asked, harshly enough Gabe’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” he said much more politely. “I mean, do I owe you anything now?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said. He hated this part. It wasn’t like he couldn’t use the commission, but he always felt guilty asking for money. He liked it a lot better when Dee or Rob was there to do the actual transaction part, but Gabe was going to have to cash out tonight. “There’s a hundred-dollar deposit. Canadian,” he added, as if Jake somehow wouldn’t have known that. If Jake hadn’t already thought he was an i***t, Gabe was sure that would’ve convinced him.

But Jake didn’t smirk or roll his eyes or anything. “Sure,” he said, getting his wallet again. He pulled out five twenty-dollar bills and put them on the table.

“Thanks,” Gabe said. He took the money and put it into Rob’s ancient till, working out a rough estimate of his take from it in his head. He glanced down at the sketch. “I’ll start working on this, and you can come back…say, tomorrow? And tell me if it’s progressing the way you were thinking of.”

“Sure,” Jake said. “You want me to come at the same time?”

For some reason the question made Gabe blush again, and he rubbed his face, hoping Jake would just think it was the heat. “Yeah. That would be fine.”

“Okay, then.” Jake tapped the glass of the countertop a few times with his fingers, as if trying to think of something else to say. “Thanks.”

Gabe watched Jake leave. He was mostly glad he could relax again, but some small, crazy part of Gabe wished Jake would look back. Jake didn’t.

As soon as the door closed, Hype appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching her sketchbook like a shield. “Was he a cop?”

“No, Hydraulics,” Gabe said, welcoming the return to normalcy after the weird vibe Jake MacLean had brought to the shop. Actually, Jake might’ve been a cop—it wasn’t like Gabe had asked him. “He’s American.”

“American?” Hype repeated. Her face screwed up. “Ew.”

“Cut it out,” Gabe said. “There’s nothing wrong with Americans. Besides, the Brokeback Mountain guy you like is American. So shut up.”

“The one I like’s Australian, stupid,” Hype said. “So, what’d the American want?” She slapped her hand down on Gabe’s sketchbook and pulled it toward her. She looked at it and then goggled up at Gabe. “What the f**k is this? It looks like something out of Black Hawk Down.”

Gabe stared at her. “You saw Black Hawk Down?”

Hype went back to studying the picture. “Is it meant to be on fire? That’s cool.”

Gabe yanked the sketchbook back and flipped it shut. “It’s not cool,” he said. “Hey! Give me that!” He snatched the folded paper out of her hand. “It’s private! Jesus!”

Hype bobbed back, looking at him incredulously. “What’s your problem? It’s a tattoo.”

“Yeah, well, it’s his picture,” Gabe mumbled. He didn’t know what his problem was—he didn’t actually need the amateur little picture; he’d asked for it on a whim. He tucked it carefully into the sketchbook anyway and then held the book tightly under one arm so the paper wouldn’t fall out. “What time is it?” He looked at his watch before Hype could answer. “Holy fuck.” It was ten thirty. Normally the shop closed at ten. It hadn’t felt like that much time had passed. “I’m closing up.” And he still had all the cleaning to do. “You staying or going?”

Hype’s wide-eyed horror was all the answer Gabe needed. “You said I could help! Look!” She scooped her own sketchbook off the counter, holding it up to him like she was trying to ward off a vampire. “I finished the flash and everything!”

“Right, right. Yeah, sorry,” Gabe said, trying not to groan out loud. It would take twice as long with Hype “helping.” “Not bad,” he said, nodding at the pictures. She’d done two different versions of pirate skulls and crossbones. Nothing really original yet, but she was already showing a nice style. “These are almost ready for the binders.”

“Yeah?” Hype beamed at him.

Gabe couldn’t help grinning back at her, and then he ruffed up her hair just to make her squeal and pat at her stupid bow. “I’m going to put this in my apartment,” he said, tilting the sketchbook a little so Hype would know what he meant. “In the meantime, go get the mopping stuff from downstairs.”

“Slave driver,” Hype groused, but she wasn’t really protesting.

“Oh.” Gabe stopped her before she went downstairs. “Are you going home tonight? I don’t mind if you want the couch.”

“Sure, that’d be fine.” Hype said it like it was no big deal, but Gabe could see the relief she was trying to hide. It made him sad.

“Hurry up,” he said. “You’d better be ready by the time I get back.”

“Screw you,” Hype said. She went down the stairs.

Gabe chuckled as he trotted up the two flights to his apartment above the studio.

* * * *

Jake reached the Bloor-Yonge subway station at a fast walk and descended the worn steps. Almost no one was out this late on a Monday night, and even the college and high school kids weren’t hanging around in this heat with nothing interesting going on. The station was deserted except for the weary Toronto Transit Commission employee who nodded when Jake dropped his token into the fare box.

He couldn’t stand this: his heart banging so hard it felt like it would drill out of his chest, his hands in his pockets so no one would see them shake. He wanted to run, just go flat-out on and on until his body couldn’t sustain him anymore. But there was nowhere he could escape to.

Another solitary passenger clattered down the broken escalator behind him, then brushed Jake’s arm as he passed, and for a second, all Jake wanted to do was grab the guy by the front of his trendy T-shirt and heave him off the platform. Let the tension coiled like barbed wire inside him explode out of his body as rage.

Jake didn’t do it, because he wasn’t a f*****g psychopath, but just the fact that he’d even thought about it kept him on the furthest end of the platform, away from the other man. Jake hated feeling so out of control.

He’d been doing okay lately, he really had, but he hadn’t figured that just describing the…what the helicopter had looked like to the tattoo artist—Gabriel—would bring everything back like this. It hadn’t been so bad when he’d drawn the picture himself, but that was because he’d deliberately gone out to get drunk afterward, blur everything for a little while. But tonight Jake had stayed sober on purpose, because it was important to get the design right. That had been a mistake.

The train blared a warning as it roared into the station, and even though Jake was expecting it, the sudden noise still made him flinch and hiss in a breath. The doors opened and a woman stepped out, looking like she’d put in too many hours at the office. She glanced at Jake, who still had sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air inside the station, and he could feel her sour disapproval of him, all heat-damp and scruffy. Jake slunk by her into the empty subway car. It was frigid with air-conditioning but still smelled like too many bodies packed too long together in the heat.