Black Hawk Tattoo

Toronto, 2006 “No,” Gabe said again. He pushed his damp hair away from his forehead, his mouth twitching involuntarily at the sweat that clung to his skin. It was mid-July, and Toronto had hit its stride for summer temperatures. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m not putting a goddamn baseball-sized teddy bear on your ass,” he told his latest customer, some kid who’d probably forged the Liquor Control Board of Ontario ID card he’d used to prove he was nineteen. “First of all, I’m pretty sure you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing. Second of all, the design you want is stupid. Third, the place you want to put it is stupid. And fourth, you’re going to look like an asshole for the rest of your life.” “Dude, it’s my ass!” the kid yelled, flecking his lip rings with spit. “If I want something there, you f*****g put it there! I’m paying for it!” He tossed his head, making his frizzy curls flip, scattering drops of sweat. A couple landed on the glass countertop and Gabe grimaced, glad there wasn’t anything on the counter that would need to be sterilized again. “Hey,” Rob said. His voice was quiet and he didn’t do anything more menacing than lift his head a little from the back of the ancient burgundy chaise lounge under the elaborately painted front window, but the kid goggled and shut up like Rob had slapped him. “It’s his choice if he slings the ink or not.” Gabe shrugged, smiling in completely false apology. “Sorry.” “f**k you,” the kid snapped at him, narrowing his bloodshot eyes. Gabe watched bemusedly as he stalked out of the shop, swaying a little in his black leather boots. There were at least half a dozen other tattoo parlors within easy walking distance of Atlantis Ink, and Gabe was sure a couple of them would put whatever the hell the kid wanted on his ass, no matter how large, ugly, or permanent. “Jesus, what a d**k,” Gabe said. He shook his head and went over to where Rob was lounging. The normally spiky twists in Rob’s thick curls looked wilted, and sweat glistened on his cheeks and in the hollow of his throat, adding a golden sheen to his dark skin. “He’s going to be forty one day, you know? And he thinks he’s going to want to wake up to a teddy bear with a vivisection on his skinny ass for the rest of his life? If he’s that broken up about his stupid girlfriend, he should just get another piercing—I think he has room for one more on his face, maybe.” Rob smiled. “A third lip ring, to balance the other two. I’m sure Dee would be happy to do it.” He chuckled, then stooped to grab his half-empty bottle of Coke from where it was sweating condensation onto the old hardwood floor. “You know, Gabe, you just cost us a lot of money. Stupid as that tat would’ve been, it would’ve been about four hundred by the time you finished with the details of the fur and the ripped-out heart.” “Which I would’ve demanded up front, believe me,” Gabe said. He scowled. “But I’m not going to encourage people’s stupidity, let alone help them wear it.” “Okay,” Rob said, “I hear that. But what if, one day, you come across someone who wants an amazing tattoo—a real work of art—but you don’t like the meaning behind it?” He grinned. “Does that fall under your ‘Do Not Ink the Idiots’ policy, too?” “It depends,” Gabe said, wiping at the sweat on his forehead with his hand, then drying his palm on his pant leg. “I mean, I might’ve inked that kid if he had a better idea, even if it was ‘cause he’s all emo over a breakup. But like I said—it depends.” “Depends on what?” Rob asked. It was so hot Rob had left his eyeglasses on the counter, and Gabe kept being surprised at seeing his big, dark eyes with nothing framing them. Rob stretched out and lifted one brown bare foot to let it thump lazily down on the chaise. “I don’t know,” Gabe said, feeling a little defensive. “Maybe what meaning it has for the client. Like…” He thought and then snapped his fingers. “Like, if he wanted a Nazi swastika on his arm, but he meant it as an ironic anti-Nazi symbol, I might…” He paused. “Okay, I still wouldn’t ink that.” Rob smiled. “Good.” Gabe thought some more, automatically clearing the newly beading sweat off his forehead again. He glanced wearily up at the ceiling fan, which was spinning sluggishly, as if the heat had sapped its strength. Their building was too old to have air-conditioning; normally that wasn’t a problem, but normally Toronto didn’t get this hot. Gabe hadn’t been in heat like this since the last time he’d been dragged along to visit family in India, and he hated it as much now as he had then. “All right, something religious, I guess. Like, I don’t know…Okay, say they want Jesus on their shoulder or something. That’s not my thing, right?” He smirked ruefully. “I mean, that’s really not my thing. But I’d do something like that, because people are allowed to have their own religious beliefs, right? As long as they don’t hurt anyone because of it or try to shove it down my throat.” Rob nodded. “What if it was really ugly?” he asked innocently. “I don’t do ugly.” Rob huffed in amusement before taking a long swig on his drink. Gabe couldn’t help but watch as thin beads of sweat trailed down Rob’s temple, following the tilt of his jaw to his neck then sliding beneath the open collar of his shirt. The two of them had been friends for years, and while Rob was both unquestionably straight and married, that didn’t mean Gabe couldn’t appreciate that his boss was still a beautiful man. Unfortunately, Rob’s porn-drinking only served to remind Gabe of how much he wanted someone of his own in his life. He sighed and then went to the counter to clean the glass. Yeah, he was young—and if a certain crazy teenage girl could be believed, he looked “like Adrien Brody, only darker and cuter”—but he’d never been a fan of one-night stands or anonymous s*x. He blamed his mother and all the Bollywood movies she’d made him watch with her as a kid: the kind of stories with innocent, feisty heroines and protective, handsome heroes and dewy-eyed love songs and perpetually happy endings. Gabe hated being labeled a romantic, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want the same happy ending the couples in his mother’s VHS collection always got. “Hey,” Rob said, holding up the empty plastic Coke bottle, “recycle this for me, will you?” He tossed it at Gabe, who dodged it as the door made its cheerful bing-bong noise and a teenage girl walked in. “Hey, Hype,” Rob drawled pleasantly. Gabe wiggled his fingers, wishing he’d agreed to ink Teddy-Bear-Ass after all, if only to have a reason to ignore her. Not that Gabe disliked her or anything. It was just she was a kid—a kid kid, as in an actual child. She was fourteen but looked twelve, though she tried painfully hard to act like an adult. Her real name was Hyacinth, but she’d burst into tears once when Gabe had called her that. Tonight she was tottering around in black-and-red leather lace-up boots that made her feet look enormous, strapping down jeans that clung tenuously to her hips with a red belt that had probably been tacky in the 1980s. Her T-shirt was dark pink, advertising some band Gabe had never heard of. And as usual, she had an enormous pink bow in her raven-black-dyed hair, which made her look like an anime character. She’d also decorated her arms with a Sharpie again, in the sad hope that anyone would mistake them for actual tattoos. Gabe used the excuse of bending to pick up Rob’s Coke bottle to hide his laughter. “Heya, Rob,” Hype said. Gabe pitched the bottle into the recycle bin and watched as Hype wobbled over to the love seat next to the flash binders of tattoo designs and dropped into it, sighing dramatically. She let her head fall back and turned her face up to the fan. “It is so f*****g hot! I can’t believe how hot it is!” “Language,” Rob said, with the same soft tone he’d used to warn Teddy-Bear-Ass. “Believe it,” Gabe grumbled from behind the counter. “So…it’s pretty dead here, huh,” Hype went on. She looked around, as if expecting people to crawl out from under the furniture. She stretched out on the love seat, mimicking Rob. “It’s a Monday night and too hot to move,” Gabe said. He got out the Windex from the cupboard beneath the counter and then liberally sprayed the glass to scrub away Teddy-Bear-Ass boy’s sweat. He knew Dee would be pissed at him for using a regular commercial product, but Gabe wasn’t convinced the all-natural tree-hugging stuff she liked actually killed germs. He glanced up at Hype. “Don’t you have homework?” Hype looked at him witheringly. “Summer vacation, dumbass.” She sighed again, even more loudly. “There’s nothing to do until Thursday when the all-age clubs open.” “You could get a job,” Gabe said. He smiled sweetly when Hype glowered at him. “How’s your mother?” Rob asked her, sitting up. “Hey,” he called to Gabe. “Would you be so kind as to bring Hype a Coke from the fridge, please?” “Are you sure she should be drinking Coke? It has caffeine in it,” Gabe said. “I think we have milk.” He chuckled at Hype’s look of shocked affront. “My mom’s fine,” Hype said to Rob after a last glare at Gabe. “You know, bitching me out all the time, the usual.” She started picking at a scab on her arm. “She’s got a new boyfriend.” She sneered over the word. “He has this long gray hair that he keeps in a skanky ponytail like he’s a wannabe biker, eh? And he smiles like…” She broke off and shuddered. “Like he’s a f*****g pedophile. He creeps me out.” She shrugged, still looking at her arm. “So, you know. I came down here.” “It’s always a pleasure to have you visit,” Rob said, smiling warmly at her. Gabe noticed he didn’t call her on her language again. “So, Rob,” Hype continued, shaking off her mood like it’d never happened, “when are you going to make this hacker pound these? I mean, seriously.” She pulled herself up on the love seat, tilting her pointed chin. “You don’t have to be eighteen to get a tattoo, I looked it up.” She crossed her arms. “So what’s the diff? Mom won’t care.” Gabe rolled his eyes. “I care, Hype,” he told her. “And I’m not inking anything on you until you’re over eighteen!” He trotted down the stairs to the break room before she could answer and restart the very old argument. The main entrance and the upstairs studio were well lit, clean, and welcoming, because Rob had renovated the first and second floors way back when he’d originally bought the building. The basement, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. It was carpeted in ugly, stained industrial green, and it always smelled damp and musty, despite the giant dehumidifier roaring away in the corner. The couches were nice, even if they had come from charity stores and looked about twenty years old. And the dampness did make it cool in the summer. Gabe just stood in the center of the room for a minute, spreading his arms and smiling as the chill of the break room seeped into his body. He thought wistfully about taking a nap on the couch as he went to the dripping, chugging fridge to get the drinks. There was actually a week-old carton of soy milk Dee had probably forgotten about in the door. Gabe grinned to himself, imagining Hype’s reaction if he brought her that instead. Sadly, he thought as he snagged the Cokes, Hype was probably right about the tattoos. Normally Atlantis Ink’s policy was to get parental permission for anyone under eighteen, but he was sure Hype’s mother really wouldn’t care, if she even noticed. Luckily for her, Hype had decided Gabe was “the s**t,” and she wasn’t going to get inked by anyone else, even if it meant she had to wait. But it annoyed the hell out of him that she still wouldn’t quit it about the damn tattoos. He went back upstairs to the street-level entrance of the shop. “All right, Hytension, here’s your drink. Try not to spill it on anything—except maybe your clown shoes.” He passed a bottle to her and to Rob. Hype scowled at him, snatching the Coke out of his hand. “What time is it?” Rob asked, ignoring the watch on his wrist. Gabe checked his own wristwatch. “Around five.” He opened his bottle and took a deep, grateful swallow, then leaned back against the counter, wondering absently if his sweat would leave an ass-print on the glass. “Cool.” Rob stretched and coiled up from the chaise lounge. He slid his long feet into his sandals and stood. “I’m heading out. Lock up whenever you want. I don’t think we’ll get much more business today.” “Sure,” Gabe said. “As long as you take the baby with you.” “f**k you, asshole,” Hype said. Then she ducked her head and mumbled, “Sorry,” when Rob arched a single eyebrow at her. Gabe just smirked. “Ah, you can stay,” he said, making like it was an enormous sacrifice on his part. “But you’re going to have to help clean up later.” “Yeah?” Hype perked up like she’d just been given a prize. “Can I use the autoclave to sterilize the ink tubes?” “Yeah,” Gabe said. “But you’re going to have to finish those flash you started before I let you touch anything, okay?” He figured Hype would argue, but she just nodded eagerly for once. She all but scrambled around the counter to rummage in the cupboard for the sketchbook Gabe had pretended he didn’t want. “All right, then,” Rob said. He’d been watching everything from the door with a small grin, but now he gave them both a languid wave. “I’ll be back around noon tomorrow. Sammi and Arturo will be here in the morning, and Dee and Seb said they’re coming in after lunch, so you can show up whenever or take the day off. Just let me know.” “Thanks.” Gabe took another drink as he watched Rob walk down the sidewalk past the window. Rob was going home to his wife and little girl, and Gabe kind of envied him for that. But a dead night would be cool if it meant he could get some sketching done. * * * * A while later, Gabe was sitting on the chaise lounge, quietly sketching Hype. She was back on the love seat, curled over her own sketchbook with her tongue sticking out of her mouth. He was wondering if he could get her from a different angle without her noticing when the door bing-bonged again. Gabe sighed inwardly and stood, glancing at his watch as he went behind the counter. It was almost nine and had just gone dark outside, the heat of the day finally surrendering to the marginal cool of the evening. The front entrance was livable now, but the studio upstairs would still be like an oven. With Gabe’s luck, this new customer would want something that would take hours. He bent to put his sketchbook safely back in the cupboard, and when he straightened, Hype was right next to him, her big cow eyes enormous. “He’s a cop!” she hissed urgently to Gabe in a voice that likely carried right to where the customer was standing, leafing through the flash binders mounted on the wall. “He’s got cop hair!” Gabe put his hand on her bony shoulder and leaned down a little so he wouldn’t broadcast to the world in general when he spoke. “What’d you do?” he asked, because she looked so genuinely worried, he couldn’t resist ribbing her. “I’m kidding!” he added when her eyes just got bigger. “But, seriously, he’s not a cop.” Though, yeah, the guy did have cop hair: short and bristly at the sides, barely longer on top but getting fluffy like it was growing out. Cop Hair had a three-day beard, too, as if he was purposely trying to look menacing. “And even if he is—” “He is! He totally is!” Hype whispered so loudly, the guy shot a surprised glance at them. Gabe could feel himself blush. “Even if he is,” Gabe continued, “he’s off duty and neither of us have done anything wrong, right?” He waited for Hype’s wide-eyed nod. “So go back to your sketchbook and quit annoying the customers!” Gabe caught the very small twitch of Cop Hair’s mouth as he smirked, since he’d obviously heard everything. It was also clear he wasn’t interested in any of the tattoo designs he was looking at, which was a little weird. Normally when someone had a specific idea, they marched right up to the counter and shoved it under Gabe’s nose. Hype went back to the love seat, walking around the guy as if he had the plague. She snatched her sketchbook and fled down the stairs. “Sorry about that,” Gabe said. “She’s, ah…” He winced. “Fourteen.” Cop Hair just nodded. “No problem.” “Great,” Gabe said. He stayed behind the counter, watching silently as the guy flipped all the binders he’d been looking at back to their original positions. Most people didn’t do that, but Gabe had seen enough customers to know Cop Hair was probably just stalling. He finally came over to the counter, putting his hands on top of the glass the way almost everyone did. “Are you Gabriel Navarro?” he asked without preamble. His gaze was as direct as his question. He had a scar above his right eye, Gabe noticed: a thick line that started nearly at his eyelid and ended up splitting his eyebrow. Not that it marred his face any. If he was a cop, he would’ve been good-looking enough for a recruitment poster, or a calendar. Or a centerfold, really, except his face was a little too thin, Gabe thought, sharpening his already angular features. “Yeah,” Gabe said warily, wondering if Hype had been right for once, and then trying to figure out what he might’ve done worthy of a cop’s attention. The scar didn’t make the guy look any less cop-like. “Why?” Cop Hair shrugged. “You’re listed online as one of the best tattoo artists in the city. That’s why I came here.” “Oh,” Gabe said, feeling both proud and stupid. He knew he was blushing again; it was hot enough without all the extra heat in his face. “Well, that’s true. I am. So, what can I do for you?” “You do original designs, right?” the guy asked, like he was worried Gabe might refuse. “Sure,” Gabe said. “Let me get some paper.” He crouched down in front of the cupboard, grateful for the few seconds he’d be out of the guy’s direct line of sight. The new customer with the cop hair couldn’t have been more Gabe’s type if he’d walked out of one of his sketches—the ones Gabe never showed anyone. Despite the unsmiling intensity, he was this side of beautiful, and Gabe groaned inwardly because he was sure he’d be blushing and stammering until the guy was inked and gone. Gabe steeled himself for at least an hour of acting like a dork and surfaced from the temporary safety of the cupboard, grateful he’d actually remembered to get a pencil and his sketchbook. “Okay,” he said, trying to keep his eyes fixed on the sketchbook without looking like he was avoiding the guy’s face, “what were you thinking of, and where did you want it?” He was pleased he got out a full, coherent sentence. “This,” the guy said quietly. He put a folded piece of paper down on Gabe’s open page and slid it across to him. Something about his voice made Gabe look at him again as he unfolded the paper by feel. But Cop Hair had his eyes on the countertop, every part of him still, like he was holding his breath. His expression was practiced blankness. Curious and more than a little apprehensive, and thinking of his conversation with Rob about what he would and wouldn’t ink, Gabe opened the picture. It was a line drawing, ordinary pencil on ordinary paper, obviously done by someone with no training and not much natural talent. But even so, he could see it was a helicopter, drawn to look like it’d crashed, if that was the meaning of the jagged lines. “Is that meant to be a cross?” he asked, pointing at the drawing and trying very hard not to sound sarcastic. Very few people could draw as well as Gabe, but when they took the time to try to make the tattoo flash themselves it meant it was especially important to them, and Gabe always tried to remember that. “Yeah,” the guy said, his voice even lower. “Okay, cool.” Gabe looked up again. “You want mostly black, right? But some color? And showing the details?” Cop Hair nodded. “If possible.” “Sure, I can do that,” Gabe said. “Where do you want it?” Gabe’s gaze automatically flickered over the other man’s torso, from arm to arm, but if he had any other ink, it was hidden. “This is going to be pretty big, if you want this much detail in it.” “On my back,” the guy said. “And I want other stuff in it, too, but I don’t know how to draw it. I can tell you,” he added, as if the fact he couldn’t draw was a failing. “No problem,” Gabe said. He smiled, trying to break the weird tension that had stretched out between them, like they were whispering at a funeral. “Great, thanks,” Cop Hair said. He didn’t smile back. He quickly wiped each of his temples and then cleaned his hand on his shirt. “Hot, huh?” Gabe said, smiling again. “What?” The guy seemed startled by the question. His eyes reminded Gabe a little of Hype’s. “Nothing,” Gabe said quickly. It wasn’t like he’d get paid for small talk, anyway. He gently put the picture aside and pulled his sketchbook a little closer, picking up his pencil. He did a quick, rough copy of the crashed helicopter to have a visual of where it would be in the overall design. He’d do a larger, more detailed version of it later. “Okay,” he said when the helicopter was finished, “what else were you thinking of?” “A desert,” the other man said immediately. “It’s crashed in a desert. Some of the metal’s blackened ‘cause it’s been burning.” He swallowed. “And, uh, it’s still on fire.” “Oh,” Gabriel said softly. He added lines and shadows that were going to be charred metal and flame. He’d already figured this wasn’t just an idea he was designing but a memory, and he gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t ask what happened. “Do you want the sky in it as well?” he asked, but was already drawing it in before Cop Hair nodded in answer. “Dark, right? I mean, like sunset,” he added, and the guy blinked in surprise but nodded again. “I figured, because of how black you want it,” Gabe explained, feeling smug for a second. He glanced up. “This is going to be your whole back, right?” He dropped the pencil to touch the side of his hand to the nape of his neck. “To here?” Another nod. “Yeah.” Gabe sucked in a silent breath as he continued the sketch, already trying to figure out how to get the perspective right when the canvas was going to be a man’s skin. He scribbled in the sunset that he knew would be heavily brooding orange and yellow, then turned the sketchbook around and slid it back to the customer. Cop Hair looked at it for a long time, bent close, with his fingers barely touching the edges of the paper. All his nails were ragged, like he bit them a lot. “Yeah,” he said finally, and Gabe let out the breath he’d been holding. “Yeah, that’s good.” He looked up, pushing the sketchbook back to Gabe again. “I want some words on it, too. At the top.” “Like, between your shoulder blades?” Gabe got another quick nod in response. He held the pencil ready near the top of the paper, where he estimated the man’s shoulder blades would be. He waited. Cop Hair cleared his throat. “God will judge me.” “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. Jake settled in his seat, hunching forward with his hands clasped tightly together between his thighs as the train started moving again. Eventually the click-boom-click of the train’s wheels speeding up along the track filled the subway car. It sounded a little bit like helicopter blades. Jake swallowed and closed his eyes, groping for calm in the darkness behind his lids. He forced himself to take long, even breaths, despite how all he wanted to do was gulp air like someone drowning. His heart jackhammered behind his ribs, so fast he could hear the frantic shush shush of his own blood in his ears. “Help me, God,” he murmured. “I know I don’t have the right to ask, but please help me. Help me keep it together. Please help me.” Saying the words out loud made it a little easier. “You’re okay,” he whispered to himself. “You’re okay. You’re almost home. Just think of something else.” * * * * Jake’s sister was smoking on her front porch when he came up the sidewalk, silhouetted by the lights blazing from inside the house. Jake could tell she was upset by the way she clutched the collar of her bathrobe around her neck and kept changing position, as if she couldn’t bear to stay still. It was too hot to be wearing the thick terrycloth, but Jake knew Alice didn’t want any of the neighbors seeing her in pajamas. Alice had never liked how she looked. “Where have you been?” she demanded the instant he put his foot on the lowest porch step. Her breath carried the acidic smell of smoke, and Jake coughed and grimaced, suddenly angry for no reason he could name. “Out,” Jake told her. He glanced at the cereal bowl she was using as an ashtray as he passed her, making sure all the finished cigarettes had been completely ground out. “I wish you wouldn’t f*****g smoke. Don’t you know how bad it is for you?” He yanked open the screen door and went inside before she could answer. He was met by a blast of air-conditioning, extremely welcome after he’d walked from the Main Street subway station. Alice snorted out a nasty, disbelieving laugh behind him. “Seriously? You’re bitching me out about smoking, Jake? How much did you have to drink tonight?” Jake gritted his teeth, ignoring her. He toed off his sneakers next to Molly’s purple Barbie shoes and went into the kitchen. The lights were on in every room of the ground floor and Jake reached for the dimmer switch automatically, lowering the brightness until it didn’t feel so much like it was stabbing into his eyes. Alice followed him into the kitchen, still reeking of cigarettes. “And what the hell do you mean, ‘out’?” She was carrying the makeshift ashtray in one hand with the other stuffed deep into a pocket of her bathrobe. Thin tendrils of hair had slipped out of her ponytail, framing her face and softening her features. Alice didn’t do soft very well. “Out,” Jake said again. He wiped his face on the shoulder of his T-shirt. “I’m going to take a shower.” “It’s nearly midnight,” Alice said before he could leave. She slapped the cereal bowl down on the top of the stove as she glared at him. “I was worried about you. And you said you’d be back for dinner.” She untied the sash of her bathrobe then flapped the sides like wings to cool off. “I forgot,” Jake said. “Sorry.” He turned away from her and opened the fridge, then pulled out a bottle of beer. He knew he should be feeling guiltier than he did, but he’d been carrying so much guilt around for so long, it was like he didn’t have room for more of it. “Yeah, well, tell that to Molly,” Alice snapped. “She wanted you to read her a story tonight.” “I forgot,” Jake said again. “I’ll apologize in the morning.” He kept his back turned to her while he rummaged in the counter drawers for the bottle opener, but he could feel her disapproval like a laser right through his spine. “You’d better,” Alice said. “She’s already been disappointed by one man in her life. I don’t want my own brother to give her more proof that men can’t be trusted.” “I said I’d apologize!” Jake slammed the drawer closed, making the cutlery rattle. “Where’s the damn bottle opener?” “In the dish rack,” Alice said. “And why don’t you yell a little louder? I don’t think you’ve woken Molly up yet.” Jake opened his mouth to really yell something at her, but bit it back with an effort. “Sorry,” he said again, feeling like the word was crawling out of his throat. He wiped more sweat off his forehead with his forearm, thinking about the subway platform; he had no reason to be this angry. Lord, please help me keep it together, he sent up as a silent prayer. He wanted to grasp the cross attached to his dog-tag chain, but he didn’t want Alice to see that. He lowered his voice, trying to sound calm. “Could you hand it to me, please?” Alice stamped over to the dish rack, snatched out the opener, and wordlessly thrust it at him. She watched him silently as he opened the bottle, and Jake winced as he fumbled off the cap, knowing she could see the shaking in his hands. “Did you eat anything?” she asked him. “No,” Jake gritted out, since he knew there was no point in lying. “I wasn’t hungry.” “You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” Alice said. “And you shouldn’t smoke.” Jake took a long swig of the beer. Alice crossed her arms, which Jake knew meant he’d hit a nerve. For a moment he was viciously pleased about it. “Damn it, Jake! This isn’t about me and you know it!” She was glaring at him as if she expected him to answer, but her ferocious expression melted until she just looked tired and sad, far older than she should for thirty-five. “Are you okay?” It wasn’t the words so much as the way she said it—like they were little kids again and their parents were screaming in the next room. And maybe it was the memory of that fear, with only the thin arms of his twelve-year-old sister to protect him, but suddenly the anger was gone and Jake was breathing hard and blinking back the tears he could feel pricking his eyes. “I’m fine.” He looked away from her again, desperate for her not to see his face. He took another drink of his beer, nearly emptying it. “You don’t look fine.” Alice’s voice was still gentle and worried, and Jake couldn’t stand it. “Did you…did something happen?” “No,” Jake said, because I nearly lost it on the f*****g subway was the last thing he was ever going to tell her. “Nothing happened. I’m just tired.” Alice’s expression darkened again, which was easier to take. “Fine. Not that I have any idea how you can be tired, since you sleep all the damn time.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. I know what you’re going through right now. But I’m so f*****g scared for you, Jake!” She blinked, and Jake was horrified to see her eyes were red, like Alice was trying not to cry herself. “It’s like you’re there, but you’re not. And I want to help you, but I don’t know how and you won’t let me.” She swallowed and crossed her arms again. “Have you even looked at the list of counselors that I got for you?” “I forgot,” Jake said. He finished the beer and put the bottle gently on the counter. He badly wanted another one, but it wasn’t worth the hassle of getting it with Alice standing right there. “I’ll look at it tomorrow. I promise.” Alice snorted. “Sure you will. Just like you said you would last week, or the week before that.” She tugged the elastic off her ponytail and started scraping her hair back. She and Jake had almost the exact same coloring, with dark-brown hair and dark-brown eyes, except Alice had always complained it made her look mousy and dull. “Look. Forget it, okay? Just…just do whatever the f**k you want.” She pulled her hair through the elastic, then scowled and yanked it off again. “I’m going to bed. There’re leftovers in the fridge, if you want. And I made cookies. They’re in the jar next to the toaster.” She stomped out of the kitchen, but turned around in the doorway. “I love you, okay?” The words sounded like a challenge. “You’re my little brother—I just want you to be happy again. You used to be happy.” She turned around and walked away. Jake could hear her footsteps on the stairs. “Jesus Christ,” Jake whispered. His heart was pounding so hard suddenly that he could barely breathe, but he didn’t know why it was happening. “Stop it,” he said, panting. “Just stop it. You’re fine. You’re fine.” He forced himself to take deep breaths until he was in control enough to straighten. He was just grateful Alice hadn’t seen that, either. He grabbed another beer out of the fridge and drank it as quickly as he could, then took both the empty bottles to the porch and put them in the recycling bin, so Alice wouldn’t see them in the morning and rag on him about it. He forced himself to pick up the cold cigarette she’d left on the porch rail—he couldn’t stand the f*****g things—then securely locked the door and turned the house alarm on. Then he went back into the kitchen and made sure the oven and all the burners on the stove had been turned off. After that, he put the last cigarette in the cereal bowl and put the bowl in the sink and ran the water until he’d filled it. You could never be too certain. Then he turned off the lights and felt his way along the wall until he reached the door to the stairs. Jake’s rooms were in the basement. It had been a small, separate two-room apartment the house’s previous owners had put in, but when Alice and Isaac had bought the place, they’d added a door so it could be accessed from inside. The first thing Jake had done when he’d basically moved in was to put on a second lock, to make sure no one came in while he was sleeping. He had bad nightmares sometimes and he knew he’d lash out if anyone touched him. His watch said it was just past one A.M. when he got out of the shower, relishing the cool air on his wet skin. The basement was the only comfortable part of the house just then, though he knew from experience it’d be freezing down there in winter. Jake didn’t know if he was going to be staying with his sister that long, but these days it was hard for him to envision any kind of a future at all. He wasn’t a pilot anymore, and without that, he figured he wasn’t much use to anyone. Trying to make plans when every day was exactly the same was pointless anyhow. Jake dried off, yanked on the sweatpants he slept in, then climbed into the small bed and turned out the light. There was only one window and it was high up in the wall to get the daylight at street level, so at night the tiny bedroom was as black as a cave until his eyes adjusted. The whole basement was. Molly had solemnly given Jake her very own flashlight, and he’d promised her he’d use it if he ever got scared of the dark. But it wasn’t the darkness of the room that scared him. It was the darkness lurking behind his eyes. The two beers had helped, but not enough. He usually had a lot more than that before trying to sleep. It was always easier like that, anesthetized. He hadn’t been able to do that tonight. He’d stayed sober to get the tattoo design right and he’d almost had a f*****g panic attack on the subway. And now he didn’t want to close his eyes and replace the ordinary darkness of the room for the blackness inside him. Alice accused him of sleeping all the time, but that wasn’t true—Jake didn’t sleep much at all. It was just easier to during the day. In daylight, his dreams were different, maybe because there was no sunset first to remind him of the pain or the smoke or the smell of burning. “Think of something else,” he said out loud. His hands made tight fists in the bedsheets and new sweat was beading sickly cold on his skin. “Just think of something else.” Gabriel Navarro. Jake let out a weak chuckle into the darkness. Yeah, that was perfect. Why not torture himself while he was already going nuts? Nothing like having X-rated thoughts about someone he’d hired to sketch out his failure and stamp it into his skin. He’d been distracted by what they were doing at the time, but he’d been trained to notice details, and it was surprisingly easy to reform a picture of Gabriel in his mind: hair as dark as night and that looked so silky Jake would have loved to run his fingers through it. Gabriel’s eyes were darker than Jake’s, such a deep brown they were almost black. He had a short, well-trimmed beard that somehow only made him look innocent rather than mature. Jake wouldn’t have put him past twenty-one, especially with the surprising splash of freckles over his copper-hued skin. Gabriel had a small, silver ring in each ear but Jake hadn’t been able to see any tattoos on him at all, which was really strange considering his profession. As far as Jake could tell, everyone who worked in a tattoo parlor had loads of tattoos and piercings, but Gabriel had nothing except the earrings. Maybe they were all hidden under his clothes. But the craziest thing was that Gabriel wasn’t the kind of man Jake was usually attracted to, despite his hair and eyes. He was too boyish, for starters, and then there was that innocence. Gabriel was good-looking, sure, but Jake hadn’t been interested. Not until Gabriel started drawing. It wasn’t that Gabriel had been transformed, or anything; it wasn’t that the intensity of his gaze or the quick, competent movements of his fingers had made him exceptional. But it was mesmerizing, all the same, to watch him turn words into a picture with a few strokes of a pencil, translating Jake’s halting description through the vector of his body. And it’d seemed like he’d known exactly what Jake had been thinking, as if Gabriel had reached into his mind and pulled it out. It’d been the vividness of the result that had made things so bad for Jake afterward. No, watching Gabriel draw hadn’t made him exceptional, but it had made him something else, something Jake didn’t know how to describe but he knew he wanted to see again. Jake rolled on his side, closed his eyes to the darkness, and let the images of the artist with eyes like a night sky finally lead him into sleep.