Diamonds Dancing

Twenty Eight

His tight abs clenched the more the pen tickled against his skin, the last finishing touches were always the hardest part. The continuous faint buzzing from the roaring machine came to an end. Finally. He was getting tired of sitting there idly, doing absolutely nothing.

"That's all done," One last wipe down, and the fresh new piece on his lower abdomen was covered with wrap.

"Told you it wouldn't hurt, you want a lollipop for being such a good sport?"

Slater chuckled dryly, rolling his eyes as he leaned over to grab his t-shirt off the back of the chair. "You want to watch me suck on a lollipop? That's fucked up, man."

He had barely flinched the entire session, in fact, it was as if he couldn't feel a thing.

That numbness hadn't subsided from the moment he had woken up, it had gotten worse as the day slowly progressed.

He wanted to push the memories of her wavy blonde hair, and cheeky dimples out of his mind but he couldn't. He couldn't drink away the amount of endless pain he was facing, it didn't feel right to drink.

At least, not today. Not on her day.

She had always hated it when he was intoxicated, said it made him act like a different person. Or, something along the lines.

The highly skilled tattoo artist gave him an equally repulsed reaction as he pulled his blue surgical gloves off. "You're the one that made it fucking weird, here have your stupid lollipop."

He aimed the candy at the producers head, albeit seeing it coming from a mile off, he caught it before that could happen. Pocketing into his jeans before he pulled his shirt over his head.

Not bothering to go through any of the aftercare rules with him since he wouldn't listen to them anyway, he cocked his head over to the exit door.

"Wanna go for a smoke?" He questioned lazily, a hazy look covering his regard. "You look like you could use it."

Pulling out the perfectly rolled blunt he had made whilst in his session, he saw the way his friend's face lit up.

A favour for a favour.

That's exactly what he was doing.

He wasn't going to drink today, but that didn't mean he couldn't find his solace elsewhere.

• • •

Slater couldn't remember how he got home.

He wanted to believe he had called his driver? Or, perhaps, he had walked home for the first time in over ten years.

Then again, he couldn't remember fighting any paparazzi so he didn't know how believable the latter was. Eyes flickering over to his attire, his black t-shirt and dark jeans didn't appear scuffed or bloody.

There was no way he had walked home, although he lived on an affluent street with equally famous neighbours who bought pricey cars for the heck of it, he knew better than to walk alone without his security.

Chunky diamond rings decorated his fingers, and the silver Cuban chain he had around his neck was worth more than any sleazy paparazzi would make in a lifetime.

Whatever journey he had chosen, it didn't matter because he was home. Arriving on his front doorstep, he stumbled a little, stomach growling as he thought about how hungry he was. He was high, stoned out of his goddamn mind.

One blunt led to another, which led to something more, and he had no idea how his ink session had turned into a green day. But soon enough, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot red, and his mind, body and soul were in a different dimension.