His Tattoos

Chapter 1

I inhale the scent of ink and downtown Chicago before sighing. Today had been a slow day which can be nice as that means less clean up. On the other it means less money to pay the rent this month the little one bedroom apartment while not in the best of neighborhoods was actually pretty nice meaning pretty decent sums of rent were required.

I had just graduated high school with less than stellar grades when my step father, Arron, died in a drunk driving accident several years ago, making me 22 as of now. My step mother, Dora, died years ago of brain cancer leaving me as his only next of kin, meaning I got a decent sum of money. While that may sound crass I wasn't close with them, it was understood that I was adopted for the money they received for me. As long as I stayed out of trouble we kind of went our separate ways for the 2 years I was with the Millers.

When the time to decide what I wanted to do for my future rolled around after some self- reflection I decided I wasn't really the studious college type so I decided to take that money and try entrepreneurship. And what better career than a tattoo artist therefore, I tattoo people for a living. Though I hadn't ever considered myself "artsy" either but the satisfaction from permanently marking someone's skin with something meaningful or beautiful (Most of the time) is something I enjoy immensely. Not to say when someone comes in drunk attempting to act as if they're not drunk off their ass -as its illegal for me to tattoo someone who I suspect is drunk- isn't highly amusing. I just believe tattoos are more than just body art they are meaningful to each person in their own way and I believe that's kind of amazing.

Chicago is a great place for a tattoo parlor, that is if you don't mind the gang violence. Try as I might business is business therefore a lot of members come to me for my willingness to do the tattoo as well as discretion. When I first opened I had made it clear this was neutral territory and that gang disputes of any sort were not to be tolerated after a particularly bad incident. I'm like the grandma you heard about that can go on both sides of town because she fed the gang members when they were kids. Despite the normal crime rate violence and outbursts are rising and tensions are running high and I haven't the faintest idea as to what may be causing this flux in activity

My thoughts drift to what me and my employees refer to as the customer. Every couple of weeks the same guy comes in, always asks for the same tattoo. An additional tally mark on the ever growing neat formation on his bicep. I being stupidly curious attempted to ask what those meant once (I didn't mean too the guy is so offsetting and I just blurted it out.) To say that was the last time curiosity got the best of me is, well.. Not true, moving on. I suspect the only reason he keeps coming here is for the discretion and routine we had built over the last year or so.

Despite how often this man was on my mind I can't conjure an image of the intriguing stranger. When I started to remember hints of things i lose my train of thought and all that comes to mind are these sharp, intense green eyes, similar to how the forest looks at night, so dark you can hardly tell all that brush is green at all and not an abyss.

Bringing my focus back to reality is that same man walking through the dark oak doors (I find the less windows the better when it comes to gangs, drive by shootings are less likely) that separate my sanctuary from the rest of the bat shit crazy world. I look up from whatever I was zoned out on and study him relishing in the opportunity to see what he looks like again. Those Abyss like eyes capture my dull brown ones and as per usual no words are exchanged. If need be he merely points and grunts if communication is necessary. However, even those were rare occasions as we had developed a sort of- definitely not awkward- routine. He'd come in and act all brooding. By now I knew to just direct him to the chair setup for flash work and walk ins. The sooner I finished his tattoo the sooner the off putting man was out of here.

Nodding my head to the chair- not that he needed directions- he strides over and does a sort of graceful flop into the seat - don't ask how-. Pulling out all the sterilized equipment I ask,

"Usual?" in a clipped tone if he means business then so do I. Big surprise he gives a small nod. I turn on the gun and begin the small line on his bicep signifying what I don't know. After about 5 minutes I put the equipment away to clean later and nodded him to the counter where Alex waits to receive the strangers payment.

I release the pent up breathe I was holding damn, that man is definitely something else. After Alex takes his payment the man briskly walks out of the store as is his normal aside from when he turns around and gives me a lingering look. I'm frozen, a deer in the headlights and only relax once I heard the door close with a soft thud. Alex whistles.

" If that man was gay" he lets his sentence trail off when he sees the look I'm giving him. A "shut up." annoyance, and indignation all wrapped up in a neat package labeled fuck off. "Message received." he mumbled under his breath, though with my superior one might say supernatural hearing I catch this choosing to ignore it.

Just another day at the office.