Ink (8 page)

Ridiculous.

No, more than ridiculous. Stupid and absurd, all wrapped up in one. When he pulled himself out of the tub, his funny bone screamed in a very unfunny way, and both his tailbone and the back of his head joined in the pain chorus.

They didn’t move. It was the light.
The eyes didn’t move. They can’t. It’s just ink on skin. Nothing more than that. That’s what I get for having an overactive imagination.

Despite the pain, he laughed again.

I sound like a nutcase, but I don’t care. Right, Mr. Whatever-the-Hell-Your-Name-is Griffin?

A long streak of ointment remained on the shiny fabric when he tugged the shower curtain closed, but he didn’t care. He hated the damn thing anyway.

5

“Man, you look like shit.”

Jason glared at Brian, poured a cup of coffee and leaned back against the counter. The bright lights of the office kitchen sent a dozen sharp-tipped needles into his brain. He raked his hand through his hair and took a sip of coffee that burned, hot and bitter, all the way down. “Thanks for stating the obvious. I feel like shit, too.”

“You should go home, take some drugs, and get in bed,” Brian said. “Keep your germs to yourself.”

“I’m not sick. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

A polite understatement, but he wasn’t about to discuss the nightmare with Brian. He wouldn’t be able to anyway, not in any worthwhile detail. The hodgepodge of images so vivid upon waking, sweat-soaked in tangled sheets, had faded before he finished his shower. The only things left behind were hazy memories of white walls and flapping wings.

As far as he could remember, the last nightmare bad enough to wake him up happened over five years ago, when his dad had a heart attack. For almost a week, he’d woken up every night, his head filled with vague images of doctors and nurses with dark gleams in their eyes. They’d left him with a great deal of unease but didn’t make him feel as if he’d been tossed and turned like a madman.

His body ached and his arm throbbed under the tattoo as if the griffin had dug into the soft parts of his skin with those long, sharp talons—dug in and pulled.

“Didn’t sleep, huh? How much did you drink last night?” Brian asked.

“Not a drop.”

“Sure, whatever you say. With a face like that, if you aren’t sick or hung over, you should be.”

Jason raised his middle finger in reply.

“How’s the tat?” Brian asked as he poured his own coffee.

“Still sore. It’s started itching, too.”

“Fun stuff.”

“Yeah, the other night at dinner, I wanted to rip my skin off, it itched so much. It would have made a memorable first date.”

Brian put the coffee pot down hard and stared at him with wide eyes. He smelled like he’d taken a bath in cologne, then added more on the way out the door. Or maybe not having Shelley and her perfume around made Jason more sensitive to the smell.

“First date? Look at you. You’re not wasting any time. Do I know her?”

“Remember the girl from the bar?”

Brian smiled, wide enough to show teeth. “The hot little blonde? Yeah, I remember.”

“She and I went out to dinner.”

“Dinner, huh. That’s all? Did you—”

“None of your damn business.”

Brian patted him on the right shoulder. “You don’t have to say a word. It’s plain on your face. Good going. That’s the best way to forget about Shelley.”

“Whatever.”

“So who’s next?”

“No one. We’re going out again this week.”

“No, no, no. You just split up with your wife, man. Don’t jump into anything. There are lots of women out there for you to hang out with. Don’t limit yourself. Remember Emily, the redhead with the big—”

“Yeah, I remember her.”

“I figured you did. She’s kind of hard to forget. She’s got a friend who just got dumped by her boyfriend. How about if I hook the two of you up? She’s hot. I mean, not like Emily-hot, but I’d do her.”

“That’s not really a compliment,” Jason said. “You’d do just about anything that walks.”

“You’re killing me. I do have standards.”

“Like what? A pulse? Seriously, I really like Mitch, what can I say? We’re going out on a second date, not getting engaged.”

Brian snorted. “Yeah, well, have your fun and move on. You’re single now. Enjoy it.”

“Like you?”

“Hey, watch it. I’m having fun, and you’ll never guess who I hooked up with last night.”

“Is that why you smell like that? No time to shower?”

“Screw you. You’re just jealous of my appeal to the ladies.”

“If that’s what you want to call it, be my guest,” Jason said, refilling his coffee cup. An image flashed in his mind, a dark shadow rising up against brilliant white, then Brian started comparing the merits of redheads to brunettes, and he pushed it away.

6

Jason and Mitch sat in the middle of the back row at the movie theater, surrounded by the buttery smell of popcorn and the noise from dozens of teenagers. The kids sitting on Mitch’s right were holding a conversation with another group seated six rows away while those on Jason’s left engaged in a half-hearted popcorn fight.

“I think we’re the oldest ones here,” he whispered in her ear.

She grabbed a handful of popcorn from the tub on his lap and looked around the theater. “Nope, look down there. Second row.”

“The guy with the dreadlocks?”

“No, that’s a girl, I think. Look two seats over.”

“All I see is someone with dark hair.”

“Yes, but I saw his face before he sat down. He’s older than we are.”

“So we’re
almost
the oldest ones here. Maybe that guy’s taking his kid to the movies. There are a lot of them here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Ha! These aren’t kids, they’re teenagers. A totally different species.” She popped another piece of popcorn in her mouth. “Don’t you remember being a teenager? I would’ve killed someone for calling me a kid.”

“I’ve pushed the memories out of my head, sorry. Either that or I’m just old, and my mind is already starting to go.”

A stray kernel of popcorn sailed through the air and landed on Jason’s lap. Mitch grinned and brushed it onto the floor, but not before she gave his thigh a quick squeeze.

“I meant to ask at dinner, but I forgot. How’d you get the scar on your forehead?”

“A haunted house.”

He tossed a piece of popcorn in her direction. “Right. Come on, tell me the truth.”

“I am,” she said. Her lips curved in a small smile, but her eyes were serious. “I got it in a haunted house. A real one, not a Halloween thing.”

“A real haunted house?”

She grabbed another handful of popcorn. “Yep, Scout’s honor.”

“Okay, so what happened?”

Another piece of popcorn flew by, and she batted it away. “A lot, but if I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“No, I won’t.”

She grinned. “Trust me, you would. Do you believe in ghosts and paranormal stuff?”

“Not really. I mean, I think people
think
things happen, but I think it’s all in the imagination.”

“See, I told you. You think I’m crazy. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It was a long time ago, and I was just a kid. A kid-kid, not a teenager, and who knows? Maybe I did imagine it,” she said, but she looked down at her hands. “I think it’s the reason I love scary books and movies, though. Now you have to tell me something. Was the name a joke?”

“What name?”

“The griffin’s name. Geryon.”

“No, it wasn’t a joke. It just popped into my head, like I said. I guess I heard it somewhere, and it just stuck.”

“Hmm. I was curious, so I looked it up.”

“And?”

She rubbed her hands on her thighs. “According to Dante, it’s a giant who guards Hell.”

“Nice.”

“Hey, you picked it,” she said with a smile.

“Okay, I changed my mind. His name is Frank.”

“Frank?”

“Yes, Frank.”

She laughed. “That’s not very griffin-like.”

“Better than the name of a guardian from Hell.”

“Point taken.” She reached over and patted his left arm. “Nice to meet you, Frank.”

When the lights dimmed, she slipped her hand into his. The upcoming movie trailers started, and he tried to remember the last time he held Shelley’s hand anywhere. Maybe at a family function. They always put on a good show for his family even though the sterile way their hands met held no warmth. He and Shelley had kept their disintegration private, which, no doubt, explained his mother’s mindset. Mitch shifted in her seat and leaned closer, and all thoughts of his soon-to-be ex-wife vanished.

The movie involved a ghost stalking a group of people spending a weekend in the house, and half the teenagers shrieked the first time the ghost appeared. The second time, he and Mitch both jumped in their seats, but she kept her hand in his, and the rightness of her touch put a smile on his lips.

The poke on his arm, a tiny bit of feather-light pressure, caught him off guard. Jason turned his head to the left, but the teenager next to him, a girl with heavy smears of black makeup, sat facing forward, her eyes wide with rapt fascination, so he brushed it off as an accident.

The heroine of the movie walked through a long hallway unaware of the ghost right behind her. The background music, dark and ominous, could not hide the squeals and shouts of ”turn around” that filled the theater. Mitch whispered ”idiot” under her breath, but she gripped Jason’s hand tight. The heroine finally turned, and more than half the people in the theater echoed her scream. Mitch didn’t scream, but she pressed her hand against her mouth. He smiled, and she pushed at his right arm with her hand at the same time the girl touched him again. He looked over, not surprised she’d poked him this time because her hands were flailing in front of her like living things while the boy next to her laughed and slapped his hands on his thighs.

The heroine got away, barely, and the next ten minutes of the film offered a quiet lull as she tried to convince her friends that something was wrong. Mitch moved even closer and put her head on Jason’s shoulder. Her hair didn’t smell like coconut tonight. It smelled flowery but sweet. Impulsively, he kissed the spot where her hair met her forehead.

When the heroine and her friends started exploring the house room by room, the gentle pressure on his arm returned. Jason looked over at the girl and swallowed hard. Her hands were wrapped around the boy, their mouths mashed together in oblivious abandon.

Not her? Impossible.

Something happened onscreen that caused several people to burst out in nervous laughter, but the kids paid no attention.

No, it had to be her.

The ghost appeared onscreen again, and the room broke out in a deafening scream, multiple voices blending together in one long howl of terror. Mitch’s shoulders shook as she laughed, but the sound disappeared into the chaotic roar.

Someone nudged his arm again. The teenagers’ lips had finally parted, but the girl sat halfway in the boy’s lap. Jason’s mouth went dry.

I am not imagining things. I know what I felt. But if she didn’t touch me, who did?

Another round of screams rose up around him; this time Mitch let out a quick, loud yelp of shock, and her hand tightened around his. The movie screen turned into a blur of ghostly images and running feet as the music built up to a fevered pitch. The girl untangled herself from her boyfriend, but sat with her knees pulled up and her hands over her eyes.

The girl onscreen screamed as the ghost approached with arms outstretched. Mitch’s grip tightened even more, and the unseen finger touched his arm again, pressing hard. He whipped his head around to the left and glared at the girl. “Stop it,” he mouthed. She frowned. He pointed to his arm, and she looked away.

Of course it’s her. Who else could it be?

The ghost reached forward to wrap its long arms around the heroine. Mitch yelped again and pulled her hand from Jason’s. She covered her eyes but kept them spread enough to peek through. The ghost threw its head back and howled. The heroine’s scream, impossibly high and shrill, went on for several long minutes, then the screen went black and the theater burst into nervous applause as the credits started to roll and the lights came on. Mitch touched his shoulder, and he jumped.

“Gotcha.” She laughed, tucking her hair behind her ears, then looked over his shoulder with a frown.

He turned to find the girl staring at him. “What’s your problem?” she asked.

“You kept hitting my arm.”

“I didn’t touch you.”

Her boyfriend leaned over. “Is he bothering you?”

“No.” She got up and gave Jason one last dark look before walking away. “But he thought I hit his arm and he…”

“What was that about?” Mitch asked.