Authors: Rhys Ford
“Shit. Fucking Nick.” Kismet nearly lost his grip on the machine, pulling it back before he did any damage. “Should have told me before. I don’t do portraits or memorials.”
“He told me that, but I thought I should at least tell you.” She blinked, her eyes watering. “So you knew how much this means to me. Doesn’t that make it better? You’re not going to stop, are you?”
Kismet wanted to stand up and walk off, his fingers clenched tight around the stilled machine. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to find some sort of calm in his thoughts.
The only thing
hanging around you today has been Chase
, he scolded himself. No other shadow. No other faces peering out from the darkness.
Her mother is probably long gone, left someplace else
.
Not everyone carries their horrors with them
, Kismet’s mind whispered. Only the guilty drag their ghosts behind them.
“No, it’s okay.” He shook off the crawling pinpricks under his skin. “I understand what it’s like to miss family.”
Opening his eyes, he stared around her, finding nothing but dust motes floating in the late
afternoon sun. The studio was quiet except for the low tick-ticking of machines and an occasional burst of
laughter from one of the other artists as they talked to their clients. He could hear Nick on the phone in
the front, a clear shower curtain painted with flash art blocking Kismet’s view of the waiting area and high
reception counter.
The last thing he wanted was to embed someone’s ghost into their skin. He knew people lied about how much they loved someone. He knew that oftentimes, people lied about how their loved ones died. Kismet heard more tales of heroic tragedy than he cared to admit. Those customers were usually accompanied by the tattered remains of a human being lurking behind them, faces battered apart from angry fists or torn open from gunshot wounds.
He’d refused to do portraits on the day he saw a little girl standing behind her mother, her legs sticky with blood and her eyes swollen from tears. The woman’s story of her daughter drowning didn’t persuade him. Nor did Nick’s promise of a full take from the ink. It was the pain in the girl’s eyes that turned him away. It made him thankful for Chase’s ignorance.
It also made him believe people wanted trophies for their pain. Either from guilt or in some sick, triumphant thrill. He wouldn’t be a part of cementing that little girl, or any of the dead, into someone’s skin. He still had hope that Chase would move on one day.
He’d long wondered if he forced Chase’s soul to stay with him, either because he’d been way too young to understand that his brother was dead or because the ghost, like Kismet, had no one else to be around. It was hard to let go of the only person you’d ever felt love for, Kismet reasoned.
“Hey, you okay?” The girl touched him again, the chill of her fingertips a shock against the flush of his cheeks.
Jerking away, Kismet swallowed hard, his hands trembling. Exhaling, he nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just don’t tell anyone that I did this. If I make an exception for you, then I’ve got to do other people. I’ll take it up with Nick later.”
“I didn’t mean to get him into trouble.”
“How much trouble could I be?” Kismet laughed, a bitter sound. He shifted his long legs until they were firm under the massage table he used to ink clients on. “Nick owns the place. I’m just a squatter in one of the stalls.”
The cleanup was quick, a wash of antiseptic and the requisite explanation of how to care for tattooed skin. He spent a few seconds explaining the scabbing process and that it was going to look like she had ink coming up for a couple of days. She’d not liked that. She liked it even less when he suggested she keep it covered for a day or two so the scabs could form without getting her clothes ruined.
“People like to look at their tats, Andreas.” One of the other artists came out of his area, looking with disgust at the sterile packing pads Kismet used to cover new ink. “Plastic wrap is the way to go, Andreas.”
“People aren’t sandwiches, Mike. They don’t need to be kept fresh,” he replied, stepping around Chase’s feet. When possible he avoided the ghost. It was hardly ever possible. “New ink under wrap looks like a fucking fruit cocktail Jell-O mold gone bad.”
“Just saying, princess.” Mike leaned on the half wall between them. “People like to show off that they’ve just gone through a lot of fucking pain. It’s human nature.”
Kismet ignored him, dropping his gear into one of the autoclaves. He’d been called worse things since he’d first started working at Steel Sin. Some of them he even agreed with. He finished cleaning up, crumpled the table’s paper sheeting, used inking cups, and towels together, then dumped all of it into the biohazard can.
“Hey, baby.” He felt Nick’s hand on his side. The older man’s fingers lifted the hem of his shirt
and slid under the fabric, his touch running along the dip of Kismet’s spine. “That was a nice piece you
just did. I got a picture of it for your book. I even put the packing back.”
“Should have told me it was for her mother.” Kismet stepped free, breaking the contact. He knew it was pissy of him to stay mad at Nick. The man didn’t understand the reasons behind his revulsion. He couldn’t expect Nick to respect what seemed like an unreasonable quirk.
But then how do you tell someone that you feared sealing a soul to someone else’s body?
Nick was too realistic of a person to accept that as a reason. Better to lay his oddness at just being crazy. Kismet figured he might as well use the reputation for insanity that seemed to dog him.
“You wouldn’t have done it. And kid, you need the money.” Nick produced a sheaf of bills from his pocket. “Here, no take for the studio. It’s all yours.”
“They’re going to be pissed off when they find out about it.” Kismet glanced over his shoulder, as if the other artists were peeking into his area. Nick had closed the curtain behind him, leaving them secluded and hidden from view. Despite his protests, Kismet slid the cash into his pocket. His wallet was too lean to worry about how the others felt about him pocketing the whole take.
“I own the place.” Nick leaned against the counter, his feet passing through Chase’s legs. “They can go fuck themselves.”
The waning afternoon sunlight backlit the older man’s dark hair, plunging his face into shadow.
Nick pulled at the inker’s wrist, dragging him over to stand between his legs. Nick’s teeth flashed wide in his tanned craggy face, his broad body dominating Kismet’s slender frame.
“Thanks.” Kismet meant it. He had nothing but gratitude for the things Nick did for him. The man apprenticed him and let him use a stall when he needed cash. “I owe you.”
“I like you owing me.” Nick maneuvered Kismet closer, weaving his fingers together behind the young man’s back. “You doing okay?”
He wasn’t surprised at Nick’s seemingly sincere concern. Nick would prey upon any weakness shown. Admitting to weakness would be like a pig handing the butcher a newly sharpened knife. The older man grinned at Kismet’s slight frown, quirking his thin mouth. Nodding, he tried not to shiver when Nick’s hands wandered, the man’s fingers reaching down past his waistband. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just getting the itches, you know?”
“Ah, got something for that.” The man grinned, leaning in to nibble at Kismet’s earlobe. “Check my
front pocket.”
They’d played this game for years, starting when Kismet was around eleven and Nick came around to party with Kismet’s mother. The man’s pocket held candy or gum back then. Now it held a different kind of sweet. Kismet dug into the denim sleeve, finding the latex roll inside. After tugging the heroin pack free, Kismet weighed it in his palm, gauging how much he’d have to owe Nick for the drug.
“How much?” It was another game they played, guessing of how much money Nick would want back from the take. For all of his gratitude for what Nick did for him, Kismet was very much aware that the man’s kindness often came with a high price. Sometimes money wasn’t what Nick wanted. Kismet was too tired and on edge to fall into that kind of payment. He wanted to go home, take the need down, and paint on something that didn’t move.
“Stick around for a bit.” Nick’s mouth was hot on his throat, a searing trail of wet Kismet wanted to wipe clean. “I’m sure I can find a few things for you to do for it.”
“You’ve got me confused with my mother.” Kismet stepped away as far as he could, disengaging himself from Nick’s embrace. “I’m not a whore.”
“If your mom hadn’t been a whore, you wouldn’t be standing here right now. You should give thanks to your mom’s whoring. Besides, without me sniffing around looking for some, I wouldn’t have gotten to know you. Then where would you be?”
“I’m not her. Just don’t confuse us. I pay for what I take. I don’t do people to get shit handed to me.”
“You look like her, you know. All long legs and soft brown eyes. She was blonde, though. I like the brown hair you got. It’s like coffee.” The older man stared at the lean young artist standing in front of him. “You’re as pretty as she was. Although you’re probably better in bed than she ever could be. Your mother was a frigid bitch. Even as cold as you are, you’re a better lay than she was, Kiz.”
“Focus, Nicky. How much?” Kismet dangled the latex ball from his fingertips. “I don’t want to owe you anything.”
“You owe me everything, Kizzie.” The caustic reminder burned nearly as much as the kiss Nick stole from him. “Keep it. You don’t owe me anything for it.”
“You sure?” Nick’s generosity made him suspicious. The roll had to hold at least five hits, more than enough to tide him over for a week, maybe two if he was careful. “How come?”
“Nobody but you likes this shit. It makes everyone else nuts. You’re the only one who doesn’t get weird on it.” Nick shrugged, his gaze following Kismet’s. “I told the guy I didn’t want to deal it for him anymore. Hard to unload it when I’ve only got one customer that does it. Baby, I don’t care how hot you are, I’m not taking some shit in that I can’t sell off.”
“Guess it helps to already be crazy.” He tried to keep his fingers calm, but the tremors working
down his arm were difficult to control. The bite of his addiction was rising, uncoiling into his blood. He’d
have to feed it soon, or the sweats would start and then the clenching in his guts.
“Don’t kill yourself. That’s all I ask.” Nick pushed away from the counter, trapping Kismet’s wrist in his fingers. The grip was hard, nearly bruising the young man down to the bone. “Don’t want to lose you to this shit.”
“Shouldn’t have gotten me started on the stuff to begin with, then,” he shot back, tilting his head to stare up at the taller man.
The first time he’d taken a taste, he’d been in Nick’s bed, sprawled on dirty sheets and wondering
why there was a party going on around him. With every breath the darkness circled closer, the ghosts and
faces caught in the folds of shadows nearly drowning Kismet. Fear paralyzed him, and alcohol was no longer
enough to keep the monsters at bay. His body ached in places where claws dug down into his skin,
red furrows that disappeared after a few minutes, but the burn remained, invisible agonies that
drove Kismet insane.
A bite of steel into his vein cured that. The floating nirvana left behind a detached peace that Kismet clung to. Drops of pearled powder became his salvation as the world grew darker. His mind begged for the cessation of nightmares that stalked him, and soon his body wept for the taste of bitterness a needle could bring him.
He owed his sanity to Nick. Hell, Kismet thought, I should kiss Nick’s feet for pushing that needle into me. There were days when he thought the drug was the only thing keeping him alive.
Those were also the days when he wondered why he was even trying.
K
ISMET
TUCKED
his hands deep into his jeans, feeling at the money he’d shoved up in his pocket. The ball of latex rubbed on his thumb, a promised calm in its crumble. At the moment all he wanted was a lungful of sweet smoke and sleep. His stomach and veins could wait until he woke up before he took care of their needs. Well, maybe his stomach, Kismet thought. He’d have to see how much longer he could go before he cracked open the knot on the packet.
The College Area hadn’t changed much since his birth, a cesspool of the hopeless and unwashed for as long as he could remember. Much of his childhood had been spent within a five-mile radius of where he lived now, sometimes sheltered by four walls. Other times they huddled in the front seat of a parked car trying to sleep while his mother grunted out slack pleasure for the man lying soft and wet on her skinny body.
Kismet felt like as much of a street fixture as the transient population of whores and their keepers.
He’d grown up among them, and now as an adult, he could walk casually through the familiar grime, draped in loose T-shirts and jeans splattered with painted bruised acrylics, a pale ghost drifting past lives more broken than his own.
A grim-faced Latino stepped out from a doorway niche, his face ripe for a challenge. His
companion grabbed at his elbow, nodding at the artist, his voice a low whisper. Kismet knew the whispers
well… knew what was being said, often while he was still in earshot. He didn’t think there was anyone left
who hadn’t heard that he was insane. All in all, it wasn’t a bad reputation to have among people who were
looking for a warm body to take money from. Crazy seemed to keep people back. In Kismet’s mind, he
couldn’t have asked for a better set of armor.
“Kizzie.”
Kismet kept walking, his eyes fixed on the storefront at the corner. He paced off his steps, counting each break in the sidewalk in silent progression. Kismet no longer searched for the slip of darkness hiding in the side of his vision. He knew where Chase would be, lurking and stalking his waking thoughts. The ring of a bell sounded when he entered the convenience store, an electronic blip signaling his entrance to the clerk sequestered behind a steel cage.