Authors: Shey Stahl
“Fuck my trust fund.”
His glare was obvious though I didn’t look. “To me, it wouldn’t matter how I
made my money as long as I was doing something I loved. Money means nothing. It
doesn’t buy you happiness though most
try,
it only
complicates shit that didn’t need to be complicated in the first place.”
This time I looked up
at him setting the camera on the seat beside me, he had all of my attention now
and I know I had his, most of it anyway. “Is that why you won’t take up Sam on
the offer?”
“You mean with that
record label he offered up when he has no business doing so?”
“Yeah, I guess. Why?”
“Because,” Dylan let
out a huff as if I should have known. “That’s not me.”
“So what would you do
to make money?”
“I want to make music,
I do. It’s a passion of mine.” He paused for a moment as he passed a car in the
left lane and then moved back to the right lane on the highway. “I’d probably
get a job somewhere singing in a bar for just enough money to have a place to
stay and eat. I need to feel alive and do something I love.”
“What about now…right
now?”
“I’m right where I want
to be.” He gave me a smile and kissed my neck with a low chuckle.
“A good deal.”
There was that deal
again.
Trying to change
subjects, I reached for his iPod and switched playlists. Dylan let me do
whatever when it came to music. That was nice because back home, whether it be
with Eric or Mercedes, I never controlled the music. The thought of those two
made me think about what was going on back home and what people were saying. I
imagined Facebook was crawling with all kinds of nasty and ridiculous rumors
and theories. I bet it was already said that I was having Dylan’s love child or
something.
“Do you have Facebook
or Twitter?” I asked. My gaze was mostly on the iPod but I did glance up to see
his reaction.
Dylan gave me a
sideways glance. “Do I look like someone who would have that shit?”
“Point
taken.”
I nodded finding another playlist on his iPod. This one was
marked: Liars.
Later that afternoon, on our last leg of
our five-hour drive, we went through what I like to refer to as our
nineties-tease-me-phase. I have to explain how that started though.
A joint.
It was slightly entertaining
to me that here I was, a few weeks ago, living the perfect life and now here I
was, drinking, smoking joints and on the run.
I had never smoked pot
before and well, I wanted to. Naturally, Dylan had some and I wasn’t surprised
by that at all. He wasn’t exactly okay with me doing it, said I was too
innocent to get wrapped up in it but I had to remind him this was pot and not
cocaine. He didn’t find any humor in that statement but he allowed it.
We smoked it and then
headed to Memphis. It was illegal but that was half the fun. I learned quickly
that if I wanted to get into trouble, Dylan was the perfect partner.
Dylan showed me that he
had mad rap skills and I showed him I could throw down some Salt N’
Pepa
when needed. I learned that Beastie Boys, Dylan’s rap
idols, had sick rhythm and that Brass Monkey was his favorite song of theirs,
if he had to choose just one.
We rapped to No
Diggity
like nobody’s business and nearly wrecked the car
during our road-talent-show when he played U Can’t Touch This.
“I’m not sure what’s
more entertaining to me right now,” I laughed.
“The fact that
you have all these songs on your iPod or that I know all of them.”
Dylan laughed.
His eyes carefree and lost in the moment.
“Definitely
that you know them.”
Dylan could sing every
line and didn’t miss a beat including spanking my ass when I flipped around in
the seat to do the booty shaking bounce at one point.
During this two-hour
driver of so-you-think-you-got-talent-car-tour, we worked up quite the case of
the giggles and munchies. That led us to Taco Bell in Tulsa and then we carried
out our moves to the parking lot when Tongue Tied came on.
Looking at us, you
would have thought we were a bunch of stoners when we were just two kids
finding friendship and enjoying ourselves. For the first time in a while, Dylan
was relaxed and completely himself. I loved it and honestly, fell a little
deeper that I was seeing that side of him.
I got lost in a fit of
giggles and Dylan looked over at me, taking a pull from his cigarette. “You’re
so fucking pretty when you smile like that.”
Silence fell over us.
Dylan’s eyes scanned over mine and the tips of his fingers ran over my cheek
and then winked. I gave another round of giggles feeling the high still.
We were standing in the
parking lot leaned against his car, the heat from the hood burning the skin on
the backs of my thighs as I sat there bouncing around to the music. Dylan
finished his fourth soft taco and tossed the empty wrapper in the bag beside
me.
“Teach me those moves
from that pep rally shit,” he said, smiling, when the song Fight Music came on.
Deciding he was still hungry, he went for his fifth Taco. I watched him unwrap
it and take the first bit.
“First of all,” I
jumped down after taking a drink of our Mountain Dew we were sharing, “it
wasn’t to this song, it was to a mixture Landon made that was with My Name Is,
Fight Music, Lose Yourself, and Shake
That
.” I gave
Dylan a look. “He was going through a Slim Shady phase.”
Dylan choked on his
laughter, his hand covering his mouth. “You got Landon to make that shit?”
“No,
I
didn’t.”
Dylan’s eyes were on mine, curious and you literally see the realization in his
eyes. “Mercedes can be very persuasive.”
“Still,” he gave a nod,
his expression changed as if he was trying to hide an emotion, his hands moved
to my hips after turning the song up. “Teach me that shit.” His head
dipped,
his mouth against my neck. “I dreamed of you doing
that for me, only me.”
I taught him my moves
after that.
His own private showing.
I guess I would
have to say I taught him and about ten Taco Bell employees who saw us. It
wasn’t private at all but neither of us cared.
He taught me some too.
He was surprisingly a
fast learner. I knew that. I experienced that. I loved that.
Watching us, I half
expected us to start rapping and break dancing while pouring out our 40 ounce
to lost
hommies
. We were out of control.
Dylan wasn’t what I
expected most days. While he ranged from a series of emotions, there was this
full of life boy that emerged from that from time to time and laughed, loved
and lived with everything he had and was goofy.
It was the same kid
that loved nineties rap, fast cars, obsessed with Taco Bell, tattoos,
cigarettes and had a temper like a hurricane. Usually predictable, but be ready
for a force of nature because if finally pushed over the edge, when he reached
shore, you had better hope that you boarded the fucking windows up.
As we sat there in the
parking lot, Dylan nodded to a tattoo shop across the street amongst a strip
mall.
“Bucket list?”
Scanning the row of
buildings, I looked for what he was referring to and settled my eyes on a
billboard for tattoos and body piercings.
My eyes lit up at the
possibility of getting something to remember our trip by, our memory, and one only
we knew the meaning to.
Dylan smiled and gave a
nod. “Let’s go.”
It turned out to be
just up the street, an old concrete row of buildings, with the tattoo shop on
the end. Glass windows curved into a glass door with spray painted windows that
looked like graffiti. Dylan appeared comfortable. His steps were sure pushing
open the door. I followed, my heart in my throat at what I was about to do.
“What are you guys here
for?” A girl not much older than me
asked,
her nails
and lips black.
“Tattoos,” Dylan said
never making eye contact with her as he scanned the walls of art and body
piercings. I did the same in awe that I, Bailey Gray, a girl that just weeks
ago was living the life that everyone else wanted. Now look at me, picking out
tattoos.
The girl went through
all the options and said we had to pay half now and the rest when we were done.
Dylan tugged out his wallet from his back pocket and handed his ID and credit
card over to the dark haired girl behind the counter. She smiled, her eyes
shifting to mine. Hesitantly, I handed over my ID.
Examining both
carefully, she typed some information into the computer in front of her and
then motioned down the hall.
“What are you
gonna
get, brown eyes?” he whispered walking beside me; his
eyes on his feet with his hands in his pockets, his shoulder bumped mine.
“Tinkerbelle?”
“No,” I shrieked
offended that he would think I would get a fairy tattooed on me. Then I smiled.
“I was thinking a butterfly,” I teased.
He laughed, his
shoulders shaking but never looked at me. “Original.”
I wasn’t thinking
butterfly, and when he said original, I realized what he meant. A butterfly
would be expected of me.
A taller man walked in
and sat down in a metal stool, eyeing my appearance. I did the same wondering
if I was
gonna
get blood poisoning from this.
“What’ll it be?”
I must have stared at
him and his art splashed over him for at least five minutes before pointing to
his right bicep. He smiled and asked where I wanted it.
The entire experience
was frightening as hell and I think I spent the majority of it with my eyes
closed and biting my fist. I may have passed out too. It burned, it stung and I
was sure he was peeling my skin off layer-by-layer and then adding burning acid
to it.
When he was finished,
he slapped me on the ass, hard I might add, ran his hand down his jaw, winked
and said. “Some of my best work
darlin
’,”
I couldn’t look. Wanted
to, but couldn’t. Removing myself from the table, I still didn’t look, even
when the inked up man with black eyeliner offered the mirror.
Dylan met me in the
hallway, his eyes casted on his cell phone in his right hand. When he heard my
flip-flops against the painted concrete floor, he looked up briefly and nodded
to the exit sign.
As we walked to the
counter again, Dylan smiled adjusting his shirt over the bandage they put on
his stomach. “What’d you get?” I asked him, adjusting my own clothes over my
hip.
“Tinkerbelle,” Dylan
teased but he seemed tense, maybe it hurt. I knew I was a little tense. It hurt
like hell.
We rounded the corner
and stood at the counter, neither of us speaking.
“Was it everything you
hoped for?” The girl behind the counter asked, looking at Dylan.
Keeping his stare low,
Dylan spoke and I knew by his tone when the shift in his mood occurred. “It was
fine but you might
wanna
tell your staff to keep
their fucking hands to themselves.”
He saw the guy spank my
ass.
“Stan doesn’t mean
anything by it, I’m sure of it,” she said swiping Dylan’s credit card.
“He’s lucky I didn’t
break his fucking arm.” Dylan shook his head but didn’t look away, his smirk,
cold, and it made me want to smack him, sort of. He was being an asshole and he
knew it but it was reassuring that he was looking out for me.
Neither of us said
anything walking to the car until we got inside. I looked over at him when he
started the car. “What did you get?”
The corners of his
mouth twisted into a shy grin that I found adorable. Before lifting his shirt,
slowly, his smirk turned to a grin.
There, along the right side
of his ribs was a scorpion. Though he liked to deny it,
all
of Dylan’s
tattoo’s had meaning. “What does it mean?” I looked closer,
my head practically in his lap.
“They can mean a lot of
things.” His hand moved to drop his shirt hiding it from my view as he started
the car.
“Mystery, power, aggression, healing and
protection.”
Mine seemed stupid now.
I knew he wanted to ask
but he didn’t. Maybe he thought it was private, maybe he didn’t.
It took him about ten
minutes and he finally caved when we passed a sign. “What did you get brown
eyes?”
I felt incredibly
embarrassed to admit it and the words rushed out.
“A sun.”
“A
sun?”
“Yep.”
My hands folded in my lap. I watched the passing billboards as opposed to his
stare. I could feel it almost as I felt the burning from my new branding.
“Can I see it?”
Taking a deep breath, I
shook my head no. It wasn’t that I found it pathetic or anything, I just felt
that compared to something Dylan would get,
it
was
meaningless. Dylan communicated a lot about himself through tattoos. I was
trying to do the same but felt like I failed when I saw something as strong as
a scorpion on him.
Dylan didn’t like my
no
and jerked the car over to the side of the road, gravel
pinging the sides of the car. Cars honked as they drove by at his lack of care
for anyone around us. Before I had time to react, I was flat on my back with
him hovering over me. “Show me,” he demanded parting my legs with his hips, one
hand resting on the back of the seat, the other beside my hair.
My eyes motioned south
to my right side, his followed and he moved the hand that was beside my head to
the Beastie Boys t-shirt I stole from him this morning. Slowly, his fingers
grazing my skin as he did it, he lifted my shirt up to my ribs.
Closing my eyes, I
imagined what it looked like but couldn’t place it.