Texting The Tattooist by Flora Ferrari
CHAPTER1
Killian
I finish the last set of sit-ups, my abs straining and sweat soaking the matted floor of my home gym.
There’s this fire in me, burning with each repetition.
Maybe it’s age.
My forty-first birthday was a few days ago, and people keep mentioning – sometimes in a friendly way, sometimes with a tinge of jealousy – that my body will begin slowing down soon. But I haven’t felt it, only more swelling rage inside of me, the feeling that’s never left me ever since I first stepped into a boxing gym.
My coach used to say, there’s a devil in you, and we need to harness it.
Walking through my penthouse apartment, I find Speeder lying on the couch, his greyhound body stretched out, his orange fur sticking out here and there from where he’s been rolling over.
He rises as I enter, walking gracefully over to me.
“How are you doing, boy?”
I stroke the top of his head, telling myself Speeder’s the only companion I’ll ever need. But ever since my birthday, I’ve been thinking about her.
Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, I look down at the city. A shock strikes me every single time I take in this view.
It seems so recently that I was on the far side of the city, the grimy part of town, with dreams of boxing, success, and money, escaping the drudgery that surrounded me. There’s a poison to being a poor boy surrounded by poor grownups with no end in sight.
It can drain the hope out of a person.
But I kept on, and now here I am… with nobody to share it with.
Speeder makes a soft grumbling noise, tilting his head up at me.
Ever since I found the scrappy rust-colored boy in the alleyway behind my tattoo studio three years ago, he’s been able to read my moods.
He’s even more perceptive when he’s been heavily exercised, as he has today with countless laps in a large field on the city’s outskirts.
I know what he’s saying.
I could find a woman if I wanted.
Last week, one of my tattooing clients offered herself to me. Once I was done tatting the butterfly on her wrist, she turned her hand over, grabbing my arm.
She was, on some level, attractive. Not that I found her attractive, but I could see why other men would.
She was the sort of woman advertising executives put on billboards, with her styled hair, seemingly perfect features, and gym-honed body.
But she left me cold.
I yanked my arm away.
She pretended not to be offended.
“You’ve done such a good job, Killian. Oh, I love that name. Killian. I could say it a thousand times. Is there any way I can repay you?”
I told her bluntly, “The cash is fine with me. Thanks for choosing my studio.”
She left with a pout, looking at me over her shoulder with an almost hurt look in her eyes. It was like she couldn’t understand how anybody could tell her no.
I’m sure not many men have.
But the woman I want….
Laughing gruffly, I open the glass door and walk onto the balcony. It’s cold out here, the winter wind whipping against my bare chest, instantly cooling my sweat. I’m surprised it doesn’t freeze and become as frosty as the rest of me.
The woman I want.
I think that as though there’s a specific idea of a partner I’m chasing.
As though I could type in her specifics into some machine and produce her in the shape I long for. But she’s hazy in my mind, or maybe she doesn’t exist.
It could be a case that I’m so broken no woman would appeal to me or be able to fix me.
Speeder whines, and I turn to find him sitting in the doorway.
“Too cold for you?” I ask.
He whines again.
I switch on the fire in the grill. It flickers to life, bathing the stone tiles of the balcony in warm orange light. Speeder approaches, the light mixing with the rustiness of his fur, and curls up on his blanket.
“Just me and you, eh, boy?”
Leaning down, I scratch him behind the ear.
Then my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I’ve always got it on me. It’s probably the poor kid in me, secretly thinking somebody will somehow take all of this away – the apartment, wealth, and success.
The career success, at least.
On my website, my cell number and my email are listed. So I never know when a new client will contact me. This could be a regular client call, a high roller, a celebrity, or a sports personality – somebody who wants to splash some real cash.
I read the text.
Good evening, Mr. Blaze.
I smirk at the formality of it.
My name is Mia Nelson. Unfortunately, my father passed away almost a year ago, and I’m considering getting a tattoo in his honor. Looking online, I see you’ve got countless positive reviews, and I also see you offer a service where you help the client design their tattoo. I’m very interested in this.
Since she’s given me her full name, I might search for her online. It’s a callous thing, my business, but I get so many requests for this service I have to be selective.
A man has to take his business seriously.
Nothing comes up for a few results, telling me she’s not a public figure.
But then I hit upon a search result.
Mia Nelson, Fiction Editor.
I click on it.
Her photo appears.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, rising so quickly it causes Speeder to follow me as I pace up and down the balcony, staring down at her photo. It might not be her, I warn myself.
It’s probably a common name. Not like mine.
A name made for boxing, my coach used to say. A name we can use….
Mia is honest in her bio on the freelancing website, explaining how she doesn’t have much experience. However, she also mentions that she’s written several poems in honor of her late father, and she’s included these in a section where users can offer samples of their work.
It has to be her. It’s too much of a coincidence.
I return to her photo, immediately feeling my world change shape, take shape, as I stare down at her. I imagine the sound she’d make if I kissed her from behind on the neck. Possibly wrap my arms around her body as my hands indulge in all her curves.
She’s young, with flushed red cheeks and dark brown hair – almost black – wavy down to her shoulders. Her eyes are wide and somehow startled, like the world’s a shock to her, like she needs her man – me – to guide her.
Green, jewel-like, those eyes….
She’s wearing an airy white shirt that seems to float around her body but can’t hide her shape.
Her breasts made for massaging, for pleasing….
And for feeding my children.
Ourchildren.
I lean against the balcony railing, squeezing the chilling metal, knowing I have to slow down. And also knowing it will be the greatest challenge of my life, tattooing this woman, the needle trembling in my hand as I struggled not to lose control.
My balls swell.
My manhood is hard already, pushing against my gym shorts as if telling me to find her.
To tear off her clothes.
To guide my throbbing helm to her young entrance and drive deep, hard, and possessively.
“She’s mine.”
I offer the words to the whipping wind.
“She belongs to me.”
Speeder whines and starts running in circles. He was doing that when I found him, and I know it as a sign he is agitated, sensing my mood as usual.
“Sorry, boy.” I kneel and offer him my hand. He ducks his head and nuzzles into it. “I just don’t know how….”
I can feel this way so fast, and with such urgency, I finish silently.
Staring into her eyes, I study her smile, only a small one, as if she can’t force herself to smile fully. Her eyes seem to see me as nobody else ever has, seem to care, and tell me that if I am broken, it won’t stop her.
No, it’s me who needs to stop.
What sort of madness is this?
I’m losing my mind.
She seems overly honest from her profile, sharing that stuff about her customer service job, and she hasn’t offered the best samples for her business.
Writing poetry and editing books aren’t connected.
I want to help her, explain this gently and patiently, and support her in every way I can.
But no – I have to slow down.
Text her back, and be professional.
If I told her the truth of what I really want – the inexplicable and undeniable desire gripping me – she’d block my number.
