“Ah…yeah okay. Gimmie a sec.”
Sam heard her bed creak as the guy moved around and breathed a sigh of relief. She checked her laundry basket and found a relatively clean tank top and black skinny jeans. She tugged them on, applied crimson lipstick and pronounced herself ready to face the world…if she could remember where she left her shoes. She re-entered her bedroom, kicking aside dresses and jackets looking for her docs.
“You look fantastic!”
Her newest lover was exactly what Sam had expected—dark-haired with a sweet, handsome face that reminded her of a border collie. Upon seeing him, she was fairly certain his name was Marc, but knew better than to say it out loud. Instead, she smiled. “Cheers, can I get you a cup of tea or something before I get to work?”
“Ah, it’s all good.” He flashed her a cheeky smile. “Can I grab your number?”
Sam looked at his tattooed forearms—a compass on one, an ornate anchor on the other. He’d paid good money for the work, but from someone who skilfully imitated. Not an artist in their own right. You could always tell a man by his ink. Marc’s said he was a nice hipster with decent style and no imagination. From what she could remember, the sex had been the same. Still, vanilla ice cream was better than no ice cream and hehadspanked her. Sure, she’d asked him to, but spanking was important to her and it was amazing how many guys sucked at it—slamming both hands on her butt cheeks like they were playing the bongos, or else whacking her on the tailbone.
Sam picked up a pen and a stray sketch pad and wrote down her number. She handed the piece of paper to Marc and smiled. “See you soon.”
“You will.” He looked down at the piece of paper. “Hang on…this is a landline.”
Sam smiled. “Yeah. I don’t have a phone number. Or a phone. This is the only way to reach me.”
The guy gaped at her like she was something out of a horror movie. “What?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“But…who doesn’t have a phone?”
Years of going through this exact experience, ad nauseam, had given Sam a useful response template. “I’m not a conspiracy theorist or a nutter, I don’t think the government is coming for our porn search history, I don’t like being in contact with the world at all times. It keeps the mystery alive.”
“Fuck me.” Marc looked both impressed and mildly horrified. “Guess I’ll be calling your landline then. When are you home?”
Sam smirked. “Hardly ever, but you can always leave a voicemail.”
She found her docs beside the bed, walked Marc and his sea-themed tattoos to her front door and kissed him goodbye. His lips were very hot and damp.
“See you soon,” he said.
“Sure.”
Silver Daughters Ink tattoo studio resided on the other side of their building, its entrance facing the street. The façade was cherry red, the signage a dozen jungle animals positioned so they spelled ‘Silver Daughters Ink.’Fifteen years ago, she, Tabby and Nicole had designed the logo. Then they had stood on the roof painting the letters onto the façade while their dad supervised. Passers-by had gaped at them, three little girls standing meters off the ground on a storefront roof.
“Aren’t you afraid they’re going to fall?” said a horrified little old lady.
Their dad had just smiled. “A life lived in fear isn’t a life well lived.”
The woman had scurried off, muttering about incompetent parents, but they hadn’t fallen, no more than Joe, Bessie and Fanny had fallen out of the Faraway Tree. No more than Nancy Drew had been murdered by one of the criminals she uncovered. Fostering independence had always been their father’s number one parenting priority. Probably why Tabby and Nicole had moved so far away.
So what’s your excuse?
Sam dismissed the mean voice and stared up at the letters she’d painted with her sisters. They’d faded considerably in the sun and some little shit had climbed the roof and drawn tits on the monkey.
One of these days we’ll fix it,she thought, digging in her bag for gum. Dad and I’ll get up there and repaint the letters. Maybe I’ll call Nicole and Tabby and we’ll buy some champagne and make a thing of it.
Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, a mean voice shot back.Have a Red Bull and wake up, Samantha.
A valid point. She’d have an easier time shoving an angry snake down her pants than getting her whole family in the same building. Too much bullshit. Too much unresolved tension. But wasn’t that the story of every family? Sam shoved the peppermint Extra into her mouth and shouldered her way into the studio. Its interior matched the exterior; blood-red walls and black leather chairs that were only slightly shitty after twenty years of use. Gil, one of the four full-time tattooists, was manning the front desk—or at least standing there while on his phone. He grinned at her. “How’s it going, Sleeping Beauty?”
“Shut up. How are we looking today?”
“Quiet enough that you’ll get away with your hangover. Coconut water in the fridge, if you need it.”
“Why do you think I put it there?”