I’m not exactly sure how my group of friends actually functions. We’re all so different from each other. Well, Marshall is definitely the most mature. I think the rest of us have some growing up to do. These guys have my back, even when they are giving me hell.
“Shut up, guys. I’m capable of dealing with my own problems. I don’t really need your opinions.” I rub my hand across my forehead, but not before seeing Marshall’s shoulders sag in defeat. He’s the only one who told me what an ass I was being to Tonya. It used to bug me because I thought he had a thing for her, but really, he’s the only person that’s brave enough to call me on my bullshit. I just don’t take his advice very often.
Dylan is busy trying to get a fire started. He’s hunched over, strategically placing small limbs on top of each other. “You got a lighter?” He asks.
“Um, no,” I answer. I’m not sure why he thinks I would have one, I don’t smoke. “Why are you building a fire anyway? It’s too damn hot for that shit.”
“So, we have some sort of light, dumbass,” he argues. “I’m all for being one with nature, but I’m not taking my chances on not being able to see the animals that come out at night.”
“Pansy,” I mutter, taking another swig of my beer. I won’t admit it, but I completely agree with him. I want the light, but not the heat that comes with it. The air is already hot and heavy, a sign that we’re probably about to get a summer storm.
That realization sends a pang of sadness through me. Tonya and I loved watching the storms roll in, especially at night. We would park down an abandoned gravel road and watch the lighting spark through the sky. My arms wrapped around her while she leaned against my chest, Brantley Gilbert or Dustin Lynch crooning through the speakers, admiring the storm raging around us.
I chug the rest of my beer, tossing the empty can in the bed of the truck, and grab another one. I’m halfway finished with this can before I signal Marshall to toss me another one. He raises his eyebrow, silently questioning me. I nod, reaching my hand out to accept the new can. The need to drown out the pain right now is more important than the hangover I’ll have tomorrow.
* * *
A few hours have passed.The fire is slowly dying down, the crickets are chirping, and we can see glimmers of lightning in the distance. It’s been great catching up with the guys. We’ve played football together for as long as I can remember, from peewee all the way through high school. Then we went our separate ways. The only person who checked up on me was Marshall, but only to make sure I wasn’t doing anything stupid. He’s the brother I never had.
We’re also very drunk, except for Marshall since he’s the responsible one. We start cleaning up our mess. We don’t want to lose access to this field. The owner doesn’t really care if we use it as long as we pick up afterward.
Just as I’m throwing the last of the cans in a bag in the bed of the truck, Dylan yells, “Let’s get tattoos.”
Marshall is already shaking his head. I can’t tell if he’s amused or frustrated. “That’s probably not a good idea.”
I feel bad for the guy. He usually ends up being the one that babysits our drunk asses. I need to work on being a better friend to him. Maybe that will help me figure out how to be a part of Layla’s life.
I’m just drunk enough to agree with Dylan. “Hell yeah, let’s do this.”
“There’s no point trying to talk y’all out of this, is there?” Marshall asks.
Randall pipes in, “Nope. Might as well get in the truck and start driving it toward Dallas.”
We all pile into his truck. The seats are leather, and sticky from the Texas heat. Marshall turns on the radio, and Sam Hunt is singing about cruising down a dirt road. This night is about to get interesting.
It only takes us about thirty minutes to get to southeast Dallas. Music can be heard drifting out of bars, some of them from a stereo system while others are live. There are people all over the sidewalks, bar hopping, and finding restaurants that are still open to fill their late-night appetites.
We pull into a parking lot, paying the fee, and stumble out of the truck. We have no idea where we should go, so we start walking, joining the throngs of people. We pass tattoo shop after tattoo shop before coming to one called Life in Ink.
We peek inside in the windows and it doesn’t look like they are too busy. Dylan opens the door while Marshall hangs back to make sure we aren’t getting into any trouble. I know I shouldn’t do this. I know it could get me into trouble with my coaches. Right now, all that matters is doing this with my friends. If we’re going to do something stupid, we might as well do it together.
Two
Charleigh
It’s been a slow night,which is a rare thing. There are people walking in front of our shop. I can see them through the dingy glass lining our store front. Life in Ink isn’t one of the huge tattoo shops everyone hears about, but we usually have a lot more traffic than this.
It’s depressing. How am I supposed to become a full-fledged tattoo artist when I don’t have a clientele to practice on? It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, thanks to my uncle Corey. He’s the one who instilled the love of art in me. He’s also the one that would let me sit in his shop, the one I’m standing in now, and watch him work. I remember being in awe as he drew these permanent images on someone’s skin, and how happy it made them when he was finished.
Not all of them were meaningful. Some people got tattoos on a bet or chose something that had absolutely no meaning to them whatsoever. But you could tell the ones that truly loved the art of tattoo. The ones that loved having pieces of their journey, their story, inked on them as a permanent reminder that they weren’t the same person they were before. Those are the tattoos I want to do.
I’m about to call Corey to the front and ask him if I'm good to go home when three guys come stumbling through the door. Well, four, but one of them obviously isn’t drunk off his ass. He has the good sense to be somewhat embarrassed by his friends’ behavior.
“Corey,” I yell to the back, this time for entirely different reasons. I have a feeling it’s about to be a long night. He’s going to have to handle these guys.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” I ask, sugary sweet. Inside I’m rolling my eyes, hoping the sober friend talks some sense into these idiots and they leave. I’m not sure I have the patience to deal with any of them.
Sadly, luck is not on my side. They saunter up to the counter like they have all the time in the world. I tap my pencil on the notepad in front of me. I was in the middle of a drawing. One that I have no doubt my uncle is going to shoot down as crap. Nothing is good enough to him. I mean, I get it. I have to earn my place. But does he have to insist that everything I’ve done is no good? I’ve scoured my drawings for hours, and I can’t find what I’ve done wrong.