I quickly slam the door behind me, hoping he got hurt. "Aw, c'mon, darlin'. Just one little kiss! C'mon, open the door now." he wails from the porch. The door missed his face, I guess.
"Go away, Rodger!" I call back.
"Just open the door. We need to end this date real-like, with a good-night kiss!" Rodger quickly replies.
"Rodger, if you don't go away, I'm gonna call the cops!" I threaten.
"I'll leave," he says, "but only after a kiss. Now c'mon! Open the door."
I threaten again, "Rodger, I'm picking up the phone right now, and dialing the number!"
"All right, all right. I'm goin'," Rodger finally says, giving up. I hear him clomp down my porch steps, and I finally breath a sigh of relief.
"Another horrible date come and gone. Thank God." I say to myself. I glance at my watch, which shows that it's 6:30. "Another record. Shortest date yet!" I walk into my hallway, and notice my answering machine blinking. I press the blue button.
"One new message," the mechanical voice proudly states. Soon, I hear a different one. "Hey, Jess, this is Rita. It's about 6:15, and knowing you and blind dates, you'll be home soon. Well, when you do get home, change, and come over to my house. Michael and I are having a huge-ass party over here, and I want you to get over here ASAP! Catch ya later!" The machine beeps. "End of final message," it states.
"No duh!" I say sarcastically to it. I race up the stairs and swing my bedroom door open. I quickly shed my dress, hose, and heels, and step into the shower. The hot streams from the showerhead relax my aching body, and this peace gives me time to think. "What is wrong with me?" I ask the tiled wall of the shower. "Why can't I find a nice guy who isn't interesting in trying to maneuver me into his bed?"
After ten minutes, I step out of the shower, dry off, blow-dry and brush my hair, and enter back into the bedroom. I dress in a dark-blue, form-fitting baby tee with a Fireball Devil Child symbol on the front, and the words 'Very Bad Girl' in black on the back (a Devil Child symbol is like a y with spikes on each of the spokes and a curving tail that either has a fireball or a spiked ball on the end), and a pair of tight black jeans. I pick up my mini backpack/purse, turn off the lights, and head out into my garage.
I flip the light-switch up to make the lights from the garage cascade over everything inside the structure. In the middle of the clutter sits my black Ford Explorer. It's practically brand new, considering I don't drive it much. My father had given me a credit card on my thirteenth birthday, and told me to use it to buy myself a car. I bought the truck when I moved into my house a few years ago.
At remembering the circumstances of how I was able to get this vehicle, my eyes begin to water with tears of hate and anger. I quickly rub my eyes, telling myself, "This is supposed to be a night of fun. I will not let anything depress or anger me." I get into the driver's side, and turn the ignition on. Carefully, I back out onto the road, and head toward Main Street.
Normally, it takes about ten minutes to reach Rita's house. Tonight, though, it seems to take an eternity. The traffic is horrible, and why not? It's the first Friday night of March, and most teenagers are out and about. I turn down Main Street, and notice that spring has really sprung early. All of the snow has melted, the grass is growing green again, and the trees and plants are budding leaves and flowers.
After another five minutes, I am able to get to Rita's house. There are many cars parked on both sides of the street, plus in her yard. I spot a space by the front walk, and quickly park. I exit my vehicle, and hear the loud music and laugher emanating from inside the old English house. I walk up toward the door, and am about to knock when the door suddenly flies open.
Standing before me is Rita, my best friend since childhood. Directly behind her is her fiancé, Michael, and they're both laughing. Rita stops laughing long enough to say, "Hi, Jess! About time you show up. C'mon in!" I follow Rita and Michael into the house, though the living room where tons of people are dancing, drinking, eating, and singing to the songs being played by the DJ, and finally to the kitchen. Even more people fill the dining area.
Rita came to America from Britain when she was five. We were neighbors, and basically adopted each other as sisters. Rita's real tall, about 5'8", and has short redish-brown hair. I've been her friend since we started school, but even I didn't know she knew so many people.
I shout to Rita, "I didn't know you knew so many people!"
She shouts back, "I don't know most of them! They just came by!" She opens the liquor cabinet. "Want something to drink?"
"Yeah," I reply, "something so strong, I'll forget my whole life."
Rita stands back up, bringing up a bottle of Jack Daniels Scotch. "Did things go that bad tonight?" she asks while pouring the Scotch into a small glass.
"You could say that," I tell her, and take the glass she hands to me. "Thanks."
"No problem. Now, let's forget any misery, and have some fun!" she shouts. Rita leads me to the living room where we meet up with Michael and some of our friends. Soon, we're all out in the middle of the room, dancing like the maniacs we are.
********
Around midnight, I realize that I'm practically drunk and that I'm supposed to have an inspection in the morning. I quickly locate Rita, and dodge between dancers to reach her. "Rita!" I yell, grabbing her arm, turning her to face me. "I have to go. I got an inspection in the morning, and having a hangover isn't gonna help much."
Rita replies, "No, you can't go just yet! The party's still goin' strong. No one leaves 'till it's over!" I laugh at her silliness. Rita could always make me laugh. "I've got an idea!"
"Uh-oh!" I say to her. "Rita's got an idea. That's bad!" We both begin to laugh. "So what's your brilliant idea?"
Our friends, Chastity and Clarice, walk over to us as soon as they heard Rita exclaim that she had an idea. "Well, I just now remembered that there's a new tattoo shop down Main Street that's open real late, like three or so. I hear they've got some pretty awesome tattoo designs, plus the guy that owns and runs the shop is supposed to be real hot! I was thinking that we should go and get tatts, and check out this hottie."
Eagerly, Chastity and Clarice agree to it, but I hold back. "Girl, you know I hate needles!" I tell Rita. "How am I gonna stand getting a tattoo? And don't try to tell me that they don't put them under your skin when they do!"
Rita smirks. "You can at least check out the hottie, right? It's not gonna kill ya!"
I giggle, and nod. "All right, I'll go. Let's stay around here for another hour though. I'm not through dancing yet." I drag the girls with me to the middle of the floor. "And, just to prove to you all that I can be daring, I'll get a tattoo, too."
An hour and ten minutes later, we finally pile into Rita's porche, and head to the tattoo shop. I'm surprised we could back out of her driveway with so many cars around, much less make it to the shop. The streets are basically quiet, except for the occasional nightshift worker that passes us. Within minutes, Rita parks her car and turns off the ignition. "Are we ready to do this?" she asks. We all nod, and exit the car. As we walk into the shop, I begin to realize just how drunk I am, and the last thought I remember walking in is, "How could I let myself get suckered into this?"
********
I awaken drowsily when a wave of pain hits my head and my shoulder. As my lids lift, I notice that I'm lying on a sofa in a waiting area with a heavy blue blanket covering me. As I glance around, I see my friends sleeping on other sofas and chairs, with blankets around them, too. When I come to look directly in front of me, I see an extremely tall man standing there, his back to me.
The man is wearing black jeans, a tight black T-shirt, black boots, and a blue bandana over his head. His long, dark hair is in a ponytail, and I notice a tattoo peaking out from his shirt on the back of his neck. His arms, as well, are covered with ink, in the designs of skulls, spirits, and other such things. Suddenly, another wave of pain hits my head, and I groan aloud, reaching for my head.
The man turns around to face me. I stare up in the most gorgeous green eyes that pierce through all that they look at. He has an evil-looking goatee, which makes him look even sexier. Above his right eyebrow is a scar, which was left behind, I'm guessing, from an eyebrow piercing. From the front, I can see his T-shirt has a skull with glowing red eyes and crossed bones below it. I also see that he has pectorals that can easily be seen through the shirt. I quickly glance at his arms, and see that his biceps are pretty large as well, and the shirtsleeves, or what I presume are sleeves, seem a little tight around his upper arms. "Headache?" he asks in a sexy Southern accent. I nod, forcing myself not to look lower than his waist. He nods as well, and leaves the room.
I realize I was holding my breath, and let it out. In a few minutes, he returns with a glass of water and two blue pills. I take both objects from his hands. "Thanks," I say, my voice quivering just a tad. Quickly, before I could say anything else, I place the pills in my mouth, and take a few sips of the water. After a few more minutes, the pills begin to take affect, causing the pain from my head and my shoulder to subside. "That stuff works fast," I tell him.
He chuckles softly. "It's supposed to," he replies, reorganizing some note cards. "It's formulated for the after-affects of the tattoos."
"Oh," is all I say. I look around, noticing for the first time the designs all over the walls. Some that really catch my eye are the tiger, the panther on top of the world, the small butterfly, and the skull with the dagger through the top, the end of the weapon dripping with blood. "Interesting designs," I tell him, pointing especially to the skull.
He looks at it for a second, then returns to his work. "Yeah, I suppose," he replies, as if not really interested, "but I think your's is one of the more unique ones I've done."
"What?" I say, and finally look down at my right shoulder, where the pain had been. There, on my normally tanish skin, sits the Fireball Devil Child symbol from my shirt. The lines are in black, the spikes on the end of the spokes are blue, and the fireball itself looks like real fire. The tatt itself is surrounded by redness. "Oh my God! I don't remember asking you for this." I look up at him.
He chuckles to himself again. "I think it's 'cause you were just a bit drunk when you came in. Your friends," he says, and points to my sleeping friends, "got their little tattoos; one got a butterfly, one got a fairy, and the last got a heart with her fiancé's name inside. When it was your turn, you held back, but your friends coaxed you into getting one. When you finally gave in, you told me to put the symbol from your shirt on your shoulder. Just as I was finishing your art, you dozed off."
I glance back at my friends. They're still asleep. "Sorry we kept you hear all night. I'm sure you would have rather told us to leave than let us sleep here." I apologize.
"The way you four were last night, I was afraid you all wouldn't make it home," he replies, still uninterested. "I was glad to keep you here so you wouldn't kill yourselves."
"Well, thanks," I realized we hadn't really been introduced. "My name's Jess, and-"
"I know," he interrupts me. "Your friend filled out your form."
I can feel my face start to heat up. Of course he knew my name! How I could I be so dumb? "Wh-what's your name?" I stutter slightly. He points to the door. I follow his arm. Though the blue writing is backwards, I can clearly see that it says 'Mark's Tattoo Studio'. "Oh," I say, embarrassed once again. "Well, Mark, you new around town then?"
"Yeah," he says over his shoulder, "moved in a few months ago. Just this month is when I really started with the shop."
"Looks good,"
"Thanks," he replies.
Trying to keep some conversation going, I ask, "What did you do before you moved here, and bought the shop?"
"I was involved in some pro wrestling companies," he answers vaguely. The way he's built, I should've guessed that before. Then again, I don't care for wrestling at all.
"How long were you in the wrestling business?" I ask next.
He stops for a second, as if trying to figure out a number. "About fifteen years," he says, and leaves the room.
I stand, and go to look at the designs on the counter. "Fifteen years," I whisper to myself. Giggling comes from behind me, and I whirl around to find my friends wide awake. "You weren't sleeping, were you?" I accuse, smiling. They shake their heads no. I walk over to them. "You're lucky you're all my friends." I begin to laugh with them.
Mark comes from the back. He sees that the others are awake, and says, "I have some early appointments today, so-"
"Sure. We're just leaving." I interrupt him, grabbing Rita's arm, and in turn she grabs the other two. We exit the shop, and head for Rita's car. "Oh my God! I was so stupid!"
"Don't sweat it," Rita reassures me. "You probably won't see him again." I nod in acceptance, and hop into her car. Rita drives us back to her house, where we all go our separate ways.
Once I start my truck, I look at the clock. It's almost ten o'clock. As I turn down my street, I hold my breath, hoping that the inspectors aren't there yet. The closer I get to my old Victorian house, the more I dread what waits for me. When I finally reach my house, I take a long breath; they haven't come yet.
I park my truck in the garage, and go inside. As I look around my hallway, I say aloud, "Thank God they're not here yet. This place is a mess!" Immediately, I get to working on my house. I start on the bedrooms, vacuuming the carpets, changing the sheets, cleansing the bathrooms, and taking the laundry down to the basement. While in the basement, I straighten out the equipment and make sure the light bulbs work properly. After I transfer the laundry from the washer to the dryer, I ascend to the first floor, and begin to clean up the hallway, the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen. Once that is all done, I head out to the huge backyard, where my ten-month-old Rottweiler, Harley, basically lives.
Just as I come back up the basement stairs from returning the laundry baskets to their places, the doorbell rings, bringing a chorus of barks from Harley. I glance at the wall clock, which reads 11:45. "About time," I grumble. I quickly open my front door, saying, "I was wondering if you'd-" As I looked up, I saw Mark standing on my porch. "Oh, it's just you."
"Thanks for the welcome," he replies, pretending to be hurt.
"No, it's not that," I explain. "I'm waiting for some inspectors to show up. What are you here for?"
He holds up my pack. "You left this at my shop. I thought you may need it." he tells me.
I take the bag, and remember my manners. "Come on in," I reply, stepping back from the door to let him enter. As he enters, I go to the kitchen. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Just some water, thanks," he replies, sitting on one of the stools by the counter island. I get a glass from the cupboard, and get Mark some water from the fridge. I hand him the glass, to which he says, "Thanks." He takes a sip. "You know, this is the first time I didn't have to bend over to get into a house."
"Yeah," I tell him, "I love these old Victorian houses. Tall doors, antique furnishings, and so forth. I'm still surprised I was able to buy this house so cheap." Mark hands me the glass, which I quickly wash out and dry, then put back in the cupboard.
"This mutt yours?" Mark asks, pointing to Harley. She is sitting at Mark's feet, licking his finger.
"Harley!" I scold, laughing. "Yeah, that's my mutt. She's normally shy around strangers." I come around the counter island to kneel next to Harley. "Silly pup," I tell her, scratching her head. Mark begins to pet the dog, too. After a few minutes of Harley's antics, I give her some lunch. As I stand back up, I ask, "Aren't you supposed to be working?"
Mark shakes his head. "No, I closed the shop for today," he replies. Suddenly, he makes eye contact with me, and point-blank asks, "What are your house inspections for?"
I can feel myself slightly blushing. I avoid the subject for another minute by taking Harley back out to the back, and picking up her dishes. When I realize that he's still waiting for an answer, I comply. "Well," I start, then stall, not sure what to tell him, "I kinda got caught with some drugs when I was fourteen." Seeing his look change from curiosity to surprise, I quickly add, "The stuff wasn't mine. They belonged to my boyfriend." As soon as that was out, I looked down at the linoleum floor. "Ever since that damn trial, I've had to have house inspections every three months. My life had been troublesome and traumatic beginning at the age of six, so it's a big wonder of how I turned out so well." The tension in the room is so thick, it'd be impossible to cut with a knife.
Suddenly, the doorbell sounds again, rescuing me from more confrontation. I quickly shoot a slightly apologetic look to Mark before answering the door. Standing on my porch are two women and two men, all dressed in suit-type clothing. "I was wondering if you'd show up today," I tell them, stepping aside to let them enter.
