was fourteen. I gave him his first two tattoos using a needle, something guitar string, and Bic pen ink.”
“Ugh, that sounds disgusting,” I grumbled, making a face.
“Yeah, it was pretty nasty. Fortunately, I got myself apprenticed to a real artist and I was able to actually learn the craft, learn the art. I’ve got a nice thing going, but I try to treat Fang real nice, since he was the first person to ever let me come near ‘em with a needle.”
“It… It takes trust, doesn’t it?”
“Trust, stupidity, apathy—call it what you will.”
Sure. That was a good way to think about it, I supposed.
“All I know is… He’s not apathetic about you,” Joel murmured as we turned off the road and into the parking lot adjacent to Fang’s building. The night’s darkness was just beginning to give way to morning’s light, coming in from the south east. The sky was awash with light pastels beginning, just barely, to show their stripes.
“Thanks for the pep talk, Joel,” I said as I staggered out of the car. “But I can’t get involved with him. Not like this. Not right now. We’re working a case together. He’s my partner.”
“I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t,” Joel said, throwing his hands up. “All I’m saying it, be cognizant of it. I guess… I guess I’m just asking for you to be nice to my friend, about his feelings.”
He sighed and scratched his head.
“Man, I feel like such a fucking twat talking about this shit. Take it easy, girl. Ointment three times a day. Don’t fucking scratch those beauties or else they’ll scab.”
Fang was wandering towards us, just off his chopper, apparently unaware of our conversation.
“Ready to go? Are you looking forward to the deepest sleep of your life?”
“Fuck, yes,” I groaned as I took a few unsteady steps, my entire body aching with each moment, with each beat of my heart.
As we walked up the stairs, Fang guiding me and my steps coming slow, I savored the scent of his blood and sweat and the ointment and soap all mixed together with the tough, earthy scent of his jacket. It made me feel warm. It made me feel safe. It made me feel…
No. Don’t say love. Jesus, girl, don’t say loved.
This wasn’t love. Whatever this was—the insane things I was doing to prepare for my role as Fang’s woman within the Damned, all of it—it wasn’t love.
No matter how much I wanted it to be. No matter how much, maybe, Fang wanted it to be too. It wasn’t love and it couldn’t be.
As we staggered into his apartment, I turned my eyes to the book case again. I suddenly felt light headed, felt like I was going to collapse all over again. I felt my knees go weak and I slumped against Fang, gasping as my torn up arm pressed against his chest.
“Okay, okay,” he cooed. “You’re fine, you’re fine… Just relax…”
As he struggled to stand me back up, my eyes settled on one specific picture—an image of two young men in tan colored combat fatigues, standing side by side with desert, mountains, and shrubs behind them. They both held rifles, pointed down, and both their faces were muddied with sweat and grime.
Fang was obviously on the left—a bit younger than the other man, with a tan, and blonde hair. He didn’t have the scars or tattoos that he had now. Rather, he looked… Fresh.
Not idealistic, not anything that could be mistaken for happiness, even though both men were smiling. But he looked fresher, less jaded, less miserable than he did now. Softer. Gentler.
I could still see gleams of that old self in him now, I realized. That kind looking young man, who smiled through his sadness with his rifle in the brutal landscape of Afghanistan amidst the invasion and occupation—he was still here, still with us, with me.
And the other man? The man standing next to him? The tall one, with red hair I knew too well, curly even in its crew
“Ugh, that sounds disgusting,” I grumbled, making a face.
“Yeah, it was pretty nasty. Fortunately, I got myself apprenticed to a real artist and I was able to actually learn the craft, learn the art. I’ve got a nice thing going, but I try to treat Fang real nice, since he was the first person to ever let me come near ‘em with a needle.”
“It… It takes trust, doesn’t it?”
“Trust, stupidity, apathy—call it what you will.”
Sure. That was a good way to think about it, I supposed.
“All I know is… He’s not apathetic about you,” Joel murmured as we turned off the road and into the parking lot adjacent to Fang’s building. The night’s darkness was just beginning to give way to morning’s light, coming in from the south east. The sky was awash with light pastels beginning, just barely, to show their stripes.
“Thanks for the pep talk, Joel,” I said as I staggered out of the car. “But I can’t get involved with him. Not like this. Not right now. We’re working a case together. He’s my partner.”
“I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t,” Joel said, throwing his hands up. “All I’m saying it, be cognizant of it. I guess… I guess I’m just asking for you to be nice to my friend, about his feelings.”
He sighed and scratched his head.
“Man, I feel like such a fucking twat talking about this shit. Take it easy, girl. Ointment three times a day. Don’t fucking scratch those beauties or else they’ll scab.”
Fang was wandering towards us, just off his chopper, apparently unaware of our conversation.
“Ready to go? Are you looking forward to the deepest sleep of your life?”
“Fuck, yes,” I groaned as I took a few unsteady steps, my entire body aching with each moment, with each beat of my heart.
As we walked up the stairs, Fang guiding me and my steps coming slow, I savored the scent of his blood and sweat and the ointment and soap all mixed together with the tough, earthy scent of his jacket. It made me feel warm. It made me feel safe. It made me feel…
No. Don’t say love. Jesus, girl, don’t say loved.
This wasn’t love. Whatever this was—the insane things I was doing to prepare for my role as Fang’s woman within the Damned, all of it—it wasn’t love.
No matter how much I wanted it to be. No matter how much, maybe, Fang wanted it to be too. It wasn’t love and it couldn’t be.
As we staggered into his apartment, I turned my eyes to the book case again. I suddenly felt light headed, felt like I was going to collapse all over again. I felt my knees go weak and I slumped against Fang, gasping as my torn up arm pressed against his chest.
“Okay, okay,” he cooed. “You’re fine, you’re fine… Just relax…”
As he struggled to stand me back up, my eyes settled on one specific picture—an image of two young men in tan colored combat fatigues, standing side by side with desert, mountains, and shrubs behind them. They both held rifles, pointed down, and both their faces were muddied with sweat and grime.
Fang was obviously on the left—a bit younger than the other man, with a tan, and blonde hair. He didn’t have the scars or tattoos that he had now. Rather, he looked… Fresh.
Not idealistic, not anything that could be mistaken for happiness, even though both men were smiling. But he looked fresher, less jaded, less miserable than he did now. Softer. Gentler.
I could still see gleams of that old self in him now, I realized. That kind looking young man, who smiled through his sadness with his rifle in the brutal landscape of Afghanistan amidst the invasion and occupation—he was still here, still with us, with me.
And the other man? The man standing next to him? The tall one, with red hair I knew too well, curly even in its crew
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