Midnight Muse

CHAPTER 3

KNOX

The party is in full swing. Music beats loudly through the apartment and the rumbling of voices shouting over it cram the room, bouncing off the walls and out the open front door. There are people everywhere, crowding the small space. The furniture has been shoved aside to make room for dancing and there’s a beer pong table set up between the fridge and the counter that’s covered in bottles and red cups. Someone’s standing on the countertop pouring a beer into a luge with a frat bro at the other end, chugging. I have no idea how the fuck he got in.

The air is thick with over-sprayed perfumes, body odor, weed, and alcohol. I watch from my spot by the window as I prep my latest victim. Working my hands into a fresh pair of black latex gloves for the girl who sits in the chair in front of me. It’s one of the rickety ones we have at the dining table that my roommates and I rarely ever use, so it’s perfect for this opportunity.

She’s excited, the girl in the chair. She’s wearing a skimpy dress that leaves little to the imagination. She’s sporting a lacy red thong, and straddling the back of the chair. Her dress is scrunched up over her ass, an expanse of olive skin on display, awaiting me to get to work.

I notice a group of guys standing nearby, leering at her with glossy eyes and beers in their hands, half hard at the prospect of watching the girl get a tramp stamp.

“A little pink bunny rabbit,” is what she requested, and I didn’t ask why. I never ask why, because people want what they want and I’m here to deliver. I nodded, pulled out my sketchbook, and got to work, drawing a few options for her to choose from.

I’m not proud of the set-up I currently have: tattooing drunken college kids whenever Slate throws a party. It’s a normal weekly occurrence for us now that we’re juniors and know more than a few people.

To say that I’m completely out of my element is an understatement, but I need the practice and the students are willing. The only reason I don’t have my headphones shoved over my ears, blasting music a little more my own taste, is so that I can hear what’s going on and tend to my client’s needs should anything go south. I’m preceptive, and will keep an eye out for the hiccuping girl with her dress pulled over her ass, only because I care more about the tattooing than if she’s making bedroom eyes at every gaze she meets.

I prep her skin, taking the clean razor to remove the area of any hair. The girl scoffs when she peers over her shoulder to see what I’m doing, but it’s protocol for me, and she’s happily distracted as soon as someone shoves a drink into her hand. Some of the liquid spills over the rim and I grit my teeth, continuing to focus on my preparations.

She keeps squirming, shouting in the direction of the dance-floor where her group of friends can hear her. Her long, crimson hair that’s obviously dyed keeps finding its way back into my workspace, spilling over her shoulder into the area I’ve just taken the antiseptic to. I sigh when it happens again for the third time, sitting back in my seat, my patience burned to its dregs.

“Get out of my chair.”

My voice is so low that she doesn’t hear me. She’s too busy trying to call her friends over, to brag about what she’s about to do. It’s incredibly annoying and I’ve already had a day from hell.

I hate knowing that the girl from the lobby lives next door. She’s infuriating, aggressive with her words and actions, pounding at both the elevator and our front door, demanding that I move my motorcycle.

She may have been having arguably as bad of a day as I did, given the sight of her unruly hair and tired hazel eyes, their coloring more of a raw umber than burnt. Her cheeks were a soft pink that I wanted to reach out and stroke, if it weren’t for both the state of my hands and her shitty attitude.

I came straight home after hearing the news that I hadn’t gotten the apprenticeship I wanted at Mystic Mark Tattoos. I thought I had shown an incredible portfolio of work, filled with both drawings and tattoos done in this very living room, without the distractions of beer, girls, and weed. They said I was too young, that I need to work on straightening my lines and that maybe a different style would suit me better.

There had been no parking spots when I arrived home. Normally, I park in front of Slate’s rust bucket of a Bronco, my sleek motorcycle teetering on the white painted line a hair before the tow zone. Tonight, there had been a moving truck jammed there instead, which meant more noisy neighbors moving into the already packed building. I don’t need to meet more people at mailboxes, fight them for the one slow-ass elevator that might fall if more than three people get on it—two if you’re riding it with Slate’s enormous build. I don’t want to have to fight for a parking spot, either.

Yeah, I might have been feeling a little petty when I blocked the truck in, but I was only planning on leaving my bike there for a few minutes while I dropped my portfolio off at the apartment before turning right back around to ride into the night and clear my head. But then she showed up, nearly knocking me over on her way out the door, guns already blazing, rude and looking more than ready to pick a fight.

So, fight we did.

I’ll admit, she has some spunk going up against me like that, her attitude much larger than her short frame. I could feel her eyes all over me, goosebumps raised on my skin in response to her scrutiny. She’s someone who I might have considered asking out once upon a time, even if her blonde hair was falling from her ponytail, long waves tangled around her heart-shaped face.

I wanted to brush them away and smooth the furrow between her brows, but the way she looked at me—glared at me—had gotten under my skin.

With her question, I knew that she was the one who was responsible for the moving truck. Like I said, I had every intention to move my motorcycle until the door to the lobby almost knocked me in the head. She didn’t even apologize, snipping at me and commanding me to move my motorcycle.

Her face twisted so prettily when I denied it was mine.

Her demand was my last straw, though.

No, that’s not entirely true. My final straw had been finding out she lives next door. When she showed up at my apartment with fire in her eyes and rosy cheeks, I was hardly able to swallow my surprise at the sight of her and her roommate, angrier than all hell. The very same expression she wasn’t able to conceal almost made me smirk, but the threat that she had my bike towed sparked something almost deadly in me. I worked damn hard to buy and maintain that motorcycle. I wanted to grab her, force her down the stairs with me to see if it was still there, maybe bend her over it and?—

“What?” The girl asks incredulously, drawing me from the thoughts of my new neighbor. She cranes her neck over her shoulder, that blood red hair touching my work area again.

But I’m done playing around. This had been a terrible decision on my part. I thought tattooing some partygoers would help calm my irritation because art usually does, but tonight it’s only adding fuel to the fire.

I stand, already reaching to pack up my things. “Get the fuck out of my chair or I’ll tattoo a dick on you,” I grunt, ignoring her spluttering confusion. The crimson to her cheeks looks nowhere near as good as it had on hers.

“Fuck you,” the girl screeches, stumbling to her feet. The group of lingering boys watch on and one even steps closer to help steady the poor girl like I’ve pushed her. Tears prick her eyes but I don’t feel bad about it, if she wanted a tattoo that badly she would’ve followed my direction, not fucking wasted my time.

She whirls around, tugging the hem of her dress down with one hand, wrenching her arm free from the boy’s grasp, and tosses her drink right into my face. I wince as the juiced-down alcohol stings my eyes. I lick my lips and cringe; it’s as fruity as it smells. Vodka, it tastes like.