Primal Pursuit

The Looking Glass is also the location my little rabbit needs to figure out.

Dolly, Jackson’s hot number of a partner and fellow artist, is behind the counter. She’s covered in ink and piercings, her asymmetrical pixie cut hair black and green—a wild child at heart.

“Hiya, babe,” she says, giving me a little wave. “Jacko’s in the back.”

I just go through where I find Jackson smoking a joint.

“The magic dope or a normal smoke?” he asks as I walk in.

“Normal.” I’m not against weed, but when I’m working, I prefer the straight and narrow, razor-sharp path. I take the cigarette and tuck it behind my ear. “For later.”

“Need some ink?”

“Not for me.” It’s an unformed idea in my head, something that’s been swimming in my subconscious since I suggested to lead rabbit’s chase here. Where else would Alice and the rabbit go? It’s not a perfect analogy, but fuck it, it’ll do.

My phone pings, and I check it. Someone’s walking out of the bar, but it’s not the right face, so I slip my phone back into my pocket.

Jackson raises a brow. “Not for you?”

“It’s for me, but it’s notonme.”

“Tattoo me intrigued.” Jackson blows smoke into the air.

I’ve seen this man fucked up five ways to Sunday and still execute an intricate tattoo that would make an aficionado weep.

For me, I won’t let anyone ink me unless they’re sober, and if I’m going to bring any rabbits in to get a permanent remembrance of our fun and games, you can bet Jackson’s skinny ass he’s going to be so sober he could be a judge.

“Pen and paper?” I ask, and he stretches over his chair to grab a notepad and artist’s pen, handing them to me, the joint tucked into the side of his mouth.

I take them and start drawing, and the entire time I’m picturing Rabbit’s naked body in front of me, her cheeks flushed and ass whipped. I’m not an artist, but when I finish the design, Jackson nods, plucks the tools from me, and redesigns the image into the thing I want.

“Like this?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “But not black. Something subtle to sit just above the crack of her ass, or maybe that tiny area between the dimples so it’ll peek out if she wears certain outfits.”

He eyes the rabbit he’s perfected with simple, rounded lines. “How does she feel about black light tattoos? I could do it in a pale pink or lavender and then, under the right light, bam, you got a fuckin’ bunny.”

“It doesn’t matter what she feels about it.” I lean back against the table where some of the work is done. “She doesn’t know about it, and she’s gonna be reluctant, probably downright hostile.”

He rubs a hand over his chin and takes a long drag from his joint, the sweet, pungent aroma filling the space. “How far off the moral compass are we here?”

“Way off.”

Jackson studies me, his eyes narrowed, contemplating the risks, the thrills, the fun.

“Listen,” I start, “she’s gonna fucking brat out, big time. I’ll strap her down, strip her down if I need to. But if I decide to do this, then you need to ignore every fucking thing coming from her mouth. If she pleads, shouts, says no, you just keep on doing what I’m paying you to do. I’ll have her so strapped tight she won’t move.”

With the joint hanging from his lips, he roughs a hand over the back of his neck. “Fine. But just gag her, then.”

“No gag. There’s only one word she can say that’ll stop it, so you need to listen. And if she says it at any time, you stop.”

“Jesus, Stark.”

“He’s not fucking involved. I am.”

I straighten as my phone pings, and there he is. My mark. He’s a little drunk, a little chatty to some other guy who then walks in the other direction. I keep the image up as I clap Jackson on the shoulder. “I’ll pay and pay well. I’ll let you know.”

I head for the back door, and he comes after me. “Davian, what’s the word?”