(Author's Note: There isn't a lot of sex in this, so if that's what you're looking for, sorry, but it is a love story, if not your most normal. I hope you like it and that you will let me know if i should keep writing or go back to my day job...LOL Peace)
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I love tattoos, not just the usual hearts, and MOM, but all the hundreds of thousands of designs that the tattoo artists come up with around the world every day. I love the work and the detail and the colors that bring them alive. My dad was a tattoo artist and I spent most of my childhood with him in his shop, watching as he painted men and women with artwork that rivaled Van Gogh and DaVinci. I saw him paint naked ladies and fire breathing dragons, he did red roses just starting to bloom and majestic eagles in flight. And he did The Demon.
"The Demon" It was his supreme masterpiece; there has never been one like since. A full rendering of a scene in hell, the reds, yellows and oranges of the flames, the naked bodies of men and women, and the boulders of brimstone. All centered around one major figure. A man, a man standing tall and slim, his low riding jeans and blacker then black tee shirt contrasting so completely with his pale skin that you wondered if he was really there at all. Long black hair fell around his face and he wore a well trimmed beard and mustache. He stood in a circle of flames and all the bodies around were trying to reach him, if for salvation or for something else, I have never understood, but it didn't matter, all I saw was the tattoo and the artwork involved.
I was home for summer break from college and working in my dad's shop for the summer. I had been doing it forever it seemed. For as long as I can remember I have been able to set dad up better then anyone else. I knew from just looking at the drawings what colors he would want and the shading and texture he would use. I was the one who set up his needles and made sure the customer was relaxed and sure of what he wanted. They say it hurts to get a tattoo, it does, but not as bad as it does to have it removed, so just a quick word of warning here, if you decide to get one, plan on living with it for the rest of your life.
I myself have several of them. On different parts of my body, each one is a memory or a part of my life that I want to remember. I got my first one when I was twelve, dad wanted me to wait, but my mother had just died and I wanted to have a black rose put on my shoulder so I could show the pain that her passing caused me. It hurt and I cried, but they weren't just tears of pain, they were tears of a child who had lost the most important woman in her life, and I shed them freely.
Since then, I have added all sorts of things from a small diploma on my right hip to the initials of my first boyfriend on my right wrist. I have a bronze dragon and a gold dragon entwined in flight on my left leg to remember the first Dragonriders of Pern book I read. I still love that series. The most startling to all those who see me, is a golden heart on my cheek.
I got it after I was hurt in a car accident and left with a scar. It covers the scar and reminds me how close I came to dying that night. Another lesson, never drive drunk, I wasn't drunk but the man who hit the car I was riding in was. The driver was killed as was my best friend. It was our eighteenth birthdays.
That had been two years ago and I still remember it vividly. The heart however is like the rest of the tattoos that I have; they are a part of me, like my soft brown hair and bright hazel colored eyes. I just don't think about them anymore. At twenty, I worry more about getting my work turned in on time and making sure I'm not late for class.
I was just opening the shop when he came in. Setting things up for my dad and the other two artists he had working for him at the time. Bear was a big hulking man who had the touch of an angel; and Donna who, besides being the ad for the original tattooed lady, tended to be more coarse and outspoken. She had been Bear's canvas for the twenty years they had been married and her body showed both the love and detail Bear put into his work. I had been around them enough to know their styles and preferences as much as I did dad. I always had the place ready when the three of them came in at Nine AM sharp.
He arrived at eight thirty. Like the drawing, he was tall and lean and dressed in the low riding jeans, and a tee shirt praising Harley Davidson motorcycles. A timing belt chain hung on his hips and he had all the usual tattoos that came with the lifestyle. What would have been the most handsome face I had ever seen was marred by a long scar that went from his left temple down along his chin and disappeared underneath. It gave his face an interesting look and he wore it like a badge of pride. I did notice that when he walked, it was with a limp that didn't hinder him, it just stood out considering how tall and straight he stood.
His voice was deep and gruff. "You're the artist?" He looked at me and as I looked up, he saw the heart. "Nice work, most women would have picked somewhere else though."
"I'm not most women, we're not open yet and no, I am not the artist." There was something about him that I wasn't sure how to take. I had seen bigger men then him in my life, and I had seen smaller, but there was a power about him that I guess threw me off.
He didn't move, instead his dark, intense eyes looked my tall, full figured body up and down and licked his lips to show his approval. "No, I guess you're not. So, I'll wait." He limped over to the couch and sat down, but not before he spoke again. "Hey, what's your name?"
I didn't see why he would want to know, but I answered him. "They call me Dixie; I was born in Mississippi while dad was in the service."
He grinned. "Nice, they call me Demon. Mom and dad had a strange sense of humor."
He just sat then and I went back to work, but I was distracted again when I heard him humming the tune "Dixie" under his breath and the words when they came out were not what the writers of the song had intended.
