Crossing (20 page)

The poem,
Physical Therapy,
that Dani finds in Chase’s envelope was first published in the Hickman Review in 1993. I’m kind of shocked that they printed it, but hey, it sure gave me a glimpse of my high school self right when I needed it.

As you might have guessed, the whole acting thing didn’t work out, but the writing thing sure did. So, instead of thinking about things, writing them down, and then performing them for a hundred people, I get to publish them and reach thousands.

Thanks for reading
Crossing
. I hope you all have someone who wants you every time you walk in the room.

Stacey Wallace Benefiel is the author of the
Zellie Wells trilogy
, the
Day of Sacrifice Omnibus
,
The Toilet Business –
a collection of humorous essays, the
Penny Black trilogy
, and multiple short stories. She sometimes goes by S.W. Benefiel or Reina Stowe, but knows she’s not foolin’ anybody. Stacey lives in an orange house in Beaverton, OR with her two young children who have old people names. When she’s not writing, thinking about writing, or driving the kids somewhere, she’s at CrossFit lifting heavy things and cursing the inventor of the Burpee.

For more information on Stacey and her books:
http://staceywallacebenefiel.com

Thanks dpgroup forum.

Mike – “Do you think I’m crazy because my jacket is on inside out?”

Susan Kaye Quinn and Magan Vernon – Every author should be lucky enough to have her own personal sex scene editors. Thanks for helping me not write porn.

Chanda Hahn, Angela Carlie, Lisa Nowak, Stephanie Van Raden – Thanks for bringing me reinfreshments so I could keep writing and finish
Crossing
without succumbing to assholia. At least ten chapters of this book should be dedicated to vegan cupcakes, brownies, and Portobello mushroom fries. #sunriverwriter

Lisa Nowak, RaShelle Workman, J.R. Pearse Nelson, Angela Carlie – Here’s to my beta readers – my hand-holders.

Gracie, Christel, and Kim – Gawd. The’plex.
Everything
happened there. I’m still finding blue fake fur lint on my black pants.

Sarah Scott – Thanks for reading everything I’ve ever written and being in my corner no matter what.

I thought I might never find a creative community like the one I had during my theatre days – so glad I was wrong. Hugs and high-fives to my indie author friends. You are my people! Especially the Indelibles and the members of PacNWYA.

Fist bumps to my friends at CrossFit Body and Fuel in Beaverton, OR. I totally wrote this book for time and got a PR.

Enjoy
Crossing
? It would help me out tremendously if you would leave a short review. As an indie author, word of mouth and written reviews are the best ways for new readers to discover me.

Can’t get enough New Adult Contemporary Romance? Check out the first two chapters of
Touching Melody
by RaShelle Workman!

Maddie

The tattoo studio is covered in art. It’s on the walls, the worktops, everywhere. Two guys are behind the counter, sitting in black chairs, while the artist’s do their work. The repetitive noise of the guns, jabbing needles into skin, over and over, fills the room.

A guy is getting a word tattooed on one of his biceps. Not sure what it says, but the artist has completed an F and is working on the U. The other guy’s ink is nearly finished. His is a blade with a snake winding around it. Both men have blank, faraway expressions.

I know that look, and I envy them momentarily.

“Come on,” Tony says, eyeing the others. “Let’s go back here.”

I follow Tony through the open area, and down the hall. He closes the bright yellow privacy curtain and faces me. “Maddelena, right? Take off your shirt and lie back.”

“It’s Maddie,” I say, nervously. I’ve done this before, but I’m still edgy, mostly because Tony’s a new guy. Raffie, the guy who did my other tattoos, is on a required leave of absence, and won’t be back for three to five years. Two with good behavior. I can’t wait that long.

He grunts his acknowledgement.

Taking the scrunchie from my wrist, I pull my dark hair in a high bun. Yank off my gray tank, exposing pale skin and a white bra. I grimace at the cold air. It makes my skin tighten, prickle with goose bumps.

And I’m grateful. Because I know what happens next. I’m anxious. Excited, even.

Today is an anniversary, and not one filled with happiness, balloons, and good feelings. Seven years ago today I found their bodies. Seven years ago I found them dead. It feels like yesterday. The pain is raw, and rips at my heart. Scratching. Shredding. My lips and hands tremble at the pain. It’s going to swallow me. Eat me alive from the inside, claw through my veins and sinews like a deadly virus.

I want to shout at Tony. Tell him to hurry. Scream, “I can’t take any more.” That I need pain to redden my skin, make the outside hurt as much as the inside.

His brows crunch together, and he’s staring at me, at my already inked up skin.

“Is there a problem?” My teeth are clenched. They have to be because if I open my mouth, something other than words will come out. Sobs. Or worse.

His lips press together in a thin line. “No,” he answers, but his attitude tells me he’s lying.

I take a deep breath. Lay back in the dentist-type leather chair. By the look on his face I know he isn’t concerned with the pain thrashing inside my body. He can’t see that. He also isn’t looking at my barely B cup breasts.

His eyes are focused on my other tattoos. I already have four. And obviously he really checked my driver’s license to verify my age. I’m barely eighteen.

He sits on a rolling stool, and turns away, muttering in Spanish. He’s a big guy, brawny, and is wearing a white wife-beater with holey faded jeans. His face is all hard lines, bushy eyebrows, and thick lips. On the bridge of his nose is a pair of thick black glasses, and over the tank is a tan buttoned sweater.

There’s only so much you can tell about a person from the way they look. Clothes can be deceiving, as can the way a person does their hair, or even the makeup they wear. One thing I’ve learned though. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then shoes are the official gatekeepers. Tony is wearing black flip-flops
.

It’s like he can’t decide between nerd and hottie. The weird thing is the look works on him. He has a tattoo of a dragon along the back of his neck. It’s breathing fire. One eye staring at me. And I can almost hear the condemnation. The words Tony can’t say because it’s none of his business.

Plastic tears away from plastic, and then there’s a snap of surgical gloves. More tearing plastic, and he’s pulling out gauze. He squirts rubbing alcohol on it. The smell tickles my nose. It momentarily drowns out the stench of old cigars and Chinese food from the restaurant next door.

“You want it here?” He presses one gloved finger just below my belly button, in the place we’ve already discussed.

I look down anyway, to verify. “Yep, that’s right.”

He rambles something in Spanish as he wipes the area with the wet gauze. It’s freezing, and my body automatically tenses, before I allow myself to relax. It’s coming. The bracing, all consuming pain. Soon it’ll hurt. It’ll hurt so bad that after a while it’ll stop hurting, and I’ll be numb. I’ll be numb everywhere.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry
, my mind screams.

He nods, and his eyes rake over my other tattoos.

The first is a quote inked in calligraphy:
I love because I am loved.
It sits just below my bra on the left side of my torso. The second is in the same place under my right breast. More writing, this time in cursive, but the words are less sweet.
I am nothing.
The third is below it, on my ribcage. The kanji symbol for hate. I’m hoping he doesn’t know what the character means, but something tells me he does. The fourth tattoo starts at my left hip. My pants cover part of it. Five stars. The first is the largest. They get smaller as they go up, past my waist, the final star resting on a rib.

The tattoo Tony is doing today will be fully colored. The first tattoo I’m getting with color. It’ll be an iris flower—a symbol of faith—with thorn-covered vines curling on either side.

More plastic ripping and then he brings over a razor. “I’d walk you through what I’m doing, but it looks like you know the drill.” His words are filled with accusation. He doesn’t approve.

“I do.” I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to spill his thoughts. He wants to, I can tell. He wants to ask me why someone so young would already have so many tattoos. Why I would subject myself to such permanence at such a young age.

Instead he grumbles words I don’t understand as he runs the disposable pink razor over my skin. When he’s finished, he tosses it in the trash and wipes the area clean with more icy cold gauze.

The alcohol dries quickly, disappears, and I wish my pain could vanish that easily, but it can’t. It won’t.

Tony takes the paper transfer of the iris drawing he’s created on his computer, and places it on my skin. Then, just like a press on tattoo, he rubs it on. When he pulls away the paper, I glance at the flower.

He looks at me. “Is that gonna work? Last chance.”

“It looks great,” I say, and lean back, allowing my head to rest against the back of the chair. I could tell him to put it anywhere, as long as it’s on my body quickly. Because the truth is I don’t care about placement. For me, tattoos aren’t about art. Inking my body isn’t my form of expression. It’s about pain. They are my medication. When it’s over, I’ll be able to breathe easier. It means I’m healing. Getting better.

At least that’s what my shrink says. I have my doubts, but I want to believe she’s right. She’s the one who convinced me to get a tattoo. I was fourteen the first time. Yeah, she isn’t the typical therapist, but then I wasn’t the typical fourteen-year-old.

Tony rips more plastic, and mixes the ink, placing different colors of purple, indigo, and yellow in ink caps. He gets a cup and fills it with distilled water, which will be used for cleaning the needles, and turns on the gun.

“Ready,” he asks, rubbing a little ointment over my skin. It’ll help the needle slide around more easily.

I stare into his face. “Yes.” I say, and mean it. I’m more than ready. My body is desperate.

“I guess I don’t need to tell you to hold still.” He stands above me, hovering like an apparition, his face intense with focus.

“I won’t move, Tony,” I grit out.

He looks at me when I say his name, and a quiet tenderness softens his features. “Alright, here we go.”

The first seconds are white-hot pain so intense it takes my breath away. Which is exactly what I want. Because in the next second I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and sink into bliss.

Tonight’s been full of surprises. First, two girls invite me to be the third body in their ménage a trois.

“Ménage a what?” I ask, forking some chicken, and sticking it in my mouth.

Evan, who’s sitting next to me at the table, slaps me upside the head. “Don’t be an ass, Kyle.”

The one who introduced herself as Baby slides a hand under my t-shirt and says, “You. Me. And Beth. You know. A threesome?”

I set down my fork. Lean back in the cafeteria chair. The room is buzzing with the excitement of new freshmen. And the stench of coffee and garlic bread stifles the air.

“Yeah, you know,” Evan utters, smacking me in the knee with his.

I’ve known Evan my whole life. He’s my cousin. After my father died, his parents took me in, and we’ve been close ever since. He’s an asshole. Likes his own space. We live in side-by-side apartments instead of with each other or ten minutes away with his mom and dad. Which is cool by me, especially at times like these. Fresh meat. The whole reason we decided to have dinner on campus.

“Right.” Of course I’ve heard of threesomes. It’s not like I’ve been living under a rock. But contrary to what most people think, namely Evan, it isn’t something I care about. Though now that the opportunity has presented itself, I’m certainly interested.