We follow Kokabel down a narrow corridor into a small room, like an exam room at a doctor’s office. There is a person reclined on a large leather chair, with a man—Desmond, I recognize—leaning over her, a buzzing tattoo gun in his hand. From this angle I can’t see her face, only her hands as they clutch the arms of the chair.
She’s wearing dark gray nail polish, but I’m guessing that on earth it would be purple.
Christian and I each suck in a breath at the same time. Kokabel pushes us farther into the room like we are livestock, and I wish I could hold Christian’s hand as Angela’s despair crashes over me. Desmond is tattooing something on her neck on one side. She’s wearing a hueless camisole almost the same color as her pale skin, and dirty, torn jeans, no shoes. The soles of her feet are black. Her hair is pulled back in a ratty knot at the base of her skull, her bangs overgrown so that they almost obscure her eyes, a few lanky strands sticking out like straw on a scarecrow. Her entire right arm is covered in words, some easily readable, some overlapping and indecipherable.
Jealous, I make out along her forearm. Insufferable know-it-all. Bad friend. Careless.
Selfish, it reads in the curve of her elbow.
Slut, in the tender space where her arm meets her shoulder.
And other things, more specific sins, like I lied to my mother, I lied to my friends, I started a rumor, I hid the truth, in tiny scribbled print all along her bicep, the word LIAR spelled broadly across it.
“Sit,” Samjeeza commands us, and we sink obediently into a pair of folding chairs against the far wall. I try to keep my eyes down, but some part of me can’t look away from Angela.
“Desmond, we’ve brought you some new customers,” Kokabel says.
“I’m just finishing up here.” Desmond sniffles like he has a cold, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. His eyes flit to Samjeeza, then quickly away.
I lift my gaze to Angela’s neck, the spot where Desmond is currently leaving a line of characters. He spreads his fingers to stretch the skin there, touching the gun into the tender space under her ear, wiping away a smear of black ink with a dirty cloth. The letters are dark and startling against the fragile whiteness of her flesh.
Bad mother.
“A bad mother,” Samjeeza remarks. “Who’s her unlucky offspring?”
Kokabel shakes his head. “Penamue’s, I believe. I thought he didn’t have it in him to sire children, but they say he’s the father. She’s a troublesome one. Asael sends her back to us every time she displeases him, which is often.”
Angela takes a sudden breath, a strangled whimper escaping her, the cords on her neck standing out and halting Desmond’s progress. Without blinking an eye he rears back and slaps her, hard, across the face. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. She slides down on the chair, closes her eyes. Gray tears slip down her cheeks as he finishes the words.
Samjeeza turns to Kokabel. “I’d like to choose the design for the female,” he says. “Will you show me your book?”
“Yes. This way,” Kokabel says. “I’ll be back for the girl,” he directs at Desmond, and then he steps into the hall. Samjeeza holds back a moment longer, reaches to slip something into Desmond’s hand, a plastic bag, then follows Kokabel to deliberate on my ink.
I’m thinking it’s not going to be a pretty butterfly on my hip.
Desmond puts the bag in his pocket and pats it, like it’s a pet or something. He scoots his stool up to my chair. I force my eyes down as he takes my chin and turns my head from side to side.
“Lovely skin,” he says, his breath like sour cigarettes and gin. “I can’t wait to work on you.”
Christian’s body tightens like a bowstring.
Don’t, I tell him with a look, not daring to speak even with my mind in here.
Desmond gets up and peels off his gloves, throws them onto a counter in the corner, stretches, wipes at his nose again.