Chapter 1
It was dark, but it wasn’t a stormy night, except in front of Birdie.
Birdie Campbell was hunched over the desk in her home, which was right above her tattoo studio. She had woken up at one, barely an hour after going to sleep, with an image in her head that fought to get out, fought to find form.
Birdie couldn’t ignore that fight. She didn’t have a choice. She had kicked her way out of the sheets that always seemed to tangle around her legs, grabbed the sketch pad and pencil that was an extension of herself, and stumbled to the desk by the window, turning on only the table lamp.
In that rather feeble light, Birdie sketched as if she were caught somewhere between a dream and a nightmare.
She had to get it down on paper. It wasn’t a choice. The vision was fighting to find form, and only she could give it that form.
Birdie could already see how it would look. It would flaunt a scar from a C-section, and it would channel the protectiveness and passion of a mother who had almost lost her child. It would come alive on her, become so much more than Birdie’s vision. It would become that mother’s badge of honor.
When she started doing tattoos, she had done what everybody else had done. She’d tattooed Chinese, Japanese, and Korean characters that could very well have come from a menu if clients requested them. She had done the usual butterflies and flowers that meant nothing more than bragging rights for having a tattoo at all.
When you’ve been doing something for a decade, you have a lot of time to figure out how you want to do it. Perhaps eighteen was a bit young to find your calling, but once you did, what was the point in looking back?
But despite her skill with the tattoo gun, despite her way of putting clients at ease, despite even her talent, she only realized that she had found what she was meant to do when she had had that one client who she would never forget.
Birdie had been twenty-two and still working for the man from whom she had finally bought the tattoo studio, and boy, the weight of that was still on her slender shoulders. Nathan had been out when a young woman who had once been shot in the side came in looking for something.
Those haunted eyes had struck something inside Birdie. The young woman – Celeste – had been looking for more than just a tattoo. She had been looking for a way to deal with the trauma and the unfairness that life had dealt her.
Celeste had been walking home, looking forward to spending the evening with her boyfriend over a glass of wine when she’d been caught in the crossfire. An innocent bystander had caught a stray bullet. It was a clichéd story, but when a cliché happens to you, it changes your life. It had changed everything for Celeste.
The bullet had barely missed her kidney. Doctors had called it a miracle. But she had spent months trying to put her life back together and she hadn’t been doing too well. Every time she found a breakthrough, she seemed to hit another wall.
Celeste had spilled all of this to Birdie over a glass of sun tea. She’d confided in the young tattoo artist that she was sick of seeing the scar. It was a reminder of how she had failed to get past a random incident that might still end up destroying her life.
Birdie had been astounded by the woman’s strength. She had been around her own age then. The scar, she had declared, should be Celeste’s symbol of victory. A bullet hadn’t stopped her. Why would she hide it? Why should she consider it a mark of failure when it was a symbol of her strength that had helped her survive?
The look on Celeste’s face as she realized that Birdie was right had been like watching a flower bloom. So, Birdie had come up with a design, right then and there, that created a blooming rose from that scar. It turned that symbol of survival into one of beauty that promised to thrive, not just survive.
By the time Nathan had come back to the studio, Celeste had declared that she would not hear of having anybody except Birdie work on her. So, they had worked, and grown together.
Celeste had found hope and rediscovered strength that she had forgotten that she had.
Birdie had discovered her calling.
Now, Birdie worked quickly. The C-section scar was a symbol of failure to that mother. She had failed her child by not being able to give him a normal birth. Birdie would turn it into a delicate vine of baby roses that hid its sturdiness so sweetly. When she was done, her client would see that scar how Birdie saw it: something to prove that she had been willing to do whatever was necessary to give her child life. She would have been willing to have her child ripped out of her, if it had come to that.
It was another hour before Birdie got the shading and the lines perfect. It was deceptively simple, but it would need time and concentration.
Birdie would give her both, and mother and child, now a three-year-old, would be happier for it.
How long we punish ourselves because of things that we could never have helped, mused Birdie as she finally sat back and worked the kinks out of her neck. She hadn’t realized how cramped she had been getting. That was nothing new. Birdie could lose herself completely in her art.
Of course, she could only do that while sketching. While she was working on her clients, it was important to talk to them and listen to whatever they had to say. Sometimes they needed reassurance. Sometimes they needed a firm hand, and others just needed somebody to listen to them.
It was odd how often we refuse to listen to the people we claim to love, too.
Sighing, she got up and walked to the window. Looking out, she saw the familiar sight of a neighborhood that was on the verge of gentrification. It was already getting a bit too fashionable, really. Soon, so much of its character would be lost. But it was home – the only place she had ever truly considered home.
Perhaps she was contributing to that loss of character. Word had gotten out that she did unusual work with scars. Clientele had changed. Instead of people desperate to find closure, she found herself dealing with people with whom she would expect to have nothing in common.
But underneath wealth, fame, and layers of privilege, she had realized, were people – just people. Everybody had scars. Everybody tried to hide those scars. She convinced a few people to show off the scars because they’re a sign of strength and experience. Every experience contributes towards making you who you are. Hiding any of them is hiding a part of you.
Birdie knew what it was like to survive. She had come from nothing and made herself into… Well, she wasn’t too sure. But she had a home, her art, and she was financially stable. She had good friends. She had work she truly loved. She even had a business now, and with her newer, wealthier clientele, she could breathe easy and let her business grow without worrying too much about paying the bills or interest rates.
It was a good place, thought Birdie. She was in a good place.
And, of course, there was Marley.
Birdie’s full, wide mouth curved in a smile that was sheer delight as she thought of Marley, her partner in everything. Marley came from a different world. Birdie had been suspicious of him at first, thinking that he was just slumming it and would go back to his old world and his old ways soon enough.
But he hadn’t. He had stuck with her and gotten past all of her defenses to be one of her closest friends. She knew that clients often thought that they were a couple.
They had that ease of being around each other that you usually only saw in couples who had been together for a long time. Sometimes, they were told what a beautiful couple they made.
Birdie usually shrugged that off.
She knew she made a striking picture – she was tall, had curves in all the right places, and grace in movement that made people think of a dancer. Maybe, in another life, Birdie would’ve been a dancer. Her hair was in long braids that were meticulously maintained. But it was Birdie’s face that was arresting. Her dark grey eyes were startlingly expressive. The rich, dark skin looked like the most expensive of coffee, the kind you would never think of ruining with milk or sugar. The planes and angles of her face made photographers weep.
But Birdie never chose to be photographed, except to promote the tattoo studio.
Once she had taken over the studio – with Marley, of course – she had decided to rebrand and redesign everything. Marley had been bemused, but supportive. They had turned it into Visions.
Birdie hadn’t had to explain to Marley why it had to be called Visions. He knew – dreams and nightmares could all be turned into things of beauty if you have the right vision. Sometimes, they came when you wanted them. Sometimes they came because you needed them, whether you liked it or not.
Marley was tall, broad-shouldered, with a cheerful smile that belied a quick temper. But Marley was as quick to forgive and laugh as he was to rise to anger.
He really was a gorgeous specimen of manhood, thought Birdie with a grin. If he weren’t the closest thing she had to family, she might even have considered dating him.
But he was family, and she wouldn’t change that for all the world.
He was the only family she had now.
It was with resignation that Birdie realized it was three in the morning. She could grab a few hours’ sleep before she had to be up and at the gym, where she would put in a couple of rounds with a punching bag. It was important to Birdie to be strong and fit. There had been a time when she had been reed thin and weak, and she had been picked on far too much.
Now, nobody could pick on her. Not without Birdie kicking their asses.
But now she was too wired to sleep. Her mind refused to shut down and go to sleep.
Giving up, Birdie kicked her legs out of bed again and sat up. She grabbed her phone and scrolled to find the email that was the source of some of her discomfiture.
Ms. Campbell,
I would like to solicit your services. I have seen your work and I am acquainted with your reputation. I know what your special skill is.
I will give you a challenge. My scar is ugly and frightening. I want you to turn it into a badge of honor – isn’t that how you put it?
My scar covers a good part of my right thigh and my back. It’s a reminder of my own mortality, my own foolishness. I need it to change into something it might never be. I need you to do that.
Ms. Campbell, I will give you complete freedom to come up with a design that appeals to both of us. But you will need to convince me that it will do what I need it to do. I will need you to show me that it will change how I see myself.
I am aware that your rates are often eccentric. Money is not a problem. Neither is time.
I have been told that only you can give me what I need.
If you will take me on as client, we can meet and talk about this. But until I’m sure that you will, I will be, to you, just
A.
Birdie read it twice more. She had already read it about a hundred times, or so it seemed.
She had gotten the damn email after she got home. Maybe the first thing she should’ve done was call Marley and tell him about it, but the mystery of it puzzled her. Marley wasn’t very good with mysteries. He would immediately have gotten in touch with a techie friend to try and trace the email.
Birdie felt strangely compelled to take this mysterious person as a client. She already knew a few things about him, of course. She was assuming it was a man, because it sounded very much like a man. Men, in her experience, were far more fussed about the acknowledgment of mortality than women were.
He was rich, and very concerned with privacy. If money is not a problem – and boy, didn’t everybody wish they could say that – then you’re definitely rich. If you won’t even give your name and will create a throwaway email ID just to get in touch with a tattoo artist, then you’re very concerned with privacy.
Did he have good reason to be so wary? Birdie had worked with celebrities. She had worked with musicians who’d gone platinum and trust fund babies who’d realized that misfortunes come even to the rich. Nobody had ever had a problem with how she worked. If they wanted privacy and complete confidentiality, then she gave them just that.
‘A’ had seen her work and seemed to have talked to people she’d done tattoos for. So, he should already know that.
But Birdie didn’t feel very comfortable taking on a client who was so secretive. She liked to know the people she worked with. Once she agreed to do a tattoo, it was as good as an oath. She wasn’t just promising a pretty, decorative tramp stamp. She was promising something that would change the way the clients looked at themselves.
It would also change the way the world looked at them.
You simply cannot make a promise like that and walk away. It might as well be sworn in blood.
Really, she should just reply and tell this ‘A’ that this wasn’t how she worked. She dealt with people, not emails, and she didn’t like secrets when they were kept from her.
Somehow, the email had elicited a reaction from her; an intense, visceral reaction. She wanted to do the tattoo. It would be an artistic achievement, if nothing else.
But there was something in her that warned her to stay away from that person. He was trouble, it warned her.
She should heed that warning, shouldn’t she?
But since when had Birdie ever taken the safe option?
Still, she might throw caution to the wind, but Marley wouldn’t. Birdie would never take on a client who was bound to be intensely demanding, on an emotional level, without talking to Marley about it.
She looked out of the window and saw that the skies were turning a deep pink. There were strands of heat woven through the inky darkness that was getting lighter and muddier at the same time.
Well, shit, thought Birdie. Now she was faced with the prospect of a long and demanding day with about an hour’s sleep. Wasn’t that just perfect.
Sighing, she made herself think of coffee and the punching bag to egg herself on. It was a brand new day, and Birdie believed in facing whatever life threw at her.
After all, she’d had plenty of practice with that.
*****
“I don’t really like the tone of that email.”
Marley was frowning at the tablet. They would open shop in about half an hour. She had asked Marley to meet her earlier than usual.
There was quite a bit of prepping to do before they got to work. They both had full days, as they usually did these days. Marley’s designs were whimsical and fantastic. Birdie worked almost exclusively with scars now.
Birdie shrugged. After taking a lot of her frustration out on a poor, beleaguered punching bag, Birdie was feeling silly about her reaction to the email. Rich people were eccentric. They rarely trusted people from the wrong side of the tracks, and Birdie was definitely from the wrong side, even if she had set up shop very close to the right side.
They’d want to be sure that they could trust her. She could even respect that. It took a while for Birdie to trust her clients, or anybody at all.
She also respected Marley’s approval.
“I know, it’s… I don’t know, it rubs me the wrong way, too. But there’s something about it, Marley. I haven’t worked with such a big scar before. It might be something special. I don’t want to turn it away. Plus, it sounds like a fairly big injury to cause something that big. Maybe this person really needs us. Maybe this person really needs what we can do.”
Marley looked a bit skeptical.
“If they need something, they shouldn’t put you on trial for it first.”
Birdie grinned. Marley was very protective of her, despite the evidence of her entire life that she could take care of herself very well, indeed.
“They’re not putting me on trial or anything. They’re just careful. I’d be careful about opening up about something so important, too. I think it’s a man.”
Marley shrugged. “It was definitely written by a man. I don’t know, Birdie… This could end up being trouble.”
Birdie rolled her eyes at him.
“Look who is being all dramatic! A meeting wouldn’t mean that we have to take him on. I mean, he might decide that I can’t do the job when we meet.”
Marley sniffed in disbelief.
“Yeah, right.”
Birdie chuckled. When Marley’s tone changed like that, she knew that they were almost home free.
“That is true, who in their right mind would turn down the genius I, and only I, can offer,” teased Birdie.
Marley chuckled, turning serious again.
“How about if I get somebody to try and trace the email?”
Birdie sighed. She had known that he would say that, and of course he had.
“Marley, you know how I feel about respecting our clients’ wishes.”
“Whoever ‘A’ is, he isn’t our client,” reminded Marley.
Birdie shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter. That we even considered that – that’s reason enough to justify his desire for secrecy. Well, I think the person is a ‘he.’”
Marley sighed grudgingly.
“All right, you win, Birdie. Reply to the email. Ask the person to come in for a consultation. We’ll see how they deal with it. But…”
Birdie shook her head.
“Yes, I know. If you’re not comfortable with the idea, we won’t take the job. We won’t take the client. I promise you that. This is our life, Marley. I wouldn’t do something that truly made you uncomfortable.”
“Wouldn’t you?” quipped Marley, making Birdie grin again.
“Well, I really would try not to, you know.”
They stayed there, a unit, for a minute. Birdie had known that it would be a difficult conversation, of course, but they had dealt with it, just as she had known that they would.
“Just promise me you won’t do anything hasty.”
Birdie nodded. Marley was protective. It had been something of a novel experience for Birdie, who had grown so accustomed to taking care of herself that the idea of somebody else protecting her had been ludicrous.
She had done Marley’s first tattoo – a silly cup of coffee on his café au lait skin. She had been appalled at his choice, but it suited him. Marley was taken to whims and fancies, and he never regretted any of them.
But, Birdie had slowly come to realize, there was a simple reason for that. All his whims and fancies were, in fact, carefully reasoned. He loved coffee with steaming milk. It was what got him out of bed every morning. He wanted multiple tattoos. So, he had done that one first.
Birdie had given him more than he had expected, of course. A dragon rose in the steam of the coffee – a tiny, silly looking dragon.
To Birdie, that characterized their relationship. Marley seemed to be the easygoing one who would always do things intuitively, but she was the one who went with the flow when it mattered.
Pursing her lips, she composed the email as Marley got to work getting things ready to open shop.
Dear A,
If you have seen my work and heard about me, you will know that giving my clients what they want matters to me more than anything else. If you need to meet me to be sure that I can give you what you need, then that is what we will do.
But in agreeing to meet with you, I’m not agreeing to work on your body or with you. I’m giving us both the chance to see if it’s a viable possibility.
Regards,
Birdie Campbell.
There, thought Birdie, satisfied. That should do it.