Chapter Five
Winnie knew better than to rush right home and watch her mobile for text notifications. Cory had things to do, as did she. And she refused to while away the hours waiting for him to initiate conversation about a tattoo, assuming he still wanted her to draw one. Besides, she needed to complete her task list for the clients who had already paid her.
Not on Sunday, though. When she first set up to work as a freelancer, she forced herself to keep one day for recharging and relaxation. She’d known many people who worked for themselves who burned out quickly working long hours with few breaks. She refused to let it happen to her, and so she spent the day after her visit to Lost Girls with a romance novel, a grocery trip, and a jaunt through the local dog park with her best buddy.
Her Monday began at an early hour following coffee and Zeppo’s morning outing. She invoiced a client for a completed job designing new brochures for a Maryland spa then looked up when her phone chirped and shook. Cory apologized in a text for not getting in touch sooner and let her know he detailed the ideas for his tattoo on her website’s contact form. A second message asked for an estimate.
“You hear that, Zeppo? Mommy has another job. Maybe you’ll get some premium treats this week.” She nudged her dozing beagle with her bare toes and minimized her photo editor to bring up a Web browser. “Must be nice to not worry about deadlines and such, huh, dog?”
That’s when Winnie pondered the “such” part about Cory’s message. They’d talked casually about tat design at the brewery, but never got serious about pay. Yeah, Satin had bargained with her to get a good deal, caught her off guard, and to be honest Winnie looked forward to claiming her free beers. It worried her a bit, though, that Cory might take advantage and try to weasel a drawing from her on an imagined “friends” discount. She needed to watch herself when negotiating work in a casual setting, lest somebody draw the “hey, you did this for that person” card.
What did Cory have to barter to accompany a small stipend for his tattoo? He didn’t work anymore, and she had no interest in Cougars tickets, assuming he could score them. She doubted he had the authority to supply her with free veggies from the family farm…although Levane’s prices weren’t cheap, and she loved their jarred preserves.
“Yeah, a backlog of strawberry jam will do me a world of good,” she muttered, and picked at the tight underwear elastic through her jeans.
So, how much to charge? She had no qualms about sending a bill, but before she touched pencil to paper she decided to go over her current menu and come up with a reasonable fee for tattoo design. Creating one might require a style of drawing different from what she performed for other clients.
While the thought lingered in her mind, she pulled out a side drawer at her desk and reached for a blue-covered sketchpad, one used strictly for comic art. All through primary and high school, she’d nurtured a supplemental education via comic books and graphic novels. While her peers giggled about boys at slumber parties and piled into somebody’s car for a trip to the nearest mall in Charlottesville, she made friends with Betty and Veronica, Miss Marvel, Calvin and Hobbes, and Wonder Woman. Her parents, while mildly disappointed in her lack of enthusiasm for her core classwork, conceded to feeding her later appetite for manga, Ghost World, and Maus, along with several manuals that served as her how-to library.
Whatever a client wanted drawn, whatever the style, she delivered.
She liked that Cory submitted his request through her website, too. It reminded her how long it had been since she’d received an email alert to the effect, and it also worried her that she might have information from potential clients that she never checked. She hoped, as she logged into the back end of her business site, that people were simply contacting her via phone and/or direct email rather than filling out the lengthy form that came with the site template.
“Oh, that’s a relief,” she murmured, eyeing the results spreadsheet with only Cory’s information on it. She pasted his text to a blank Word page and updated her site settings to receive instant notifications of new form contacts. Then she filled out the site form as a test, refreshed her mail, and verified the message coming back to her.
Cory’s notes on the cougar he wanted read simply, and Winnie figured she could knock out a few samples in a few hours. He wanted a cougar stretched over a goalpost, like a predator in a tree looking to pounce, and while he offered no elaboration on the picture in his head Winnie figured at least two possibilities might work.
First, though, duty called. A frequent client’s logo appeared on her phone screen as the device chirped, and Winnie took the emergency design job. “We’re going to a conference next month and realized it’s time to update our business cards,” explained the bubbly yet slightly breathless voice on the other end. Winnie took notes on the specs and got straight to work, encouraged by the promise of time-and-a-half for completing by the afternoon.
She managed to color in the logo and send it off for approval before noon, then received a thanks and a request for a bill. After that came a lunch of microwaved minestrone soup in the dining room—she never ate at her desk, separating work from breaks—then returned to focus on Cory’s tattoo.
On one drawing she posed the cougar resting on its paws with the tail curled around the back upright, its head up and alert, on the other the big cat looked downward with the tail drooping into a hook shape. Minor details like grass tufts around the base of the main post and a touchdown line in the background gave both designs some depth.
“What do you think?” She showed one drawing to Zeppo, who appeared not in the least bit intimidated by the cougar. He let out a confident yip and trotted toward the kitchen and, presumably, his food bowl.
“I’ll count that as one for the win column.” She scanned the drawings and saved them as PDFs, checked the clock when she completed the work and noted the time spent on the project, then calculated an hourly rate and final invoice to attach in her correspondence with Cory.
While in her email inbox, she was scanning recent incoming messages for anything priority when his response popped up in bold at the top of the list. He loved both designs, couldn’t decide which one to put on his body, they looked so good.
I’m heading into Waynesboro in a bit to see Satin’s guy. I probably won’t get it done today, but I promised you a ride-along to a parlor. Interested?
Winnie drummed her fingers lightly on her keyboard, contemplating her answer. It seemed like a wasted trip for her if Cory didn’t intend to get ink. She understood sometimes people went to tattoo shops first for a consultation and maybe an estimate. She gathered from the email Cory hadn’t had work done by Satin’s guy, either, so this was strictly recon. For all she knew, it might turn out they’d be there for ten minutes.
On the other hand, what if Cory went without her and the artist talked him out of using her designs? She’d be paid anyway, she’d see to it, but when people commissioned her art she liked to see the result. Billboards, websites, skin…she wanted to leave her mark. Also, visiting an actual shop might give her some ideas in the event Satin sent her referrals.
While these thoughts swirled in her mind, her phone shook. Cory again. She laughed.
U there?
She scooped it up and thumbed out a reply. Winding down for 2day. Trip is fine. Where do I meet u?
A laughing emoji preceded Come on, I’ll pick u up. Maybe dinner after?
Ho ho! Winnie arched an eyebrow. From a simple field trip to a date in two lines, or maybe Cory’s practicality was showing? Waynesboro, while not as far as Richmond, required a drive for St. Florence residents. Given the time of day, he probably figured they’d finish at the supper hour. He wanted to talk more about this children’s book, too, she figured.
Yeah, so a business meal. Eh, they’d go Dutch and she’d write hers off.
She accepted his proposal, and Cory let her know he’d be by in fifteen minutes, and with a check to cover her bill. “People still write checks?” she asked Zeppo, who trotted up to her with tail wagging. The dog had the expectant smile of a pet thinking he was due walkies, and she realized she ought to at least let him do his business outside before Cory arrived. Better on her lawn than on her carpet.
She took her phone just in case, and a good thing, too. Marcy called while a leashed Zeppo tugged her down her short street.
“So, hey.” Marcy’s voice carried a hint of worry. “How was the rest of your weekend?”
“Like any other, I guess. Took it easy, finished that book I was telling you about. Oh, and I went to Lost Girls for a beer. One of the biker chicks there asked me to draw a tat design for her. I’ll take you up there next week and we can see if she had it done yet.” She tried to say more, but Zeppo had become fascinated by the garden Minion planted in a neighbor’s landscaping and wanted to trot up the yard to sniff it. Winnie released the lock on the retractable leash to give him slack.
“Zeppo,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare poop on Mrs. Selwyn’s lawn.”
“Winnie?” Away from her ear, Marcy sounded distant and tinny.
“Yeah, sorry about that. What’s up?”
“Oh, not much.” A short burst of laughter ripped through the phone. Whatever appeared to concern Marcy earlier had disappeared, so naturally Winnie’s antennae perked up. She knew the tone, the searching questions, all too well. All through high school she’d gotten the same treatment from her parents. Questions like cautious tiptoes. Honey, is there something you want to tell us? Like they wanted her to confess to missing a period or failing an exam, when nine times out of ten….
“I just didn’t hear from you yesterday, and you didn’t post on Facebook,” Marcy prattled on, “so I figured—”
“What happened, Marcy?” Winnie planted hard on the sidewalk in front of Mr. Grossman’s house, engaged in a human-canine tug of war.
“What? Nothing?”
“Bull. Something traumatic, at least in your eyes, happened and you’re checking up on me.” Hardly agonizing for her, like she gave a shit anymore. Somewhere, at the store or on the Internet, somebody made a fat comment about her and Marcy got worried. This had to be the reason for the call. Winnie loved her cousin, but damn if these well-being calls didn’t get on her nerves. Talk about books, beer, tattoos…. Winnie cared not two whits if some asshole made a crack about her weight. It was going to happen.
Heavy breathing roared in her ear, and Marcy made unsure noises and finally sighed. “It’s not like that. Well, I guess it is. Tom sent me a PM about this Instagram post. It was a picture of you at Lost Girls with Cory.”
“Big deal.” As Marcy spoke, though, Winnie’s insides roiled. Cory was probably used to people taking and sharing pictures of him, and apparently she got into the shot. She liked her privacy when she wasn’t working, and the idea of anybody uploading an image of her anywhere online without her permission unsettled her.
“Winnie, I…well, maybe I shouldn’t have called. I just hate when assholes comment on the Internet, you know? I was going to report the photo and see if Instagram would take it down.”
Winnie knew quite a bit about policies and procedures, but refrained from discouraging her cousin. If the account holder didn’t violate any terms, the social site would ignore the request. She worried, too, Marcy might take it upon herself to engage in a flame war with the photographer and bring more attention to a situation that deserved none at all.
“Marcy, I’m getting that there’s a picture of me and Cory online, and total strangers are commenting about this hot football player out in public with a beached whale. Yes or no?”
Silence. Bingo.
“Okay, then. I don’t care, and neither should you. Let it go.”
“But—”
“And don’t comment back and rile anybody up. Negativity shouldn’t go viral.”
“Whatever you say,” Marcy replied, meek. Oh dear lord. The girl had already gone and called the guy everything but white. Well, if this recent cyber-pile on made it to CNN, hopefully the news anchor would put in a word about her business.
Zeppo trotted closer to her and circled a spot of grass near her feet. Dog poop in three, two…. Winnie snatched the plastic bag from her back pocket and prepared to grab it. “Marcy, I appreciate you looking out for me like this, but if I stopped to get upset about every insensitive remark about my body, I’d have a backlog at work. Why you don’t come over tomorrow and we’ll rent that shady gray movie like we planned?”
Marcy sniffled on the phone. Aw. Poor thing took this hard. Winnie decided to let her cousin choose the takeout for tomorrow’s dinner.
“We can’t do it tonight?” she asked. “I’d like the company.”
“Well, I’m going into Waynesboro with Cory.” Speak of the devil. Winnie looked up from her scooping activity to see a flashy red sports car rolling up the street. Nice. Sexy NFL legend arrives for his evening out with a lady handling a fistful of dog crap. Straight out of a Kate Hudson romcom.
“Really?” From morose to purring in five seconds. “A hot date, then?”
“I’ll tell you later. Let me savor this moment.” She blew a kiss into the phone and rang off, watching the car slow along the curb. It occurred to her now that Cory had never asked for her address and she hadn’t volunteered it. She kept only her mobile number and email on business cards, but figured Cory engaged in some serious googling to track her down. Resourceful.
She tied off the dog poop bag and urged Zeppo back to the sidewalk and home, where Cory met her, leaning against the passenger side door.
“I have to put him inside and grab my purse,” she said, holding up the bag. “This obviously isn’t it.”
Cory leaned down to scratch Zeppo’s ears. The beagle whined and wagged and soon presented himself for a belly rub. Damn dog played him like a fiddle, and Cory ate it up. “Well, dang,” he said, his eye on her. “I thought we were gonna drive that up to Johanna’s house, light it on fire, and leave it at her door.”
“Oh, holy hell.” Winnie felt her body jiggle with her laughter. She’d fantasized different revenge scenarios during the worst of the teasing, but the flaming poo bag never came to mind. High school was over.
“I’ll be right back.” She tugged on the leash. “Zeppo, you big ham. Come on.”
She tossed the poo in the outside garbage can and made the dog comfortable for his alone time. A quick check in the bathroom mirror after washing her hands showed a young woman flushed red—with amusement or shyness, she hadn’t decided.
Lipstick, yes or no? This wasn’t a date. She didn’t see the word in his texts or mails. Then she remembered the way Cory looked at her as she strode toward her house. His bright eyes reflected an obvious interest in…something. His gaze had panned her body, like an inspection, or a commitment to memory.
And that smile. Straight teeth, a succulent lower lip made for chewing, and light stubble she wanted scratching all her sensitive parts.
Best she didn’t have her lipstick out, because it’d have melted in her hand.
“All right.” Enough stalling. Her non-date waited.
***
He hoped she might invite him into her house, offer him even the briefest glimpse of her life while she settled the dog and searched for her purse. She’d acted friendly enough when he arrived to collect her, yet maintained a distance like she wanted to play with caution. In a way he understood that. They’d just reconnected after several years, and with Winnie being a single woman perhaps she gave priority to her personal safety.
A few minutes had passed while she was in the house. When he made up his mind to go over and knock she reappeared and locked the door behind her.
During the drive into Waynesboro, her face took on a pensive expression, like worry. “You alright?” he asked. “Did you want to go back and get your beagle? I checked the place out, and they’ll let you bring pets onto the patio.”
“Hm?” Her bubble popped, and she glanced at him then gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about a phone call I had with my cousin before you showed up.”
“Gotcha.” Not his business. She’d share if she thought he had a right to know. “How is Marcy doing? I mean, I saw her the other day, and she looked well.”
“Good. The whole family’s good. Marcy’s trying to learn French with all these free websites. She wants to go to Paris next year.”
“That sounds great. I traveled a fair bit myself, but I think I’m gonna rest for a year or so,” he said. “It’s fun to see new places, but you know the old saying.”
“No place like home?”
“You got it.”
Winnie smiled. “Most I get to do lately is for business. Drives up to Richmond and DC. Once in a while I get a client in Virginia Beach and if I time it right, I can make a weekend of it. Marcy loves the shore.”
“Yeah, so do I. Last time I was there was for Ben Meyer’s graduation party at his parents’ vacation home. That was a fun time, wasn’t it?”
Her face slackened. He didn’t have the AC on, but the temperature had definitely cooled. “I recall he hosted the party, but I wasn’t invited.”
Damn it. Open mouth, insert foot. He’d understood Ben threw that party for the entire senior class to celebrate; it certainly looked as though a hundred teenagers had run of the place that night. Ben, being one of the “cool” kids, probably did neglect to give directions to the few nerds and so-called undesirables.
If he’d had the balls to talk to her back then, he could’ve offered her a ride. But he’d assumed everybody went. Ben had also served beer, and after a few, his lightweight brain turned to mush and all the partiers started to look the same.
“Sorry,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“No, but I could have been a better friend to you in high school. Not just me, either. Aaron, Johanna, Ben. You put up with a lot of assholery and did nothing to deserve it.”
“Cory, high school’s over—”
“Yes, and let this be the last thing I say about it,” he interrupted. “If I did anything to make you uncomfortable or miserable in that time, I sincerely apologize.” With nobody ahead of them on the country road, he held her gaze for a few seconds before turning back. “I was a hormonally-driven jackass and under pressure to be popular and good at sports and put up this front of the typical all-American guy. It’s nothing like what you went through, I’m guessing, but it’s no excuse for not being a good enough friend.”
“Wow.” Winnie blinked. “You know you’re the first person to say that to me? Usually if I run into an old classmate I get the quiet nod and embarrassed smile along with exaggerated praise for what I’m doing. Like it’s supposed to make up for their past sins.”
“Who wants to be remembered as an awful person? I bet a lot of reformed bullies pay it forward in different ways.”
“You make a good point. Once in a while a client informs me he was referred by somebody who called me Winnie Sea Cow to my face, and I don’t know what to think,” she said with a laugh. Before he could respond, she spoke up again. “Hey, do you have an Instagram account?”
“I don’t know.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Not sure? Check your phone for the app. That should tell you.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I got marketing people who handle my tweets and my likes and such. My agent suggested them. They basically post pictures and videos of my greatest hits and screen for hate comments. I know there’s at least a Twitter and a Facebook fan page,” he said. “But you have a point. I ought to find out what all they’re doing. Make them accountable for the money I’ve paid them over the years.”
“Do you really think you need people babysitting your social media now that you’re retired?”
“Why not? If this book thing takes off, they can help me promote it.”
Winnie folded her arms. They came to a stop sign and waited for a string of cars coming up US 250. “They gonna help you write it?”
“Are you?” He winked.
“I’ll help with the illustrations, if you pay for book art as well for tattoos. I won’t turn down good work,” she said.
They turned the corner and rolled up the winding road leading into town, Cory hoping Winnie wouldn’t turn down anything else he proposed.
Thirty minutes into their visit to Rockin’ Fish Tattoos—named obviously for the shop’s proximity to the Rockfish Gap region—Cory regretted his invitation to Winnie. They met Satin’s guy, a youngish ginger-haired man named Ryker with tiny black bars in both his eyebrows—the subtlest of his physical markings. He wore miniature braids in his long beard and colorful sleeves on his arms depicting a variety of designs: on his left a tribute to favorite rock bands and the right, scenes from favorite sci-fi movies. He was a walking ad for geek tats and biker décor.
Ryker also took an immediate shine to Winnie and her handiwork. “You ever pick up a tat gun before?” he asked her, clutching her sketches like a prize. “Seriously, if you draw this well, doing ink would be a breeze.”
She winced at that. “Thanks, but, uh…needles. I’m a charitable person, but I can’t bring myself to give blood for that reason. I mean, it’s not my skin, but I can’t stick one in another person.”
“Hey, these guys know what they’re in for when they come here. It’s not torture.” With that, he invited her to hang at his station while he finished a hula girl on a customer’s beefy triceps, leaving Cory to glad-hand artists and customers wanting to meet him.
Winnie sat on a rotating stool next to the tattoo chair, chatting and acting all flirty with Ryker and the customer. Every instance of laughter ringing in the air stung Cory’s ears, and he felt very much like the third wheel. Make that fifth. The other artist on duty, in between clients, had joined the conversation.
Cory walked the perimeter of the spacious shop, inspecting framed photos of completed tats. From small designs on patches of skin to extravagant panoramas covering every inch of a person’s back, the Rockin’ Fish folks seemed to want to brag about their every job.
He didn’t much care for the one Ryker was doing on Winnie at the moment. He signed his last autograph for the night, and that hanger-on said his goodbyes and left. Time to intervene.
The other artist—Buck or Bud or some such—had Winnie’s drawings. “I like this one,” he indicated the big cat on the goal posts, “and you don’t need to do a whole lot of background unless you want that.” He looked up at Cory. “You pick one yet?”
Buck/Bud kept his gaze on Winnie’s curves as he talked. Skinny boy. Paw prints trailing down one arm and a barbed wire “bracelet” inked around one wrist. Gauges in both ears. What was the appeal of that?
Cory tamped down his envy. No reason to have it. The guy was just talking tats with Winnie, and certainly she’d be able to charm a man. Still….
“It’s a tough decision. I figured I’d bring ’em both, and Ryker could advise on what would look better on skin.” The customer reached up, asking to see, and nodded his approval.
Buck/Bud snorted. “Shit. I’ll ink ’em both on you if you want. Why does Ryker get to have all the fun?”
Ryker lifted his tattoo gun from his client’s arm and wiped down a patch of skin. “Satin referred me, so I got dibs. You want to do more cool tats, you network.” He eyed Winnie. “She’s coming in this week for that motorcycle you drew her. That’s gonna look awesome when it’s done. You sure you don’t want a job?”
“Or ink?” Buck/Bud winked at her. “I specialize in everything. Any part of the body.”
Winnie tapped her chin, mocking deep thought. “How about a full-scale Titanic on my ass?”
Ryker let out a loud whoop. Good thing he wasn’t working on the arm at that second. He’d have inked a jagged red line up the guy’s shoulder, he shook so much with laughter. Buck/Bud stepped back, shaking his head. “Why not? All detailed, too, right down to Kate and Leo flying off the bow. Just be prepared to sleep standing up while it heals.”
The idea of either of these guys touching, much less seeing, Winnie’s bare bottom set Cory’s teeth on edge. He tried to smile and laugh along with the banter, but he saw things in their eyes Winnie either didn’t or chose to ignore. She turned them on with her talent and cheery disposition. Any minute now, one of them would ask her out on a date, and what stopped her from declining?
He wanted that opportunity, had let too many years pass from the last one he gave up.
“We’re obviously disrupting this job, so how about I make an appointment to come in next week?” he suggested. “That gives me a few days to decide which cat I want, and since I paid for both drawings today, how about I donate the one we don’t use to the shop? Somebody might see it and want it.” He looked at Winnie. “If you don’t mind.”
She shrugged, her mouth open in presumed surprise. “Oh. Well, I already got your money”—she held up her phone, indicating her credit card app—“so it’s yours to do what you want with. That’s actually nice, paying it forward.”
“I’ll say. I wouldn’t mind either of these designs on me,” said the customer. If his nearly covered arms were any indication, Cory wondered if the man had any bare spots left to accommodate one more tat.
“You better call dibs then,” Winnie said, and stood. Buck/Bud offered a hand to help steady her, but instinct kicked in and Cory wedged his large body between them, scooping Winnie against his chest when it appeared she might topple.
“Careful. Guy getting a tattoo over here,” she said when the chair shifted. “Those guns don’t have erasers.”
“Ryker, you busy next Monday morning? Around nine?” Cory asked. He had Winnie around the waist and backed her out of Ryker’s station, and thankfully she presented no resistance. Buck/Bud looked like he tried to hide a smirk. Hell with him. Hell with Ryker, too, but Satin praised him to the skies, and the exceptional ink on her body spoke of his skills.
“I think so, but drop me a text later to confirm. My number’s on the business cards, grab on one your way out,” he said, turning away from his work only to nod at Winnie. “Come on by, too, if you like. See one of your drawings inked.”
Yeah, hipster beard-eyebrow bar dude would love that.
“I’ll have to check my schedule but…well, g’bye.” Winnie’s voice raised with the distance Cory put between them and the tattoo station. The second they exited into the cool evening air she shrugged free of his grip and scowled. “Whoa there, Tarzan,” she scolded. “Why don’t you just toss me over your shoulder, or are you afraid of straining your back?”
“Hey, I’ve knocked three hundred-pound linebackers to one side. I could lift you easily. Why say that, anyway? You don’t have to put yourself down.”
Winnie stomped to the passenger side of the car and pumped the handle. Cory waited to unlock the doors. He wanted all parties calm before getting in and risking the upholstery to scratches and scuffs. “I am not putting myself down. I’m making a joke—obviously one that bombed, or else you had your sense of humor knocked out of you on the playing field.”
“Okay. Just sayin’, you’re not really—”
“Stop right there, Cory.” Winnie held up her hand and snapped it to motion for him to shut his trap. “I don’t want to hear ‘oh, you’re not really fat,’ or anything close to it. Fat is not an insult, it’s a state of being. I’m aware of my body, and I take care of myself,” she said. “The fact that I don’t resemble the media’s standard of what a hot chick should look like is not my problem.”
Cory thumbed the key fob for his car, running the pad over the raised lock and alarm buttons. He nodded, learning the lesson he richly deserved. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I still want to take you to dinner, Winnie. I like you, and I was kind of hoping we could…have dinner and do things on a recurring basis.”
“You mean like date?” She rested her forearm on the top of the car.
“I mean actually date.”
She twitched her lip, nodding slowly. “Cool. I take it we’re starting tonight with dinner?”
“If you still want to go,” he said, then added, “Is it all right for me to say I think you’re a hot chick?”
Winnie smiled. “Yes to both.”