Page 2 of Pelvic Flaws

“So will you take me?” she asked, manoeuvring easily back into a whine.

“I suppose so, but if that house is a mess when I get back, I won’t be happy.”

“Okay, okay, so you said.”

“Annie, you push it young lady and you won’t be going anywhere.”

Shit, who said it was a bloody joy having kids? Whoever it was, they were damn liars. Don’t get me wrong, I loved them, I just wished I’d maybe had one child who I could have moulded into a perfectly, well behaved human being. Trouble is, which of my children would I have chosen to have?

Nope, it was far too difficult a decision to make.

As I considered each of the qualities of my offspring, I reached my car and sighed with relief that there was no parking ticket attached to the windscreen. I’d only had a couple of quid in my pocket when I parked up, so the last half hour had been a game of jeopardy – would the car park warden do their Storm Trooper march through, or as was usual spend their time in the market café, because they’d already made their monthly quota of fines. Market café it obviously was.

I threw my bag on the back seat and got inside, turned the key and made a silent prayer. When I heard the engine turn over, I almost wept with relief. My fifteen-year-old Vauxhall was being well behaved for a change.

With a quick check of my lippy, because you never knew if a dishy copper would stop you on the way home, I stuck it into gear and made my way home to what undoubtedly would be chaos and mess.

Dex

I kicked my office door shut and prayed to God that none of the damn idiots I employed followed me, because I was likely to pull their heads off if they did.

We had a strict fucking policy at Heaven & Ink- no one, and I mean no one, got a fucking tattoo under the age of eighteen. Everyone had to provide ID, unless of course, like me, they were fucking old and grey – if you called forty-six old. I still had a lot of life left in me. Shit, I could party half my staff under the table and they were all under thirty-five. The point was, someone, and no one was admitting to it, had booked a kid in for calf tattoo without checking his age. I get it, anyone can slip through, but you’d have thought an experienced tattooist like my guy Jethro would spot an underage a mile off before he put the needle to his skin. I fucking did.

I’d gone in to ask Jethro if he’d done his stock check and as soon as the kid looked up at me, with fear in his damn eyes, I’d spotted that he was underage. The kid didn’t last even a minute of my interrogation before he picked up his Fantastic Four backpack and fucked off – come on, a Fantastic Four backpack, wasn’t that a big enough sign. Jethro’s ears were probably still ringing from me ripping him a new asshole. As for the other three artists and Scarlett, my receptionist, they were all still quaking too.

I wasn’t a hard boss, but this was my damn livelihood and a lawsuit, or even dealing with an angry parent, was not on my ‘to do’ list. I just wanted a quiet life, which was why I’d moved my business to the UK from the US. Life in Dallas had been hard and fast and had led me to reassess what the fuck I was doing. Moving to the UK seemed the logical place to start fresh. I had dual citizenship, seeing as my mom was from Manchester. I had no ties in Dallas. My parents were both gone and I had no siblings, so why not leave.

Slamming down onto my chair, I pushed it back and put my feet up on my desk, not caring that I’d got pages of new tattoo designs scattered all over it. I was pissed and needed a few minutes to calm down. My go-to stress relief would have been cigarettes in the past, but nowadays it was either taking out my pencils and sketching new designs, or kicking back and closing my eyes for ten minutes, sucking a mint, and taking some deep breaths. Trouble was that tended to be when images of Cherry, my ex, flitted through my mind. It had been almost three years since she’d accidently walked in front of a UPS truck, but images of her sweet face were still as vivid as ever. For the first time in almost two years, we’d partied together, but when I told her it didn’t mean we were getting back together, she’d run out of the bar and that was the last time I saw her alive. A week later, I heard she was dead. I hadn’t wanted to get back with her, because truth be known, I was already fix‘in to leave the US, but her dying kinda sped up the process and I left before the funeral. I felt some guilt that I hadn’t attended. We’d been together for three years before I left her, but we’d already been broken up for two and our last conversation wasn’t great, so I figured it best I stayed away. Even if I’d wanted to go, I got the feeling I wasn’t really wanted. When her mom called me to say Cherry had been killed, she made it clear it was a family only funeral, ergo, don’t come anywhere near, Dex.

I did read the only tiny newspaper report I could find, mostly because I was a fucking dick and wanted to check I hadn’t upset her into doing something stupid. According to the report though, she was carrying groceries and wasn’t looking. Sad thing was, she lived in a tiny town, halfway between San Antonio and Houston, where there was barely any traffic.

Rubbing my eyes, I heaved out a breath and thought about my night ahead. I didn’t go out much, but I felt like I needed to get laid. It had been a while and I knew just the person who could scratch my itch.

Picking up my cell, I dropped my boots to the floor, landing them with a thud and typed out the number and waited for it to be answered.

“Hey stranger,” Debbie crooned on the other end. “Not seen you for ages. You okay?

“Good an’ you?”

“I’m fine. So, what can I do for you?”

There was a playful tone in Debbie’s voice that said she knew exactly what she could do for me.

“Dinner tonight?”

“I’m busy tonight, hon. I can do tomorrow.”

I would’ve liked to have met her that night, but I could wait.

“Yeah, sounds good. You want me to pick you up?”

Debbie was a thirty-eight-year old divorcee, who lived with her mom and had specifically asked for me to tattoo the angel on her back – in fact, being specifically requested was the only time I tattooed anyone these days. Apparently, she’d seen an article about me and my work in Inked Magazine and was adamant that I did her art. We hit if off during our three, two hour sessions and agreed to dinner, which led to sex. She made me laugh, was pretty good at blow jobs, and didn’t want anything serious, so we suited each other just fine.

“That’d be great. Half past eight?”

“Eight-thirty tomorrow it is.”

As we said goodbye, I heard voices on the other side of my office door and I knew it was time I made peace with them all – maybe take them for a drink and see if I couldn’t get myself out of the sour mood I’d fallen into.

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