Page 6 of Yours Truly

He’s helping me finally “rebuild”—his Chicken Soup for the Soul prognosis, not mine. Yet here I am, halfway between a bottle of Jack and a pot of coffee, naked in my shitty apartment, trying not to vomit.

It’s right then and there I make a commitment to show up at Ink Time. To show up for Deuce the way he shows up for me - the way a brother should.

And it’s got nothing to do with that little Firecracker and her tight ass.

“Where you at, my man?” John laughs through the receiver, the commotion of a full bar roaring in the background.

“Bluebell,” I repeat, considering I told him this last week when he called. “Working for my buddy Deuce at his place here.”

“Yeah?” John asks. “What for? You got the big exec connections, why are you in the sticks doing tramp stamps, dude?”

At that, I snort. Because it’s an apt assessment of small town tattoo parlors. Though I haven’t fully immersed myself in Bluebell, from what I’ve seen, Ivy Ellington and Deuce may be the only ones sporting real ink.

If I stay here to rebuild, I very well may be stuck doing tribal tramp stamps and baby feet on biceps for the rest of my career.

It’s safe.

But boring as hell.

“I can’t keep going at that pace, man,” I tell him, in reference to the colorful life I was leading for the last seven years as the star of the reality show, Needle Ninjas. I traveled around the world, creating unique pieces for unique people, and let the network film me while doing it. My art is incredible - that, for once, isn’t my ego talking, just the truth. But the show? It made me somewhat of a celebrity. I now have a line of pre-made designs I sell to tattoo shops around the world so that anyone can have Trace Calhoun’s ink on their body.

But I was burning out.

Partying nonstop and somehow fucking even more. There were drugs, sleepless weeks, loud music, fast cars, nice jewelry, paparazzi and money. So. Much. Money.

So much that I got myself into trouble, lost the show and now I’m here. Trying to live the humble life as an artist in a small town.

I pull my sports car into a parking spot behind Ink Time, and stare through my windshield at the small parlor. It’s closed now, since it’s nearing nine at night, and all the lights are off. I don’t know why I’d halfway expected Deuce to be here.

This place is exactly what I know I need.

Small space, eager minds, easy clients. And the shop itself? Clean, new, nice and safe. All the things I should want. Especially since I’ve had the rest—filthy, worn, naughty and dangerous. I’ve lived the most wild, off-the-beaten-path life that any tattoo artist could ever dream of. It’s the natural progression to slow and settle down at this point in my career.

I shouldn’t want to be pulled away from this, and it shouldn’t be as easy as four words.

“Wanna get a drink?” John asks, the simple question rendering me motionless inside my sports car.

No. I don’t want to drink. I want to go home and get to bed so I can show up in the morning– for Deuce, and for myself. I want to go into Ink Time with a coffee in my hand and teach that little Firecracker everything she doesn’t know. I want to shine at Ink Time, and show the world that leaving the spotlight doesn’t mean leaving the art.

But not as much as I want to feel warm and fuzzy, and forget all the reasons why I’m here in the first place.

And besides, it’s just one drink.

I won’t get drunk.

I’ll get back early.

It’s just one drink.

“All right,” I muse, throwing my car into reverse. “One drink. Where are you?”

“Oakcreek,” John replies. “I’m so glad you’re coming out. I can’t wait to fuckin’ party, man.”

Adrenaline spears through my arms and fingers, making me tingly and warm. The high has already started, and I haven’t even touched a drop. “Just one drink,” I tell him, lying to both of us but fooling neither.

THREE

He never showed up.

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