Page 6 of Viking Ink

Simon led me to his store, then down a lit alley that ran along the side of the building. A wooden gate opened into a small, tidy yard behind the tattoo parlour and a set of rainbow painted stairs that led to a flat above.

“It’s not much, but it’s home.” Simon waved me over to one of the old lounge chairs. I hesitated, not wanting to let any of the dirt and blood that I was covered in soil the fabric of the chair. The sofa, like most of the furniture, looked old but well loved. Simon left the room, and it gave me a chance to look around. There were lamps dotted about the room that had multicoloured glass shades, and they jogged a memory of my mum. She’d loved lamps like these.

“Sit down, lad. Don’t make the place look untidy,” Simon chided me as he walked in carrying a bowl and clean cloths, no doubt to clean up my wounds. It felt nice to have someone look after me, and I let Simon boss me into sitting, even though I was still fretting about getting blood over the soft fabric.

“I just don’t want to make a mess of your furniture.”

Simon chuckled, dipping a cloth into the water. “Rhys, those chairs have seen a lot worse.” He gave me a slow wink, and a giggle burst out of me when I realised what he was insinuating. My cheeks heated as I pictured Simon fucking someone on these chairs.

There was a light touch to my face. Blinking, I saw Simon kneeling in front of me with a concerned expression on his face, “Lost you for a minute there, lad.”

“Er, sorry. Just lost in thought.” I hissed as Simon dabbed the cloth against the cut above my eye.

“Hmm. This is going to bruise, and the same goes for the one on your cheek. They really did a fucking number on you.” Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I wish I’d gotten to you sooner.”

“Why would you call me that? I’m not a kid. I’m nearly twenty-one.”

Simon shook his head with a rueful smile. “Sorry, force of habit I suppose. I’ll stop if it makes you uncomfortable.”

I shrugged, wincing again when the muscles in my sore shoulder pulled. “It’s fine. Most people think I’m younger than I am. I think it’s the hair. So, how old are you?”

Simon nodded. “Old. Thirty-seven, and I look every year of it. You, though, you’ve got a young-looking face. And those curls.” He reached out to gently touch my hair.

The air caught in my lungs.

Simon blinked, then blushed, “Sorry that was er, a bit… Look, let’s get you cleaned up and dressed in something warmer, and then we can get some food into you.”

A comfortable silence settled between us as Simon tended to my various wounds. How long had it been since I’d been touched with any sort of gentleness? The last time I could remember, I was seven and had fallen off the climbing bars at school. I remembered coming home with my skinned knees and bruised elbows and Mum cleaning me up and placing a kiss on each scratch, telling me that was the magic to making it better.

“I’m sorry about your guitar.” Simon’s gruff voice pulled me out of my memories.

I took a deep breath, trying to stave off tears. The guitar was one of the only things I had to remember my mum by. She’d played it often when I was little, when Dad was on late shift and she could relax—even at that young I’d known my dad ruled the house with an iron fist. Those nights we’d dance, and she’d sing in the sweetest voice, husky and melodic. To my childish ears, it was the prettiest sound I’d ever heard.

“It was my mum’s,” I managed to get out before the first tear broke free without my consent. The tears started to fall faster, and then I really was crying— fat, ugly sobs tore from my throat. It wasn’t just the loss of my mum’s guitar. It was everything that had led up to this moment.

Strong arms surrounded me, and my nose filled with the scent of musky aftershave. I felt myself being bodily lifted until I was leaning against Simon’s broad chest. It was so comforting, being able to just let go, even if only for a moment.

“Let it out, lad, you’ve had a hell of a day.” Simon spoke softly against the top of my head, and all I could do was wrap my arms around him and cry harder.

I wasn’t sure how long we stayed like that. All I knew was that Simon’s presence, his gentle hold on me, settled something deep inside of me. Once I’d stopped crying, I sniffled and hid my head against his collar bone, nervous about how he might react to my outburst.

“Are you feeling a little better, Rhys?”

I shivered slightly at the way he said my name. Simon, maybe mistaking it for me feeling cold, tutted softly. I wiped my eyes and extracted myself from his arms, feeling awkward. I barely knew him, and I was sitting on his lap. “Shit, if my night hasn’t been bad enough, now I go and embarrass myself in front of you.” I pushed myself from his lap back onto the sofa, wincing at the gnawing pain in my ribs.

“Move slow, Rhys. You’ve had a night of it, and a strong wind might knock you over. You’re safe here. The bastards who hurt you won’t get another chance.”

I didn’t know what safe felt like. Was anywhere truly safe? Thinking the worst, my usual flight response kicked in. I shouldn’t be here. I’d already stayed in Tewsbury longer than any other town. I was putting myself at risk.

“Hey, Rhys, you’re starting to hyperventilate. Look at me.”

I looked up into Simon’s hazel eyes, blinking rapidly.

“Breath in time with me. That’s it. In, out. In, out.”

Simon’s voice was so deep and calming that I found I was able to focus on it and stop from spiralling into a panic. A strong, calloused hand gripped mine lightly. Gazing into his eyes, I did feel safe. I trusted him. It was crazy, and went against everything I had told myself since I left home, but I did.

I turned in the chair so Simon could tend my back. Simon lifted my jumper slowly and I heard his breath catch, and a soft tutting sound before the warm washcloth wiped over my back.

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