Page 3 of Spilled Ink

"If you need to stop, you just let me know, okay?" The rubber band on the machine snapped, that horrible fucking buzz filling the air.

"I got it." Last time he'd had to stop once. Hopefully this time he could make it all the way through.

"Cool. So why'd you become a cop, man?" His skin was stretched, then the sting started, making his muscles jump.

"Uh." Mark had to think a minute before he could talk without jostling anything, his nerves singing from the repeated sting of the needle. "I guess I had some mumbo jumbo about helping people when I started out, but I gotta admit, it was more the adrenaline than anything I think."

"Yeah? I can believe that. Hell, I miss the rush like nothing else."

"Different stuff, same idea, huh?" Of course, tattoos kinda gave a man the same rush of endorphins.

"Shit, I did the happy crystal meth dance. Miss it like a broken tooth."

"So why'd you stop?" And wasn't he glad the man had? Because well, he'd've noticed that...

"Guy I was living with bought us some bad shit. I had a heart attack at twenty-five. Gave it up. He didn't. Gave him up. Some of your co-workers found him in the river about three years ago."

Well, that was worse than Johnny leaving him because he was a basket case. "That'll do it, huh? Sorry, man."

"Hey, you do what you gotta do. It ain't the smack's fault my body wasn't strong enough for it."

Another long line got burned into his bicep. Damn.

His eyelids fluttered shut, his head tipping back a little as he fought the urge to squirm. It was weird, kinda, talking to an admitted drug user. Former one. In his world, you tended to think of those guys as the bad guys, but Rooster seemed okay. Just a guy.

"Breathe, man. You don't gotta fight it so hard. Ride it."

"Sorry. I'm trying." It wasn't that painful. It was just-- Mark sighed, breathing, letting his chest rise and fall slowly.

"Yeah. You're holding him so tight, your skin's fighting the ink."

"Sorry," he said again, letting go a little. Trusting the guy with the needle. That was what Pete had told him he had to do. Fuck, Pete could sleep through a tattoo.

"s'okay. You want to talk about him, I don't mind." That heavy braid got pushed back -- damn, at the base it was thick as his wrist.

That hair was fascinating. In a world of short buzz cuts, that kind of hair didn't even show up on the girls. Mark let himself watch it while he mumbled.

"He was my best friend, you know? You don't work forty-eight hour shifts with someone and not get to love or hate them. I miss the Hell out of him. He always made me laugh."

"He was a good cop? He liked what he did?"

"Yeah." Pete hadn't had Mark's problem with questions. He'd been better at taking orders. But he'd also been better at really caring. "Yeah, he was."

"That's cool. How 'bout you? You like it?" Those long hands moved his arm, wiping the blood away.

"I did. I'm not sure now." He laughed, the sound harsh, almost raw. "Man, I am the king of feeling sorry for myself, huh?"

Goddamn, that man had the weirdest fucking eyes, almost too pale. "Not the king. Prince, maybe. You haven't cried or threatened to kick my ass yet." He got a quick, sharp-edged grin. "'Course, I'm not done yet."

"I guess you hear this shit a lot, huh?" Kick his ass? Nah. That was a nice ass. A little skinny, but nice.

"I hear a lot of shit, yeah. Some of it cool, some of it fucking awful. I got one guy -- lost all four of his kids to uh... some fucking disease. Cystic something. Four of 'em -- names all inked in his arm. I hate to see him coming."

"Oh. Man." Mark figured he could get selfish bastard inked on his arm after that. And then that made him think he was playing martyr, and that had him laughing again, this time more real.

"There you go." Rooster leaned back, grinned at him. "Ink's good for you, man. You're outlined. You mind if I take me a smoke break?"

"Nope." That would let him get his shit together. Hell, he might have one himself. He'd only quit a million times in the last month.

---