Page 3 of Saint
We make the last few steps to a closed door. “This is your room.” I twist the round brass handle to open the door.
Royal looks inside, then at me. “For real?”
“Yep. Every bit of it.” I look at it through his eyes: the neatly made bed, furniture that matches, and desk with a laptop on it.
“But I could take that computer and leave. I mean, I’m not going to, but they don’t know that.” He looks horrified at the idea, but it’s a valid point.
“They trust us, just the way you’re trusting them by coming here. I knew Kip before they took me in. I go to the gym because there’s a club after school. We get to learn how to use all the gym equipment and spar in the boxing ring. It’s good fun. You should come.”
He brightens up a little. “I’d like that.”
Lewis, my mentor, claps his hands together, so everyone looks to him. “Congratulations, Saint. And welcome aboard.” He hands me an envelope, and I’m not afraid to admit that my hands shake a little. I pull out the folded papers and see an employment contract. I’m no longer an apprentice. I’m a full-time tattooist.
“Congratulations, you did it!” Kip—who is now my dad after they adopted all four of us—pounds me on the back.
All the others surround me, cheering and hugging me; I can’t believe I’ve done it. All I’ve ever dreamt of is within reach, and I can’t wait to start.
“Th…thank you so much, Lewis. I could never have done this without you.” I look back at him as my emotions get the better of me. “Thank you.”
“Of course you could’ve. You just might not be as good as you are with someone else teaching you. You know I’m the best.” He blows on his fingernails and polishes them on his leather jacket. “Joking apart, you have the talent to be one of the best in the country. It’s been a pleasure to teach you.”
Royal reaches us and shakes Lewis’s hand. “Good to see you, Sir.”
“You, too, boy. Will I see you tonight?”
Royal nods, he’s been working with Lewis, but in a different way. He’s been playing with him at Bound, the kink club we’re members of. I have a different interest, proclivity, whatever you like to call it. I like my boys to submit and kneel at my feet, to beg and plead for my touch, whether it’s tender stroke or the sting of a cane or flogger.
The thought of letting go tonight sounds like the perfect way to end the day.
It’s quiet in the studio. I usually walk in to the sound of heavy rock and the buzz of Lewis’s gun. “Hey, Lewis, old man, are you sleeping back there?” I call out as I dump my satchel and sketch book on the counter. Lewis has continued to teach me even after my apprenticeship ended. I think I’m almost as good as him. He says I’m better, but there’s no way that’s true; he’s got forty years of experience, and I’ve only been doing this for ten years.
“Lewis?” I call out again. I know he’s here. His ancient leather jacket is here. He laughs and jokes about when anyone criticises it. “That jacket has experienced more through its lifetime than you’ll ever see. I’m gonna be buried in it.”
Something is wrong, I can feel it. I look back to the front, looking for any signs of a break in, but it’s all good. I call out again—but deep down I know I’m not going to get a reply—as I step past the curtain that separates our workstations, allowing privacy to clients, if they want it. He’s there, lying on the chair,his eyes closed. Is he asleep? As I get closer, I know he’s not, but I touch his shoulder just the same. “Hey, Lewis, whatcha doing napping?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Shit! I don’t know what to do. Who do I call first? Ambulance. That’s first. I open my phone and press the call option. The call is answered immediately, and I choke up. What do I say? I manage to gather enough brain cells to tell them what I think has happened. “I think he’s dead, but he can’t be. He’s too young, too fit. I don’t know what to do.”
“Help is on its way. Are you alone there?” the operator asks.
“Yes, it was Lewis’s turn to open up. I’ve just walked in. I need to call my dad, he’ll come here.”
“Only a couple more minutes. Can you hear them yet?”
I walk away from Lewis to the front door. “I can see them. Thank you.”
The rest of the day is a blur. I remember my dads holding me in a tight hug as the police peppered me with questions. I didn’t know if I was a suspect, as I talk through my last twenty-four hours. Luckily, I have an alibi, I’d been with a boy I played with regularly. He came back to my place, only leaving me this morning. I’d walked into work, so I can be seen on the CCTV cameras.
Eventually, I’m allowed to leave, and I stumble out with my dads, and I let them guide me to their car and to their home. The call has gone out to my other brothers. Knox and Drake are on their way, but Royal won’t be able to leave until school finishes.
The studio stays shut for nearly a month; I can’t bring myself to open it yet. The cause of death was a huge heart attack;a myocardial infarction is the proper term. I don’t care what it’s called, it’s knocked the wind from me, and I don’t know what to do with the studio. He didn’t have any family and no significant other, he was a confirmed bachelor. Happy to play at the club and leave it all behind at the end of the night.
It's been long enough now. I need to get back to work. Mine and Lewis’s clients have been amazing; they loved him as much as I did. He’s beenthetattooist for too many years to count. Now I have to find the time to catch up.
I’ve just finished my first appointment of the day when the door buzzes. I open it and find an older man holding a briefcase. I’m never one to judge a client, but he looks as out of place as a nun in a brothel.
“Can I help you?”
He stops his perusal of the room and focuses on me. “I’m looking for Saint Foster.”
