Ink, Sex, Magic Pt. 01

This is a work of fiction. All characters are 18 or older.

Ink, Sex, Magic: A Tale in Five Parts

Part I. Of Demons and Desires.

The day I graduated from college turned out to be a bittersweet finish to years spent dedicated to academics and work, with neither the time nor desire for a social life. None of the brilliantly written, eloquently delivered commencement speeches convinced me that it hadn't all been an exercise in futility. As soon as I made my walk across the stage, counting every step to distract myself from my nerves, the knot in my stomach finally relaxed, leaving only the general ache of physical and mental exhaustion.

At long last our caps were being tossed in the air and returned to our heads with tassels flipped in honor of our achievement. When the graduates and the audience began to converge, I clung to my best friend, Jennifer Fairfax, so I wouldn't get lost in the shuffle to the cavernous Seattle Center entrance hall. Soon we were with our respective families, who were already making dinner plans for the night.

After congratulations and hugs, my mother and stepfather continued discussing where we should eat with the Fairfaxes, and my stepbrother, Thomas, started hitting on my oldest friend. A vivacious redhead from an affluent family, Jen never seemed to encounter a social situation she couldn't handle with ease, and they were soon deep in conversation. I was accustomed to being a fifth wheel- or seventh wheel, in this case- so I placidly chewed the inside of my cheek, eyes cast to the distance as if admiring the view.

I've always had a vivid imagination and even as I approached twenty-three I still saw things that weren't there: symbols or pictures floating over people, shimmering curtains of colored light, faces beneath faces, humans inside animals, and some things that were neither human nor animal- neither here nor there. Psychiatric medication had helped to suppress the hallucinations for a while, but in the past year or so, it had stopped working. The visions resurfaced from the dark waters undiluted, and bad dreams, headaches and insomnia came with them. After several neurological and therapeutic attempts to find a cause, doctors decided that stress had aggravated my PTSD, and my delusions had returned in a subconscious attempt to distract myself from reality- or some bullshit like that.

Long story short, I was cracked in the head.

So it barely registered at first when I saw my estranged father watching me, standing stock still as the crowd moved around him the way water parts around a stone- aware of an obstacle but oblivious to its form. He'd always had a way of not being seen, despite being conspicuously tall, muscular, pierced and tatted- not to mention rakishly handsome. Though it was well lit, he seemed to make his own shadows and weave them around himself like a shroud.

In many ways, my mother and father were opposites- her blonde and fair, him raven-haired and dusky; her petite and soft as silk, him enormous, sculpted-steel; her sweet and temperate, him mercurial and brooding- but both of them were as alluring as they were unobtainable. Eventually, their differences sowed grudges and they grew to hate one another as passionately as they'd loved. If I'd been anything, it was the eye of their hurricane- a calm, neutral spot in their tumultuous lives. Even standing there, trying to decide if he was real, I was stuck in the middle.

My mother must have noticed me staring off and followed my gaze because I heard her gasp behind me. "Kier said he was coming but I didn't know for sure..." She had grabbed on to my step-father Bruce's forearm as if too keep herself from being drawn into his gravitational pull.

As if a spell had been broken, everyone seemed to notice my father, excusing themselves as they gave him a wider girth.

Jennifer, in the midst of flirting back with Thomas, stopped to ask me in a failed whisper, "Ali- who the fuck is that insanely hot guy staring you down?"

"Go say hello, Alice" my mother urged me hoarsely, her nails digging into the charcoal gray fabric of Bruce's jacket.

But all I could think was Ten years gone. Ten fucking years.

I walked away from the awkward silence that followed, but I didn't go to my father. He watched me stride past and remained as stoic as a statue. I was furious at him for showing up out of the blue, at my mother for not warning me, at myself because I was on the verge of tears and wanted nothing more than to cry on my Da's shoulder.

I'd been walking for five minutes or so when I realized I was completely disoriented and nowhere near my car. My phone had been vibrating non-stop since my dramatic exit and as I was considering calling Jen to let her know everything was okay, I heard the jagged throttle of an engine coming up behind me. I knew it was my father on his chopper before I even whirled around to see him pulling off his helmet and putting down the kickstand.

Childhood memories are distorted by our former perspective, when we were dwarfed by the enormity of a world just out of reach. Confronting these giants as adults, we often find ourselves disappointed by their ordinary, manageable proportions. But coming face to face with my father again, I found him to be just as physically imposing as he had seemed the last time I saw him, when I was twelve. If anything, he'd become a harder, stronger, more refined version of his younger self and I felt even smaller in his presence than I ever before.

"Lili," he said softly. No one but my father had ever called me that- just Alice or Ali- and hearing it made my heart beat funny.

"Kiernan," was my clipped response. I used to call him by his full first name when I was angry with him and it seemed appropriate to continue the practice. To my irritation, he flashed his perfect teeth in amusement. I crossed my arms to let him know that we would not be hugging.

"Congratulations, love, I'm so very proud of you." Having grown up in County Limerick, Ireland, there was a lilt to my father's cadence that added a mellifluous quality to his gravelly voice. No matter how faint his brogue had become, it was like hearing an old lullaby.

"You could have sent a card to say that. Woulda been a hell of a lot easier than flying across the country," I snapped, assuming he was still living in New York.

"I wanted to see you in person; and there's no greeting card for all the things I have to say."

"Ever heard of FaceTime?"

"This is my generation's FaceTime," he said, gesturing to the space between us to indicate our real-life interaction.

"Did your generation ever hear of making a phone call?"

"I can't do this over the phone." Before I could move out of reach, Kiernan's hands were on either side of my head, fingers buried in my hair, thumbs by my ears. He gently tilted my face upwards so he could behold it, and kissed my forehead. My father's lips lingered just long enough to make me feel tingly and warm in places that had been numb for years.

My voice hitched when I tried to talk, so I just stood in his thrall and let him stroke my skin, pushing back a few of my stray blonde curls.

"My baby girl's all grown up," he remarked fondly. "You're absolutely gorgeous, Alice. You look..." He trailed off, searching my face as if it contained the rest of his sentence.

"Like Mom?" I'd heard the comparison so much that I expected my father of all people to make it as well.

"Even more beautiful than I remember."

Nice save.

A muffled vibration from Kiernan's pocket broke the moment, and he let me go to check his phone. "It's Tess- she's flipping out wondering where you are," he said while typing. "I'm letting her know that you're with me." I vaguely wondered how long my parents been communicating. Or if they'd ever stopped.

"Tell Mom that I'm sorry for worrying her," I mumbled, feeling childish for having stalked off without a word.

"Tess wants to know if you're still coming to dinner at the The Met. Your friend and her parents will be there too. And apparently I'm welcome to come," he added.

I chuckled, unable to imagine my father making polite dinner conversation with strangers at a formal restaurant. Not that he wasn't dressed appropriately- he'd worn a black button-up and silk tie under his motorcycle jacket and had a blazer to match his well-fitted charcoal pants- its just he liked inane socializing about as much as I did.

Kiernan arched a quizzical brow. "Do you not want me to?"

"Oh, I -- I didn't think you would want to go," I stammered.

"Are you going?"

"Yes."

"Then I want to go," he stated definitively, sending a response. "So are you ready? We can take my chopper and I'll bring your back to your car afterwards."

"You want me to get on that thing?" I gawked at his cycle like a virgin asked to take a monster cock on her first ride.

"You never minded when you were little."

"I didn't mind hot-dogs and cabbage either," I said rolling my eyes.

"That was my specialty," he retorted with mock indignation. Then, my father straddled his cycle and patted the bitch seat behind him expectantly.

I sighed, secretly giddy at the thought of riding with him, my arms around his waist. "Fine. Do you have another helmet?"

***

In addition to a helmet, he also insisted that I wear his rugged motorcycle jacket while he wore his sports coat, and it felt like being in leather armor. As we sped through the city, the bottom of my purple gown billowed in the wind, exposing my legs to the audible delight of several other motorists. I savored holding on to him with my arms and the leather seat with my thighs, his warmth and the mechanical thunder beneath us, the thrill of flying, of being alive.

When he parked, I remembered to take off my gown before walking up the block, though I felt self-conscious about the gold baby-doll dress I had on underneath. The capped sleeves and flouncy skirt showed off my slender limbs, and though the neckline wasn't low, the bodice fit snugly, emphasizing my breasts over the smallest part of my waist. Kiernan's eyes raked up and down my fully developed body, not bothering to hide his appreciative interest, before he handed me his motorcycle jacket again.

"Put this on," he commanded. I obeyed because it was getting chilly, though I doubted he was concerned about the temperature.

When we got there, Bruce, my Mother, Thomas, Jennifer and her parents were arriving from the other direction. The host greeted Bruce by name, took our coats with only the briefest frown at mine, and lead us to a table. Heads turned as we passed, most for a better look at my parents, with Jennifer and Thomas getting their fair share of glances too. The way Kiernan guided me by the small of my back, I supposed I could have gotten a few myself.

He pulled out my chair and tucked it back in again before sitting adjacent to me at the end opposite my stepfather. Kiernan didn't need to sit at the head of the table to establish himself as the patriarch, but Bruce clearly noticed that he had because he proceeded to ignore my father's presence entirely. By contrast, Jen- who was sitting across from me- couldn't help but stare.

It didn't help when he took off his jacket and rolled his cloth sleeves up to his biceps, revealing his ink sleeves beneath. If it hadn't already been apparent by the tattoos on his hands, neck, and in the fade of his high-and-tight haircut, my father had less blank skin than inked. Though he looked to be a man in his early forties, he was nearing sixty, and was sporting a little over forty years worth of body art.

"Hi, Alice's dad, um, Mr. Delaney," she said awkwardly, her cheeks redder than her hair.

"Mr. Delaney was my Da's name. Call me Kiernan," he said with a disarming smile. "And what should I call you, lass?"

"Jen" was all she managed to get out. I'd never seen her get this tongue-tied in front of a man and it made me both proud and jealous of my father. I wondered if he'd flirted out of habit or if he'd found her attractive enough to actually try.

While Jen couldn't help but gape at him on occasion, Kiernan was adept at keeping his sidelong glances at my mother discreet, but I noticed them and I know she did too, though she never gave it away. But no wonder: She was polished to perfection- glossy hair falling in waves to her shoulders, lovely bone-structure underlying her radiant complexion, violet eyes as captivating as her smile, a calf-length dress maintaining her modesty even as it showed off her lissome figure; her very fragrance was distilled grace.

Though most people never suspected it, my mother had several tattoos herself (that I knew about anyway) but they were covered either by her clothing or her hair. I supposed that was the way Bruce wanted to keep her- a lady in public and a freak in the bedroom. Kiernan on the other hand used to prefer it when she displayed her body and its art. I'm sure he still did.

People had often said I was a spitting image of my mother, with a trace of my father in the shape of my brows and my lopsided smile, if they knew him- but I felt more like a faded copy of the vibrant original. Then again, I'd been running on empty for a couple of months now with late-night study sessions, hours in the computer lab and extra shifts at an art supply store not far from campus. Now that I'd completed the academic portion of my work load, I would probably have to start making myself look put together again.

After we ordered our food, there was the general small-talk before individual conversations broke off, and one of the first things my father wanted to know was whether I had any ink yet.

"I have plenty of ideas drawn out, but...I guess I just haven't had the time." I think he could tell that wasn't the whole reason but he didn't press the issue.

Once I was halfway through my glass of wine, I finally got the nerve to ask the question that had been in the back of my mind. "So why did you really come all this way, Kier? I mean, not a peep in like eight years and now you're here? Are you dying or something?" Fear overrode my sarcasm when I realized that could be the reason.

"No, but thanks for the concern," he said grimly before continuing with a somewhat lighter note. "Well for one, I'm opening a new tattoo and piercing parlor."

"In Seattle?" I asked incredulously.

"I bought a converted warehouse in Ballard. Just picked up the keys last night. I can't wait to take you there."

"You must be doing well for yourself." Ballard was yet another area of Seattle undergoing millennial gentrification.

"I've been fortunate these past few years," he agreed, shrugging. Something about his tone hinted that it had been a Pyrrhic time- that his success had come at a great price.

"Did you say that you're opening a tattoo parlor?" Jennifer blurted out, clearly eavesdropping.

Kiernan produced a business card from out of nowhere and passed it to her, then handed one to me. When his fingers brushed against mine, it was like a spark of electricity passed between us that had nothing to do with static; I almost dropped the card. A ghost of a smile played across his lips, as if he'd felt the same thing.

"Clever," I said, laying the card over my skin. It had a clear background so the printed portions resembled tattoos, and I admired the effect on both sides.

The front had his contact information and an introduction to his craft: Kiernan Delaney, Tattoo Artist. Specializing in Traditional, Blackwork, Arcane Designs and Divine Elements. Manual Techniques and In-house Inks. After picking up the basics in Ireland, my father traveled the world and apprenticed himself to other masters to learn things like Marquesan tatau in Samoa and Tā moko in New Zealand.

On the back was the name of his new shop- UnderGround Ink- and its logo, which was a stoppered bottle with a label that said 'Ink Me' in flowing script. When I was younger, I was obsessed with the chronicles of Alice Liddell and their various illustrations, and my father bought me copies of every edition he could find. One of my favorites bore the original title Alice's Adventures Underground. I was unexpectedly touched that he remembered.

"Congrats, Kier. I'm happy for you," I said genuinely. "Whatever happened to Sectio Divina?" That was the parlor he and his brother Jack had opened in New York, where I'd spent a good deal of my early childhood. It meant 'the divine section', a mathematical proportion that the ancient Greeks associated with aesthetic perfection.

"Remember my Apprentice, Thorne?"

I nodded, thinking How could I forget? My first crush had been on Max Thorne, with his tragically emo hair and snake-bite piercings on his full bottom lip.

"He took over a couple of years ago."

"Why not Uncle Jack?"

A stormy expression darkened my father's face. "He moved back home." The way he stabbed his steak with a fork made me think they'd had a falling out, so I left it there for the time being.

"So what made you want to open a shop on the West Coast?"

"Isn't it obvious? To be close to you, Lili. I want you to be my Apprentice."

Again, Jen couldn't restrain herself from breaking in. "As a tattooer? I know she's a great artist, but Alice doesn't even have a single tattoo yet."

"Because she's been waiting for me to give her one," he said looking directly at me, knowing it was true; I had always wanted my father to be my first.

"Maybe I could come along and you could do me afterwards," Jen said, looking up through her fluttering lashes with 'fuck me' eyes.

"There'll be a few other artists at UnderGround Ink who work with the general public- these days I only cater to a limited clientele."

His tactful words had a perceptible impact; I couldn't help but feel a surge of schadenfreude at her crestfallen face. But she recovered quickly.

"Oh, cool. Good luck with your shop, and if I ever get another tattoo, I know where to go. What about you, Thomas, do you have any tats?" Jen turned her attention to my step-brother, leaving Kiernan and me to talk uninterrupted.

"Well?" my father asked insistently.

"Well what?" I was still thinking about what it would be like to become his human canvas.

He enveloped my hand with his in earnest. "Will you be my Apprentice? I'll buy your equipment and pay wages on top of commission- I'll take care of you."

His offer to become my Master was like a golden ladder reaching down and all I wanted to do was climb it, but I knew I couldn't. "I'm flattered that you thought of me, but don't think I can."

Kiernan's eyebrows knit together, letting my hand slip away. "Can't or don't want to?"

I wanted to tell him the full reason, but I also didn't want to sound nuts. Jen and Thomas knew I had social anxiety and my father surely remembered my bizarrely vivid daydreams and nightscapes from my childhood, but I didn't feel like explaining that I had been seeing things that weren't there in the middle of a restaurant.

"I've been having migraines lately and I can't work around bright lights right now," I said lamely, expecting him to scowl in disbelief, but instead he sounded alarmed.

"Isn't your medication still working?"

"Shhh!" I hissed, not wanting to bring up my crazy pills. "Didn't Mom tell you?"

"No. Fuck!" He slammed his hand down on the table, causing everyone around us to take notice. "Pardon me," he apologized, running the offending hand through his hair.

I stood up, shaken. "Excuse me, please, I have too..." I trailed off and began to weave through the tables aimlessly.

"Ali! Wrong way, babe." Jen called in a hushed voice, coming up behind me.

Taking my arm, she lead me towards the ladies' restroom which was, indeed a room one could rest in. Hell, you could just about throw a party there. There were long, low cocktail sofas flanked by club chairs for lounging, lit vanity mirrors lined one wall and the marble counters were outfitted with stacks of towels and baskets of toiletries- I wouldn't have been surprised to find a mirrored cocaine tray lying on one of the gilded side-tables scattered about.