Just like a tattoo, I'll always have you.

—Jordin Sparks

Sam

My father owned a tattoo shop long ago, in a backwoods town that no one—not a single goddamn person—ever heard of. You ever hear of Eagle River in Washington? Exactly. Anyway, once he was dead, somewhere in his illegible will (which, in fact, was written on the back of a porno magazine subscription card) he left me the shop. It was a little rundown thing, complete with missing tattoo licenses and HIV practically leaking from each crevice in the establishment. Now, I spent my good and proper teen years cleaning up the mess that my daddy dearest left behind, including having to deal with his various ex-wives who wanted to legally battle for the piece of shit building on the corner of Broad and West Fifth. But I would respectfully tell each and every lady to cram it, then proceed to go back to sweeping up the shoestrings and burnt spoons.

Mom said that if I got good grades, she'd let me go up and live with my Uncle Benny to apprentice him and the art of tattooing. Well, I got salutatorian and she got me a plane ticket. Three years later, having a few tattoos of my own with enough experience and a full-blown license to go out into the world, I was young and optimistic and standing outside my little shop that my dear old dad thought I could handle.

Handle is what I did, and this particular point in my life, it was nearing my shop's first birthday. I was happy. I was not Sam-from-iCarly, but Sam, the kick-ass tattoo artist that people of all walks of life came to for a piece of art that was an extension of themselves.

Remember when I said I was happy?

Well something happened that had to go and fuck it all up. Fuck it all into the pits of oblivion, where Satan and a Mariachi band were waiting to greet me with this disdainful look of utter joy. But what was I saying?

Right.

It was no special day, but this macho douche bag came into my shop with this I-run-shit sort of look that made me ultimately want to punch him. He was short for a guy, but his stupid lopsided grin made you think he was here to look down on you both intellectually and physically. The only redeeming quality was that he was kind of cute, with chinky eyes, five o'clock shadow that looked endearingly misplaced on his baby face, and enough muscle to keep those protein shake companies in business for the next eight years.

Reread that paragraph above me. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Did I say anywhere that I recognized him? No? Okay, good, I'm glad we're all on the same page.

He came in saying he wanted a tattoo of a cross on his chest—a tattoo that every muscle-bags asshat like himself wanted—and he heard that I was the best around. So what could I do besides sketch up this ornately simple cross in black and white, place the template on his right pectoral, and get to work?

A big part of my job is to strike conversation with my customers. Tattooing wasn't just a business, but a bond. Anyway, I cleared my throat. "So are you religious?"

"Nah, but my mom raised me Christian. If anything, the tattoo is a tribute to my mom. I've always been sort of a momma's boy."

"I had a friend who was a momma's boy, back in high school," I wiped blood off his chest and kept going. "He was basically still breast fed until senior prom."

There was silence before this guy laughed. "Gee, Puckett, glad that's what you think of me."

Let me take a moment to tell you about Freddie Benson. He was a friend, an ex-boyfriend, and ever since I found out he was macking on my best friend, a mortal enemy. But yet, here we were in my tattoo shop, my needle one-sixteenth of an inch in his chest, talking. Fate was quite the fucker, yes.

"I think a lot of things about you," I was like, not giving him a single reason to believe that I was glad to see him.

"Good things I hope," He was all smiley and dopey, as if time healed all wounds or something. He was crazy for ever thinking such a thing, right?

"Only the best," I was tempted to drive this needle into his eye socket.

He realized my hostility—what a smart boy, let me tell you—and chose his words a little more carefully. "How have you been, Sam? After graduation, you sort of ran off."

"You're looking at it."

"Nice shop you got here," He was looking, observing. Suddenly, and I mean suddenly, I felt self-conscious about my little shop, my baby. "I never pegged you for the artist type."

"And I never pegged you for the cheat-on-me-with-Carly type."

His eyes, oh boy you should've seen his face, they widened, which was funny 'cause they were already so narrow, seeing them wide was simply hilarious. "Is that what this is all about?"

"Whatever," I stared at his tattoo like I've never stared before. "Forget it."

"We kissed once," Freddie, the poor boy, just didn't know when to shut the fuck up. "When she was leaving for Italy."

"Boy, this cross will shortly resemble something phallic if you do not cram it," And for a split second, I was that scary Sam again. The bully Sam. And the worst part was that it worked, because Freddie did drop it.

The buzz of the needle filled up the otherwise empty tattoo shop. Then my mouth was punched in the face with an urge to move, and lemme tell you, it's an unpleasant feeling. "How have you been?"

"Pretty good," He hesitated, but hey, could you blame the kid? I was a real raging bitch to an old friend I hadn't seen in a few odd years. "I work for CNN. Trying to make it into the industry, you know?"

I did not know. "Yeah."

"You'd think that my whole iCarly thing would help me out, but no. Nobody seems to remember iCarly."

Then I was smacked in the eyes with an urge to, uh, cry. And let me tell you, between my eye make-up and tough-girl facade, I was not one to cry. But iCarly becoming a fading memory? Lemme ask you, would you cry to the thought of that? "It was a dumb thing we did in our free time."

"Maybe," His face was pained from the tattooing and I felt sorry for the poor kid. He looked miserable, in more ways than one.

I couldn't put my finger on it, not one finger, but here is the exact moment that my life spiraled into hellish pits of unadulterated doom. If there was to be someone to blame, I would first suggest that it was all Freddie's fault, but in retrospect, I guess it's kinda mine too. Okay, maybe it was entirely my fault. Either way, that is the story of how I started kissing Freddie Benson.

I expected the kiss to be clumsy and sloppy and gross just like all of our previous kisses. But no, stupid Freddie had to go and surprise me by having this... this control over himself and his body. The way he sat up and put his finger right under my ear and Christ almighty, he could probably feel my pulse. He fought for dominance and oh baby did I give it to him. He pulled me up onto his lap and in broad daylight of my profession, I peeled my top off.

It was hungry and ravenous and much overdue. This was four years of missing each other, and four years build-up that would come around to bite me in the ass.

"I've missed you so much," He whispered against me, and I'd tell you right now that I didn't start crying. Then you'd probably smirk at me and know that I'm a liar.

"Shut the fuck up," I hissed back, digging my claws into his collarbone. I kept my arms as a barrier between us—you know, a classing defense mechanism. "I know I'm not Carly."

And then we weren't kissing anymore. In fact, we were yelling at each other. "God, will you shut the hell up about Carly?"

"Will you stop picturing me with long brown hair and big doe-like brown eyes?"

You get the picture. Sexual tension called up his best friend regular tension, which then overtook my poor little tattoo shop that had to witness this whole ordeal. Me and Freddie were some grade-A fuck-ups on our own, but put us together, and you can probably sum up this entire story that I'm coming forth and telling for some god-knows-what reason.

This is the story of how Freddie and I mutually screwed each other over. It's quite the love story, yes, and I'll have to ask you to hold your applause until the very end. It's unpleasant and pleasant and every paradox in between, me and Freddie, but, hey, that's what we were doomed to always be.

But enough with my self-promotion of the story, I mean, you're still listening—or reading, or whatever—at this point, so you must have some sort of interest. So let me get on with the story then.

Later that night, I was up in my living room—if you could even call it a living room since it was the space in my shit-hole apartment that wasn't the bedroom or kitchenette—watching some shitty romantic comedies and eating Chinese food out straight from the take-out box. I failed at using chopsticks because I have always been a wee bit culturally insensitive. The dream catcher tattoo on my thigh could only emphasize such a notion, since I knew jack shit about Native Americans. But anyway, I was eating my food and watching my movies when the buzzer rang.

Now, initially, I was going to ignore it. I was never considered a people-type person, despite my career of choice. Hell, after the buzzer rang, three seconds later, I forgot it ever did. But whoever was ringing was hellbent on getting ahold of me—I mean, who could blame them, since I'm only the coolest person around and all that—so I lazily and at my own pace went to the little contraption that allowed me to buzz people up to my apartment floor. I hit the speaker button.

"What," I was one rude fucker, but it's only a minor character flaw.

"Sam?"

I knew that voice. That was the same voice that had their tongue down my throat no more than ten hours earlier. "Freddie, what the hell are you doing here?"

He sounded desperate. "Just let me up and I can explain."

The good Samaritan in me wanted to let him in. The rest of me beat the Samaritan side into submission. "No."

"Please? I need a place to stay."

"What, just because you and me had some kissy kiss session earlier means that I'm the person you can turn to?"

He was dead silent for a moment. A part of me wished he just walked away. "Sam. Please."

There was internal conflict for quite a while. I mean, what would you do in my situation? Now don't lie and say you'd let him in, 'cause we all know you're just saying that to make me look like a bad person. I'm not a bad person—in fact, I was medically diagnosed with a sever case of the awesomes. So, being awesome and such, I buzzed him in.

Forget the whole kissing thing, this is probably the moment I'd really come to regret in retrospect.

This piece of shit story practically wrote itself.

Do me a favor and tell me what you think, yeah?