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Twelve

"Yo, Liz!" Gilbert bellowed the moment they stepped into the tattoo parlor, the glass door swinging shut behind them. "Where are ya, baby? Your man's here!"

There was a clatter in the back room, and a young woman emerged. Her long, light brown hair had been piled artfully on top of her head, and she wore dark jeans that had been ripped at the thigh and knee with a halter top and skater shoes. "You wish," she said, rolling her eyes. "Arrogant bastard." Her face lit up when she saw Arthur. "Arthur! I haven't seen you in a while! How are you?" She came over to give him a fond hug, which he returned with something close to relief. Her scent — bubble gum and daisies — was an instant mood-lifter.

"I'm doing well. You?" Arthur liked Elizaveta; she was straightforward, and, at times, almost unnervingly perceptive. She was rather heavy-handed with Gilbert, but that was only because they'd been high school sweethearts and she'd been busy fending him off with a frying pan ever since. Arthur wasn't sure whether she knew he was a prostitute, or had any inkling of Gilbert's sadistic tendencies and what he liked to do to Arthur in the privacy of his bedroom . . . but if she did know, she didn't let it on, and Arthur was oddly glad for it.

Elizaveta laughed, the tiny diamond stud in her nose glittering. "Same old, same old. Like usual." She turned her attention back to Gilbert, pursing her lips in disapproval. Gilbert flashed a lazy grin back. "So . . . what did you guys drop in for? A chat? You better not be here to waste my time again, Beilschmidt. I've got a full schedule today."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Gilbert with mock sincerity. Elizaveta scowled at him. "Aw, baby, c'mon, humor me a li'l', won't ya? I know ya missed me and my awesomeness."

Leaning against the counter, Elizaveta snorted. "Oh, believe me, these past few months have been hectic enough without you coming around and screwing things up." Glancing at the chrome-plated clock hanging over the door, she added, "I've got my first appointment at eight-thirty. We're clearing up whatever business you have with me before then, got it?" She raised an eyebrow at Gilbert's innocent face, and crossed her arms. "Yeah . . . nice try. I know you're not here just to annoy the hell out of me, so out with it."

"Women. Always spoilin' my fun," Gilbert muttered.

"You know it." Elizaveta winked at Arthur, who managed to quirk a small smile back.

After the bantering finally died down, Gilbert snagged a catalog of piercings from the counter and slouched down in one of the chairs to flip through it. Arthur skimmed the wall, where posters of the more popular tattoos had been hung up, and tried to imagine himself with one of those images inked into his skin. He knew Gilbert was going to pick for him, but . . . what would he get if he himself had the choice? Not anything with words or names . . . not flowers . . . and definitely not that naked girl . . .

Then his eyes landed on a design at the far end of the row of posters — and in an instant, he knew it was the one he wanted. Sleek, majestic, with more than a touch of wildness . . . it was perfect. Just looking at it made Arthur feel as if it was already a part of him, even though it was only a glossy picture laminated on the wall and nowhere near his skin. He'd never given tattoos much thought before, but now . . . the knowledge that he was actually going to go through with it — and that Gilbert would never let him get something of his own volition — only intensified the yearning. Tearing his gaze away, Arthur rolled the hem of his shirt in his hands, kneaded the fabric in an attempt to distract himself, but his attention kept sliding inadvertently back to the poster like metal drawn to a magnet.

Elizaveta's voice broke through his daze. "Arthur, have you decided whether you want a tattoo or a piercing yet?" she asked, opening and closing drawers as she set up one of the stations.

"He's definitely gettin' a piercing." Gilbert thumbed aside a page of the catalog. "Hey, Liz, ya do frenums anymore?"

"Not for you, no," Elizaveta retorted.

"Heh. I know ya want your hands on my dick, baby —"

"Yeah, when I get to jab a needle through it."

"— but it's Artie who's gettin' it, not me."

Arthur's eyes met Elizaveta's, an unspoken conversation unraveling between them. After a moment, Elizaveta turned to Gilbert and said nonchalantly, "You know, I don't think that's a good idea. I know some of the money I make comes from the idiots who like to have pieces of metal stuck through their penises, and really, I'm not complaining, but something tells me that I — we — shouldn't lump Arthur in with that particular group. Pick something else, Beilschmidt, and let's get this show down the road. Better yet, why don't you ask Arthur what he wants?"

Gilbert's reddish eyes narrowed in Arthur's direction, and for a second, Arthur felt a chill run down his back, but the unpleasant feeling was gone before he could make any sense of it. When Gilbert spoke again, his tone was falsely blithe.

"'Kay, then. Artie, what do ya wanna get?"

Arthur tried to think of what Gilbert would want him to choose, what a good substitute for a dick piercing would be. He began to think, out of habit, What would Alfred pick? Would he ever get a piercing? What would he think would look good on me? But he caught himself just in time and forcefully pushed the questions from his head, sharpened his concentration to focus exclusively on the matter at hand (and not on a certain American college student with blue eyes and a winning smile and gentle fingers and a girlfriend). As he ran through his options, avoiding looking at the poster that had commanded his interest earlier, he reached up and unconsciously rubbed at his ear. Elizaveta watched him, then raised her eyebrows.

"Hey, why not a few cartilage piercings up on your ear?" she suggested. "They're easier to hide from people if you don't feel like showing them off, and it'll take me less than a minute to prep the tools."

Grateful that she had saved him yet again, Arthur nodded.

Gilbert stood up and sneered, "Seriously, kiddo? Are ya tryin' to look gay —" A chirpy ringtone cut him off, and his pocket began to vibrate. He pulled out his phone, glanced at the caller ID, and snapped, "Important call. Be right back." With that, he stalked outside, holding the door open long enough to let a burst of cold air in before shutting it.

Elizaveta waited until he was out of earshot, then sighed. "He's such a douchebag sometimes, isn't he?" she said to Arthur. Arthur raised his shoulder in a half-shrug. "Yeah. I'm sorry about that. . . . Do you mind coming with me for a sec? I need you to fill out a few forms."

She snatched a packet of papers and a pen from behind the counter and walked into the back room. Arthur followed, wondering why she was taking him in there when all he needed was a hard surface to write on — was there something else that she had to get?

Once they were in the cramped storage space, Elizaveta flicked the lights on and laid the forms and pen on the small, worn table that was crammed up against the wall. "You can skip showing me ID — I know you're old enough. Just put down your signature and date of birth in every place that asks for it." She begun rummaging through the boxes on a shelf.

Arthur picked up the pen, looked down at the top of the paper . . . and stopped. "Wait. This is a consent form for a tattoo."

"Yeah, I know." Elizaveta lifted something out. "The ones for the piercings are at the bottom of the stack."

Arthur began to flip the page over.

"No. Sign the top ones first."

What? "Why? I'm . . . just getting piercings. Aren't I?"

She finally looked at him, the array of gold and silver studs glittering on the tray in her hands. "Arthur, I saw you looking at the poster on the wall." Arthur opened his mouth, but she wouldn't let him speak. "No, don't try to deny it. I know Gilbert's not going to let you get what you really want — at least, not while he's here. You two aren't real boyfriends, are you? Yeah, I didn't think you were. I'm not going to ask what your relationship is, exactly, since that's none of my business, but . . . I don't like the way he's treating you. So I'm going to have you sign off for that tattoo right now, before he comes back, because you're entitled to what you want and he has no right to stop you from getting it."

"But I —"

"And if you're worried about money, don't be. The payment's on me. Just drop in whenever Gilbert's not around and I'll do the tattoo for you in private. Judging from that design you were looking at earlier, it should take about four hours, tops, to do the outline and shading. We can take it in half-hour intervals . . . because I won't lie, the first tattoo always hurts. It's not too bad once you get used to it, but it's not a good idea to push yourself even if you think you can handle it."

Arthur clutched the pen. His mind was spinning, drawing up predictions, fears, possibilities. "If he finds out . . ."

Elizaveta seemed to understand, but it didn't appear to faze her in the slightest. She offered him a bold, genuine smile. "Well, since he doesn't like it, he doesn't have to know. It'll just be between you and me."

Until the next time he sees me nude; then he'll turn me inside out. But at the moment, Arthur wasn't deterred either, not even when he thought of the punishment Gilbert would surely inflict on him. He recalled the riding crop, the chains, the aphrodisiac. The pain. Then the image of that tattoo — that fierce, unstoppable beauty — imprinted on his skin filled his head, and he decided that even though he would have to pay the cost with his body and his health, it would all be worth it.

"All right," he said, and signed the papers.

When they stepped back out into the front of the shop, Gilbert was still on his phone, his back to the storefront window, his breath misting out in a white cloud around him. Arthur breathed a little more easily, and watched as Elizaveta carefully stowed the completed tattoo forms in a folder that she locked into a cabinet under the counter. It would be a secret, he mused, and cradled the warm little thought close to himself, biting back a smile. He allowed his eyes to drift to the poster one last time.

As he walked out of the shop with an irate Gilbert fifteen minutes later, with three tiny, silver spheres gleaming along the shell of his ear, he thought, It's my secret, and realized that, for the first time, he had exerted control over his own life. It was a strange, ethereal feeling, like a bubble that could pop if he wasn't gentle enough, but he wouldn't say that he disliked it. In fact, it would probably be hard to let go of in the future, when the time came . . . and Arthur tried not to think about the consequences that would inevitably follow.