~Previously in Burning Cookies~
Really, the only thing I have here that I can't have in Washington is my random hangout with the guys and the rare outing with my dad. I can call the guys whenever, and dad's been taking longer jobs since I turned eighteen, so we don't go out as often. He might even be able to stop by in Washington from time to time. That'd be cool.
Okay. I'll go help. I'm just going to let Blake stew for a bit because the Chief is a stranger. Next on the agenda: informing dad.
~Continuation~
I ended up sitting in my kitchen-living room for two hours trying to think of ways that I could bring the topic up to dad. I know that I am an adult and that I should be able to own up to my own decisions, but I'm only twenty! This is my first apartment, my second job, and I've never stepped foot outside of New York. Not for lack of trying though. Honestly, I'm figuring things out slowly in the realm of adulthood. That's why I said I was possibly more mature than the High School kids.
By the time I had convinced myself to just spit it out after the normal greetings, it was already midnight. That resulted in me needing to wait until morning or later. I won't call dad at midnight. I refuse to be the reason dad is sleepy while driving. I mean, he's probably a little bored between truck stops, but a trucker needs his rest, you know. Sleepy truckers are more likely to crash than awake truckers. I think I'm rambling.
Look, the point is: I haven't called dad yet. I might also be panicking about the situation at the same time. And… possibly have eaten two boxes of cereal in my panicking state. What? I was hungry! I don't have work today either, so I can't use that to rush myself out of the apartment.
I'm starting to think that my budgeting is going to need an overhaul with how much I'm stress-eating. I was relatively content in this little life I've made so I had no reason to stress eat before. Also, I don't think the Chief's daughter is going to be very cooperative. Judging by her reaction to this breakup drama follows her like Pan's shadow. Great.
But the time is now noon, which is Dads' usual lunch break. I'm currently pacing the length of my kitchen counter that still has the dishes from last night on it, I should really clean those. Maybe I can call dad after that? No!
No, I will not psyche myself out of this. Dad is chill! He will understand why I'm doing this, and he always wanted me to find my own path in life anyway. I'm freaking out for no reason. If I do the dishes now, normal human pace because I'm petty enough to drag the time, he'll be done with lunch and on the road again. Oh hey, that's like that song in that one kid's movie. On the road again.
But seriously, I won't call dad while he's driving. I'm pretty sure it's illegal in some states to drive with your phone to your ear if not all of the states. He never pays attention to the conversation when he's driving anyway. Dad doesn't want to crash. I don't want dad to crash. Apple, meet tree.
Okay, I can do this. Just make a call. Can I push past the irrational fear of making a call by pressing that little green button?
Yes. I can.
Okay, Derek, the phone's on the counter. Same place you left it after Blake called to come over. It's just sitting there. Slightly scratched screen and all. The sleek black casing more gray than black and a bit dull from age. Just sitting there. Next to the three pans with really disgusting dried tomato sauce. Gross. Stop staring at it, you dunce!
Fuck it. Convincing myself to make a phone call by talking to myself will only serve to distract me even more. Let's rip off the Band-Aid, shall we?
I finally reach for my phone; my hand is shaking the entire way. The dull casing is grasped in my hand. I need to be careful not to crush this: I can't afford a replacement. It's not in my new budget. Dad isn't on speed dial, so I have to press each key manually.
Deep breath. In. Out.
I press the dial button. The ring tone echoes in my apartment. It's mocking me. It's saying that my dad won't answer and that I shouldn't have called on a day that he's working. That I should have waited until dad called me. Rude child, it says, rude and ungrateful. I should have waited.
But I am an adult. I will not let my fear stop me from having this conversation with my dad. It is important. More important than creating monster phones that bring up my insecurities to mock me.
God, I feel like an idiot.
"Derek! My boy, what's up," dad's gravelly voice literally jumpstarts me into alertness, "you never call." Ahem, that would be because whenever I think of calling my brain plays nasty games with me. I didn't mean to neglect anyone. Oh hey, that's another insecurity brought up by a phone.
"Ah," I squeak, "um, oops?" Jesus, it's like my voice regressed to middle school. No longer smooth and even pitched. We're back to the cracks and the soprano. Wonderful.
"Derek? Have you been eating sweets for meals again?" Dad sounds fondly exasperated. Maybe. It could be the shoddy connection.
"No!... Well, yes, but that's not the point," sweets are love, sweets are life, "are you busy? Should I call back later?" Please don't let the shitty plastic thing be right in that it's a bad time.
"I'm just getting into my lunch break. I always have time to talk with you, Derek." Aw, my chest feels warm and tingly. It's kind of like when you eat too much and get a food coma, but different. Different enough that it's starting to hurt, and I want it to stop.
"Okay," nice subtle topic changer there, idiot, "how are you dad?" Dangerous waters. He could respond with a two-word reply or a two-hour reply. Must tread carefully.
"Ah, you know, work is work. What about you D? How's life with the Bakery?" Shit, he's fishing for information about my diet. When I got the job at the Bakery he had to sit down he was laughing too hard. It took him two minutes to realize that he was already sitting.
"Ah, you know, work is work." Atta boy, Derek! Repeat dads' words to him. That won't make him irritated. No, not at all. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Is there a rewind button for life? Please?
"Boy you-," laughter majestically spews forth like a sputtering water hose, "you're so awkward over the phone. You always have been. Remember when you-"
"Dad! Dad, I'm glad you're doing okay and I'm sorry I don't call that much." Understatement of the century. "I actually wanted to talk about something that has to do with the Bakery, and my apartment, and, and life." Well, that didn't sound ominous. And a bit too fast. At least I've staved off the reminiscing for a while.
"I'm listening. Take as long as you need to get it all out." His voice immediately gets lower and rougher; it's how I know he's being serious.
"So, um," oh good lord this is going to be painful, "I might have made a decision that's going to make my bank account weep in despair." Ah, fuck. I'm making it worse.
Dad doesn't respond, thankfully, and I take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and let it rush out. Let's get it all out and work from there. I can do this. I made the call in the first place, and I will get to the point of it.
"I'm moving to Washington to help this teenager get out of a depressive funk. And I can't just make it a visit because I don't know when it will be over so I have to quit my job, not renew my lease, and a whole lot of other shit that I don't want to stress about right now; because I already ate two boxes of cereal today and I don't want to drain my account!" There, it's out there. Though I said it way too quickly.
Dad most likely heard it this way: "I'mmovingtoWashingtontohelpthisteenagergetoutofadepressivefunkandIcan'tjustmakeitavisitbecauseIdon'tknowwhenitwillbeoversoIhavetoquitmyjobnotrenewmyleaseandawholelotofothershitthatIdon'twanttostressaboutrightnowbecauseIalreadyatetwoboxesofcerealtodayandIdon'twanttodrainmyaccount!"
"Derek, son, take a deep breath with me." Dad sounds worried. Damn, I must have been faster than I thought. He hasn't heard me lose control like that in a long time. He probably thinks I'm having a relapse or something.
We breathe together for a couple of minutes, which does make me feel better, and dad sighs almost inaudibly.
"Now, what were you trying to say? Take it slow son: take a deep breath between each sentence."
"Um, I'm… moving to Washington." Better shorten the sentences even more. Sprinkle the shit like snow on a warm winter day. I take an audible deep breath as instructed.
"Okay," Dad says with a bit of surprise coloring his tone. Understandable.
"To help this teenager get out of a depressive funk." Oh man, this is going to go downhill, more downhill, very quickly. I take another deep breath.
"Okay." Less surprise and more caution.
"I can't just make it a visit." I can't afford an extended vacation. Another deep breath.
"Okay." I don't even try to understand the emotion coloring his tone.
"Because I don't know when it will be over." Another deep breath.
"Mhm." Ooh, not even a whole word. This is so not going well.
"So, I have to quit my job." One more deep breath. This shit is making me lightheaded.
"…" Shit. I can feel his brow rising from here. I don't even know how far away he is.
"And not renew my lease." There, it's over. I could have said more; the rest of my initial spiel, but that was the panic talking. It would not help my case. Also, dad's silence is making me extremely nervous. And I kind of don't want to pass out because of all the deep breathing I was doing. I think I should sit down now.
"Well," cue parental pause of instant death, "why do you feel like you have to do this? What exactly are you trying to do?" I don't know if I should be glad that he's letting me explain myself, or nervous that I need to.
Does it even matter? I already decided to go. I mean, yeah, I care about his opinion. I'm still going to go even if dad disapproves. Even if I made this life-changing decision in less than twenty-four hours.
Shit, he won't approve.
"Okay, so, you know how Blake and I are really close? Well, one of his friends, a Chief of Police, has this teenaged daughter. That's the kid I'm going to help. Apparently, she got in a relationship with a guy and they broke up. I honestly don't think it was a healthy relationship though, because he broke up with her by taking her into the woods and leaving her there."
It's a good start. Mentioning the Chiefs' job makes the whole thing sound safer.
"Wait, you said this was in Washington?" Um, what?
"Yeah," I drawl out, "why?"
"There's been a couple recent reports of animal attacks in Washington. A little town near Seattle called Forks, I think."
Hold up. Stop. Wait a minute.
Animal attacks!? In Forks, Washington. The place I'm planning on going to.
"That motherfucker!" Oops, didn't mean to curse to my dad. May as well power through so he might not remember I said it. "He left a teenaged girl, who's probably going through her first breakup with how she just waited for him to come back, in the woods. Woods with animals and a recent history of fucking animal attacks? I mean, I knew he left her there. Which is a shitty fucking move might I add, but seriously? What, was he hoping she fucking died!?"
Hell no. If I had any doubts about going before I sure as fucking hell don't now! I'm going to go and teach this kid what a healthy relationship is if it's the last thing I do. If I've got to shove a whole ass pie in her face to simulate a friendly food fight, then so be it!
"I take it you didn't know that little fact." Dad sounds a bit more at ease now. I don't have an inkling why. Shouldn't I have been told this shit before? Damnit Blake!
I heave out a sigh. He most likely didn't think I would agree anyway. Why warn a kid about animals in a place they won't ever go? Shit.
"Well now I have to go," dad coughs a little to hide either surprise or humor, "the kid's unresponsive. She'd more than likely take the prick of her ex back the moment he looks in her general direction." I'm going to do my damndest to get the girl imbued with a tick of self-worth: she obviously doesn't think much of herself if she's doing this. I bet she'll spout some shit about being 'nothing' without the douche that left her.
Dad sighs. "When are you leaving?" Shit. This isn't good.
"Two weeks, give or take a couple days." My voice is small again. Thankfully, there are no cracks in it this time, but it was a close one. I could feel my throat begging to make that infernal mistake.
"What!? Two Weeks!" Double shit. "Do you have a place to sleep when you get there? How are you going to get a job? You know you eat like a vacuum cleaner. How are you even getting there? Do you have enough cash to get there? What the hell was Blake thinking, asking you to do this!" Triple shit. Dad's breath is getting heavy and his voice is getting louder. Half the parking lot can probably hear him by now.
God, I'm so tired now. It's only noon. Dad and I have been talking for maybe fifteen minutes. It feels like three hours. My exhaustion shows in my voice the next time I talk: slow, tired, and gravelly.
"Two weeks. She won't go to therapy or her moms', and her dads got no idea what to do. Blake doesn't even know I plan on going, hell I doubt he expects me to agree. I'll ask my friends if they have any contacts who could let me bum the couch until I can get a place. For food, I'll just take the stuff I've got here. It'll be enough for a couple weeks and after that, I'll just need to budget the shit out of my funds. I'll start looking for a job the day I get there, but if I don't get one right away that's fine. My account has enough to last a month or two of intense rationing. I'll most likely get a plane there: it's faster and cheaper than buses in the long run."
"Shit, son." Dad sounds as tired as I do.
"Yeah. Shit." Nothing about this is fun. If I don't go, I'll be mucking up with my friendship with Blake and my own morals. If I do go, I'll be mucking up my financial wellbeing, which mucks up my general wellbeing.
"I can tell you'll do this whether I advise against it or not," dad starts, "but please, son. Please, be smart about this. Don't let the girl's position make you neglect your own livelihood."
"I know, dad. I can't be hypocritical in this or any progress I pull out of the whole thing will be destroyed."
"That, and I care about you more than I care about someone else's kid." Damn dad, way to be blunt about it. I like it. "I'm proud of you for trying to help. You're a good son for letting me know."
I don't know about that last part. I was going to do it regardless. I'm glad he's okay enough about me going though.
"I would hold off on calling your pals about it until after you've talked to Blake. You said he doesn't know you're agreeing to help? He might have a plan. He might even be planning to financially help you in this thing: he is asking you to do something huge."
Good fucking point. Okay, I'll call Blake after this.
"Thanks dad, I'll make sure to do that." I don't feel as hopeless for my wallet, or my stomach, now. It's uncertain, but I'm a glass-half-full kind of guy.
A loud horn echoes on dads' side of the phone.
"Shit, son. Breaks over. I'm partnering a rig this time, so I can't stay and chat for a couple hours like usual." Dad's rushed and a little winded. I can hear a sandwich bag rustling in the background along with a bag of chips. The seventy percent air kind that makes its job to be the most annoying thing ever.
"Did you get to eat enough?" I don't want to be a reason for him to further his already poor nutritional habits. Like I have any room to talk. Exhibit A is the pile of empty cereal boxes from this morning.
"Yeah! Yeah, I got it in while you were explaining the- Shit!" A loud bang right by the receiver makes me jump.
"Sorry Derek! Wait a second I, damn, I dropped the phone." Sheepish, thy name is father.
"Don't worry about it. I'll hang up so you don't have to." He sounds like he's in a hurry. I don't want to make trouble with him and his rig partner.
"Thanks, my boy. I love you. Let me know what's happening, okay?"
"Yeah, I will. I love you too, dad. Bye." Now comes the awkward part. The goodbye hockey game.
"Bye son." I listen to the rustle of dad speed walking to his truck for a second before I can take the phone from my ear.
Holding my breath, I press the 'end call' button. Usually, it's just as hard as making a damn call in the first place, but I'm trying to work on this awkward phone etiquette thing. Like dad said, it's been a long time going for me and this stupid hunk of plastic. A frenemy relationship if you will.
All is well and good now that I have that out of the way. I've surpassed the milestone of hanging up first without spending five minutes saying goodbye, and I know dad won't be mad at me for doing this despite the stupid fucking animals eating people. I sit down for the first time in hours and take a deep breath. It feels like I'm missing a lung.
Another deep breath and my heart almost stops. I forgot the next goddamned step!
Blake needs to know that I'm going through with this favor, and I need to know if he's going to help pay for the trip. I might be overthinking here, but I fucking doubt I've accounted for everything and its cost. Inflation is real. Real enough that the cheap donuts I currently help make and sell are actually six dollars apiece.
The only problem is that telling Blake involves another phone call. That rude piece of shitty plastic is about to ruin my entire godforsaken life here ya know? Thank God Blake's retired so I don't have to worry about calling while he's at work. I work tomorrow anyway so I need to do this now.
I stare at the previously discarded phone that now mockingly glints on my microwave. Why the microwave? I don't know, it was there. My tendency for putting things on the closest flat surface has often made me look like a fool. Like that one time when I lost my glasses while wearing them. And that other time- No!
No! Nope! Not happening!
I absolutely refuse to let myself procrastinate any longer. I will make another phone call, and I refuse to let an inanimate object take over my life decisions. The only situation that deserves to make me this anxious is when a hook-up catches feelings and stalks me at work until I invite him to lunch with Adam and the boys.
Oh fucking hell I'm doing it again.
Just press the stupid buttons Derek! It's not like Blake's gonna get mad at you for agreeing to do something for him. Goddamn.
Anytime now. Just press the stupid mother-fucking buttons. That's it. Keep going. See? This isn't that bad.
When I finally get to the last number the green 'call' button stares at me again. Just as my finger starts its dramatic slow-motion descent onto the thing, the screen lights up with an incoming call.
"Mother Fucker! Jesus Christ on a mother fucking stick! Goddamn!" Give me a second to reel my heart back from the fucking ceiling! God.
I flung the phone across the room too. Well, more like I jumped and it jumped out of my hands. It's okay though, I was surprised enough when it lit up my anxieties that I stopped trying to slow myself down and I am now thinking and moving at my natural speed.
Meaning I'm currently staring dumbly at my phone while it ever so slowly floats towards the ceiling.
Okay, Derek. Deep breaths. In. Out. That's it.
Now let's play a game. Let's see how slowly and gently you can pick the phone out of the air without breaking it? Sounds terrifying. Let's do it.
I stretch my hand out, a little too slowly, and slide it between the phone and the ceiling: about a two-foot gap. I don't want to grab it immediately because the inertia will probably make some damage or something, right? So I graze my palm onto the phone and travel with it for a second or two while gradually applying pressure.
It takes entirely too long to stop the phone from embedding itself in my ceiling, but it's worth it. Blake's number stares at me from the screen.
Halle-fucking-lujah, I don't have to make the call myself. This whole situation has become useful in that I don't have to struggle my way through awkward answers to 'why did you call?' and such like that.
"Hello?" I squeak out. How embarrassing.
"Heya son," Blake sounds marginally better than yesterday. He must have had more coffee than normal today. "How goes it? Ya think more abou' whaddah asked ya?"
He still sounds tired. I don't blame him. And I caught that imaginary eyebrow raise there! You may be my conscience or some bullshit, but even I know it's not quite normal for a man like Blake to call the next day and ask my thoughts on a favor he was almost too macho to ask for. And you would be right, if he hadn't been around me since my freshman year of Highschool.
He knows all about how 'quickly' I can make life-altering decisions. Or how chaotically, it's all about perspective. This one time, I was trying to decide whether or not I should drop out of Highschool, graduate early, or tough it out for the usual four years. To make a long fucking story short, I graduated two years early. Blake was there. He cried.
He also knows how hard it is for me to make phone calls, so he probably drank five cups of coffee to prep himself for this conversation. Don't you just adore caffeine addiction? I know I would, if it didn't stop affecting me as soon as I put the cup down from my last gulp. Honestly, it's not like I need to speed my brain up for anything. My normal pace is higher than anything caffeine could do for me in the first place.
Case in point: that highly intriguing inner monologue about the effects of coffee and such only took about two seconds. It felt like three minutes to me.
"Oh! Uh…," how do I make this sound like I know what I'm talking about? "Yeah. That whole 'Move-Across-The-Country-For-A-Stranger' thing." Nailed it.
"Look Derek," Blake sighs as if the world is on his shoulders alone, "Ah know it'za lotta ask ah yah, but Charlie an' ah are graspin' at straws here."
"Yeah, no, no, I get it," I don't, "The girl is in a really bad place right now. I already decided anyway." Fuck me, once I tell him there is no going back.
"Ya did?"
"I've made the executive decision to move to, what was it, Forks? Washington. I'm going to leave in about two weeks. I just don't know how I'm going to get there or where I'm bunking when I do." That's it, Derek! Subtle question about what the fuck is going on in place. Now I just have to see if Blake notices it. He used to be a detective so he should, but he has had a lot of coffee today. I think.
"Oh thank yah for tha'. Don' know what ah woulda done if yah didn't agree." Yeah I know Blake, you can't deal with young girls' emotions. I have no idea why he chose me to be the forced new best friend.
"Ah gotta place up in the woods ova there, yah can use it wheneva. I'm headin' down in about a week or so, so the place'll be set up for yah." Oh, thank fuck. I don't have to ask the boys for any favors. Shit, the boys. I still have to tell them about this. I should make them something to tide their anger over.
"I'll even send your stuff ova there too. Just get it packed and ready by Friday. Yah hear?" Que mental happy dance in some sick knee-high latex boots because that sounds painfully awesome. I didn't even think about the cost of sending my things, only the act of packing them.
"Yeah, I'll have it done for you by then, probably even tomorrow if that makes anything easier," Hold on a ticktack, "Hey Bake?" I am sensing a serious issue with the entirety of this situation. Well, more of an issue than the fact that I'm changing my life for a teenager going through a bad breakup.
Does the Chief even know that I'm coming?
"Yeah son?"
"Does her dad know I'm coming? Like, do they know you're bringing a twenty-year-old dude to help with a teenager?"
"Well, not, not exactly son. I'm tellin' him soon as ah get there," I never thought I would hear Blake so sheepish. I don't like it. Blake has always been this old dude that talks to me about Adam and the boys. He never has time to be sheepish about anything.
Now, I'm not saying the man can't have emotions. I'm just surprised at the uncharacteristic nature of them. I'm all about cracking that hard-ass persona he has so the world can see how amazingly awesome he is as a person instead. I can't be the only one he's helped in his life. The man is ancient.
Hey, that reminds me. He's old enough to remember things that I have no memory of, like how he helped me when I was in Highschool. I could conceivably ask him about what he did and recycle the bits that would apply to teens today. A preemptive strike against that depression the girl has.
"Okay, um, I hope he takes it well," If he doesn't, I'm gonna need to move to another country. Maybe Ireland? I've heard it's really pretty if not calmer than Forks will be if the Chief doesn't approve of me.
"Me too, son," Blake sighs again, his breath stuttering on its way out. He sounds stressed again. Quick Derek! Think of a joke that will make him less like the green monster in the trashcan!
"I-," I have nothing funny in my entire existence, I'm fucking screwed, "When I was a kid, how did you help me? How did you know what to do to make me okay again?" Nice fucking save, Derek. Divert attention from the choking fumble of a joke and move onto a heavy topic that is totally going to make Blake laugh. Yeah right.
Child abduction is never funny, I would know.
"Shit son, ah fumbled through most o' that," nice to know, "I'm just lucky what ah did was good enough ta make yah not self-destruct on us."
There's a moment of silence as I try to wrap my head around the fact that I'm only slightly mental because I was receptive to something an emotionally repressed detective said or did. I could have turned out with a lot more mental illness than I did.
"There was one thing that got at me though," his voice is turning airy with remembrance, "It was when yah got that big ass tat on yah back."
Ah, yes. The infamous tattoo. I was sixteen.
A group of four young men was sitting around a chair in a hole-in-the-wall tattoo parlor. They all look like they dunked their head into an oil slick as a method of styling it, and their slightly loose t-shirts don't hide the taught muscles underneath. Yet not even their dusty jeans can deter an on-lookers eyes from their own heavy-set glares. All four of their piercing stares are focused on the sweating artist hunched over a fifth young man splayed on his stomach.
His arms are crossed to give his head support, and he's staring blankly at the wall with his own piercing gray eyes. The suds in his ears catch the grubby light every time the artist shifts his position, which causes the other four to narrow their eyes menacingly.
Four hours of this tense interaction between the four men and the artist go by before a puff of air is released by the young man on the table. It shocks the four into jumping and turning to the boy with a form of panic in their eyes.
"You okay D?" The smallest asks, he inches his chair closer and throws a look of shade at the artist.
D didn't answer except for tilting his head and smiling. He blew some of the awkwardly growing dark hair out of his eyes, causing one of them to snicker at the brown fluff that was steadily reaching prime eye-poking length. They had been teasing him about it for the last month. No one knew when he would cut it back to the crew-cut he had previously.
Honestly, the snickering man would be sad to see it go: Derek had such beautiful rich brown hair. Not that he thought about his image enough to admire his natural features. Now a tattoo though?
Oh yeah, he thought about that one.
He thought about it enough to surprise the entire gang by asking them to take him to a good place for a full-back coverage. They were all against it, especially Adam until the kid told them why he wanted it.
Something about how there were two sides to being a good person: caring and gentle for others, yet strict and firm enough to make the tough choices. The Koi were for balance that he desperately wanted in his life, the lotus flowers for the birth of his new life, not that anyone but Derek knew what his 'new life' was referring to.
They assumed it was his way of dealing with the trauma from the incident. They were right, they just didn't know that he was referring to the consequences of the incident rather than the thing itself.
Adam had started to cry manly man tears and stuffing his face with some pastry the kid brought over. He kept mumbling something about Derek 'growing up too fast' and needing to 'protect his innocence'. The snickering man adamantly refused to admit that he also shed the manliest of tears while staring at the red mass of cuteness and shyness that Derek made in his dirty tennis shoes, messy hair, and oversized clothes.
They took him to a place that was known to work on anyone as long as they got paid. They weren't bad either: they always sanitized, did great work, and never asked questions when the gang went in. Of course, they paid a little extra for the discretion, but what Derek didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
And the artist was discreet. He was being paid by some very dangerous people, and word on the street was that the kid was protected. He didn't know who was protecting him, but something told him he would have to be careful about what he told others for a while. He was right.
There were, in fact, four people from different areas watching him to ensure his discretion for the next three months. He didn't spill anything despite not knowing if he was actually being watched or not, they had shifts and donuts, it was a thing, and he started getting clients from an eclectic pool of dangerous-looking people.
The man's shop became neutral ground for the gangs in the area to get a tattoo. He still doesn't know it, but it's a rule that if any violence occurs near or in the shop the perpetrators will be severely punished. No one wants to find out how. Not after the last two went missing.
At the moment, the artist was just doing an awesome piece of work on a sixteen-year-old kid with an impressive amount of muscle hidden in his thin frame. It was making him jealous. When he was sixteen, he was trying to find the best cake in town, and there's nothing wrong with that, but the artist is feeling insecure about his accomplishments.
He doesn't know that Derek will continue to come to him for tattoos, with and without the boys, and drop off some sweets while he's there. This causes the artist to become the subject of multiple jealous stares by his sparse coworkers and walk-ins.
Blake Santiago, detective extraordinaire on his way to becoming police chief, walks into a bar. A breakfast bar because he's hungover and trying to get rid of the massive migraine currently making him taste colors. He walks to the corner in search of a dark place to drink his coffee in peace when he hears the melodic voice cracks of his favorite teenage rebel.
He swings his body to face the boy and stops short. He blinks once, twice, three times.
"Fuck me," he sighs while pulling at the skin on his face. He turns to a waitress and asks for the strongest coffee she can make and proceeds to slump down into the seat next to Derek.
It just so happens that the spot he chose is the brightest in the entire joint.
Derek stares at the man with a strange cocktail of excitement, amusement, and fear. His tattoo is covered in gauze, but it's so sensitive at the moment that he had to cut his shirt to expose his back. Exposing his freshly applied tattoo and the leaking plasma at the same time.
"Was the needle clean?" Blake mumbles after two solid minutes of resting his head on the counter.
"Cleaner than that counter, old man," Derek whispers. Blake groans and a coffee cup is placed softly next to Derek's plate.
"For him, sweetie," the waitress says with a sympathetic smile.
"Hah! That coffee made me shit my brains out for the rest of the day!"
Eww, gross Blake. I don't want to remember the coffee from that barely-conversation. It was so thick I could do the ice cream flip thingy and not spill it. Hell, I could fix all the potholes dad complains about with that one cup of coffee. Speaking of coffee…
"How many cups of coffee have you had today?"
"Oh, fu-,"
He hung up on me. Shame.
Note for legal reasons: I do not own Twilight. I do not own Quicksilver either.
I'd say sorry for not posting in a year, but I am glad I took time to prioritize my health and schooling. I hope y'all are doing okay, and if you aren't I hope you get better.
My Response to Reviews:
StepOnLego 14
I love your screen name, but I respectfully decline the action of stepping on Legos. As for your question, I hope I've answered it enough in this chapter; although, Derek is four years older than the description so some things have changed. I didn't want to have him describe himself because he has some self-image issues and doesn't look in mirrors.
Munawolf200
Thank you! I've been trying to improve my writing so I'm glad. It's been almost an entire year since you left your comment, but I hope you like the new chapter.