"Beautiful…" something nudges my leg me, "Mar…leene…"

"Wha?" I mumble sleepily.

"Stop…squirmin' so much…ain't enough…room for two…on couch." Huh?

Opening an eye, all I see is the argent sun all up in my eyes. It burns! Letting my good eye adjust to the light, I stretch. It's pretty damn difficult considering I'm on this stuffy couch with hairy ass legs making my own itch. Hairy legs? Couch? What?

Forcing my eye open, I fall off the couch trying to get away from the owner of the hairy legs, "Phil!" I whisper loudly, as everybody else must be asleep. When that doesn't work, I crawl over to him and shake the living hell out of him, "Wake the hell up!"

"Wha…What? Who's dying?" he yells.

Due to his abrupt awaking, I end up banging myself into the coffee table. Scowling, "Nobody you little shit!"

He wipes his eyes, now fully alert, "Were you trying to kill me?"

Scoffing, "You're ass wasn't waking up! You woke me up, telling me that I needed to stop squirming! Which if not for your creepy, perverted desires, I would have been squirming all over the armchair."

The amused stare he gives me turns into laughter, "You really do know how to flatter yourself," he shakes his head and lays back down, "If not for me, you'd woken up with a stiff neck. Throughout my TMNT marathon, I noticed you'd gone into a weird ass position. Half on the chair and other half sprawled all over the floor. How you managed that, I don't know."

"Oh please…"

Craning his neck towards me, "I'm dead serious. You must've had a nightmare or something. Besides, if I was trying something on you…I sure as hell wouldn't try it while you're asleep; I believe in the art of seduction," He winks at me and I try my hardest not to think much of it, "I have the utmost respect for women. One carried me for a year after all," he pauses to think, "Actually, I don't know if having enjoyed those little sighs and moans you were making counts as respectful…so, forgive me," he smirks, a shit-eating fucking smirk.

My face says it all. It's painted with red and a whole lot of embarrassment and undeniable guilt. Truth is that I'd been having a nightmare so vivid, I couldn't tell it apart from reality or dreamland. It contained the happenings with Noah and ended off with me repaying Punk...in a very pleasurable way. You whore! But no way, in the six levels of hell, am I ever going to admit that. Never.

"Again, with the blushing, which is cute and all, it's nothing to be embarrassed about. We're all humans with needs, some more than others," he says failing to keep a straight face.

"I am not blushing, prick! I'm irate! You're trying to make me out as some kind of sex-craving floozy!"

"Never that, Mar, never that. Calm your tits; it is fine. It's was rather sexy, in my honest opinion," he winks at me once more as he stretches.

Now he really is chaffing up my sour side, "Where do you get off saying all of that? You don't know me to be all 'buddy-buddy' with me!" I struggle to get up but when I do, I toss the blanket over him, "For somebody who I've just reacquainted with, I feel like I know all that's worth getting to know about and that is that you're an antagonizing prick." and with that I pad off into the kitchen.

Shit is so...ugh. I muse as I pour myself a ready-to-serve margarita and add a pinch of tequila. It does wonders to my bitchy mood. Nothing beats out being heard as you're experiencing something such as a sexual fantasy. Being heard by the object of the fantasy outranks everything.

Alas, stopping my inner musing, I give the stove clock a quick look, 10:04. Fuck me! Having been mid-drink, I spit it out and dash out the kitchen and to the living room. Punk antagonizes me some more, but I pay him no mind. Snatching random articles of clothing and my makeup box, I fly into the bathroom.

ΔΔΔΔ

God, how did I get this lucky?

Adding to my collections of cuts and bruises, I am now a proud over of a busted lip. Plump like a motherfuckin'…I don't know but it screeches repulsiveness. Damn the sperm that won the race. On greener side of the fence, nothing – potentially my opening eye – and nothing. Lift up my shirt and they'll be an assortment of purple and yellow bruises, maybe scarring scratches.

God made you curvy. You made yourself fat.

In Spanish we call love-handles, muffin-tops, and fat: lonjas. That's what I got going on. Not horrendously overstuffed but stuffed enough. I like to blame it on the alcohol, which eighty percent of it is, but it has to do with my uselessness in the kitchen. They say that boobs even out the fat: try having C-cups – big enough to see, barely enough to show off.

And God brought you into the world free of flaws.

Travel down my sides and land on my right hip and you'll see that I am, quite literally, a branded woman. Not by a scorched steel rod but by the skin piercing tip of a tattoo gun. Being an artist of that kind it's natural to be on both ends of the gun. For the de-flowering of my skin, I had Wes mar me with 'Noah'. The kid had promised that he'd get my name done…he never did. To this date, it's the trashiest mistake I've ever made.

Don't blame the mirror, blame your insecurities.

As a woman, it's normal to put yourself down every now and then. Some days I'll be lucky enough to feel a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Today, however, I want to smash every mirror I come across to bits. My reflection could be a new-age folkloric monster.

You're taking advantage of the fact that you're "besties" with your boss!

My just-had-sex looking hair I put up in a pony and fuck away the flyaways. My arms pull up my thick pair of leggings, pull on my autographed Cubs jersey, and throw on my trusty Babyphat jacket.

"Marleene, I have to pee…"

Sight annoyed, I open the door to find Punk leaning against the wall, "I'm really digging the jersey."

"Look, pest, I happen to be in a rush, can you do the potty dance or something?" tapping my chin, "Better yet, there's another potty room in this house!"

"That one's clogged. But since I'm here…mind telling me who had you all swooned?"

Applying all sorts of makeup to mask my state, I ignore him as best as I can. The eyes make them pop! Pulling out my Maybelline mascara, I begin to coat my lashes in the stuff. I have mystical blue eyes. Maybe they'll be something of a distraction.

"Who were you fantasizing about, huh?"

Accidentally smudging my fresh coat, I leer at Phil and his abhorrent need to find out, "As much as I'd love to tell ya' about it… I have a damn job to rush to. So excuse my rudeness but…fuck off!"

"Chill with the intensity, geesh. I save a woman and this is what I get?" I nearly lose all the cool I've got, "Where do you work, by the way?"

Exhaling, "Inkblot, it's a parlor…tattoo parlor."

"That totally isn't a shock, I mean look at you…all inked up and shit," he quips.

Finishing the last of my wing, I scoop up my belongings and throw them in the nearby hamper. One last look and I deem myself presentable enough. The only thing that stands in my way is Punk, his smirk, my need for shades, and transportation.

Wiping the perspiration that built up in the mix, I work up the nerve to ask the Brooks sibling for a charity ride, "I didn't hear the magic word…"

Groaning, "You're so…" blowing a flyaway from my face, "Please."

"Let's rock and roll then!"

ΔΔΔΔ

Midday in downtown Lockport is a ways from the hustle and bustle of the City. Rows and rows of local shops as well as mainstream one make up most of it. Compared to the shitty neighborhood I'm so used to, downtown is like walking down Sunset Blvd. Bums are a handful of well-known faces that stay in the confines of the local soup kitchen, gangbangers steer clear since the station is close by, and the streets aren't full of potholes but well-kept flora. Driving past many locations here tends to send a wave of nostalgia over me. Memories…

"Princess, we're here!" sing-songs Phil, popping my bubble in the process.

"Jesus…!" I lay a hand on my thumping chest, "Is this something you consider a hobby?" he stares at me quizzically, "You know, frightening people half to death?"

"Well…" he rubs his stubbly chin, "now that you mention it, yes."

Rolling my eyes, I hop out of the car, "It was kind of you, Tim Burton, thank you for the ride and the trip to the store," we had a last-minute detour to pick up some much need shades, "Adios!"

Soon as I start skipping away, he drags me back, "Not so fast!" I pull away and pretend like I'm not shocked. Sudden movements, man, "What if I'm in need of some new ink?" he opens his door and starts towards the door, "Weren't you in a hurry? C'mon, it's freezing balls!"

"Woah, woah…motherfuckin' woah! Hold your caballos, we don't do walk-ins," pasting on my most despaired face, "So sorry, maybe next time…"

"According to that sign, y'all don't do them…you welcome them," he states, grinning triumphantly.

Stupid ass sign! Muttering under my breath, I strut in with the big dope in tow. The doorbells chime and it's all eyes on me…and him. Wesley snakes from behind the "receptionist" desk and envelopes me in what feels like a bear hug, "Sis from anotha' miss!"

Wheezing, "Brother…from…another mother…"

He sets me down all dry-lunged and dandy, "Great to you that you're intact…" he gives me a onceover, lifts up the shades, and his features contort into a murderous glare, "Didn't think shit could be…" he shakes his head in denial, "Can't even…no, no. Pinche puto. Piensa que se salvo-"

"Hey, hey…" I clasp his sandpaper textured hand, "Bro, it's fine…I'm fine…" he keeps muttering blindly, "Wesley, I'm okay," that's what I try to pass off as, "No te preocupes por alguien que no vale la pena. Okay, let it go…for me?" I put my arms around him, whatever I can reach, and hold him tight.

As he starts coherently speaking, a wild girlfriend appears from out of nowhere, it seems, "If it isn't Inkblot's little zombie princess, back from the dead. I was starting to miss you."

Breaking away from Wesley, I scowl at her, "And it's the parlor's bitch, thought we didn't allow for pets in the workplace for the sake of safety precautions? Bitches carry flees," the little twit gasps as a round of sniggers fall upon her, "I'm back. Miracle, they call it."

Boss's hand makes audible contact with his forehead, "Would it kill you two to be civil for even a millisecond?"

"Hell yeah!" I respond without skipping a beat.

"I, for one, can't be civil towards una arrastrada!" she chucks a vase-full of water and acrylic pebbles at me, "All the makeup on earth couldn't cover your nasty little face up!"

Patrons in the perimeter whisper to their tattooists for an immediate halt to their art. Employees, my co-workers, follow with requests and stop all movement and look on. All know that something, anything, is gonna go down.

Wiping my water drenched face, smearing my makeup even more, I stand there stoically. I let Luz revel what she can. Wes instinctively steps between us. I turn to an entertained Punk as make as though I'm trudging off. In a moment's notice, I spin around and launch myself Superman-style at the cheery bitch and take her down, "I'll…fucking show…you…an…arra..strada!" I shout between blows. Left and right I let my fists rain on the wench while the men previously at our sides attempt to retract me from her and a crowd forms around us like we're a pair of brawling pits. Thing is, I'm stuck to her like glue. Cute.

Managing to snake a toned arm around my waist, Punk pulls me away. I grab on to Luz's weave like it's a lifesaver, "This girl ain't worth smashing your face in…again. C'mon, let go," he whispers into my sensitive ear.

The sensitivity courses through my entire frame making me lessen my grip but not fully, "I don't care!"

He exhales, his warm breath tickling my ear, "You're giving these idiots a show. You're not some free act, are you?"

Another yank and she's free of me. Thanks Wesley… I'm left with an overly sensitized body and a handful of horse hair. I calm down enough to be breathe, "Let go, its over. I'm satisfied."

"Ima take your word for it, okay?" he releases me and a roomful of boos clog my ears.

Noticing that Luz is up on her feet, a bit wobbly but still upright, ready to charge once more if not for her boyfriend's grip on her waist, I revel in my newfound freedom. Revel in it so much that I land a quick one on her bloody face.

"Luz!" squeal Wes, going to her aid. She's out cold. He looks up at me and roars, "Marleene Karime Soto, my office…now!"

Bowing at the dispersing crowd, I triumphantly step around the fallen bitch, "Your bitch needs a check-up!" I cackle and Phil pushes me forward, "Woof!"

ΔΔΔΔ

Few minutes later, Bossman barges in seeming a bit uptight; it's safe to say that he's "calm". The man paces about, ranting, as my green-eyed guest and I lounge. He should've anticipated this though. He knew the situation was hot. His widdle girlfriend got under my skin and tap-danced on my nerves - she needed an old school beating. Time passes by and he's still going on with his 'please-refrain-from-hitting-Luz' speech - an aura like it has been a millennium or something.

"I'm sorry, okay? Please wrap up your wonderful lecture, Pops, 'cus I'd like to introduce you to the pest that saved me," bringing forth an oddly grinning Punk, "This is-"

"Punk, you bastard, the fuck you doing around this town?"

I gulp and pray to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for peace inside these walls. The room is small and there aren't many places to hide, should shit go down, "Guys…please…"

"You asswad, shut up and come give Daddy a hug," says Phil walking over embrace Wes in a formal man-hug. Am I being Punk'd?

Clearing my throat theatrically, "Ahem…you two, you know each other?"

Giving me a look like he's just realized that I'm dead serious, Wes smiles, "Pollita, three years ain't a long time…"

"I know but how do you know him? I mean, I don't remember him…"

Again, Bossman laughs as though I'm being funny. Punk scratches his neck awkwardly, "Feeling's mutual, son."

Brows furrow together as Wes darts giving me and Phil a confused stare, "Y'all fucking around, right?" we shakes our head in unison, "Oh come on! Punk, you should remember! Stop playin'. You were hooked on the girl. Remember your senior year?" when Phil seems to be blank, "Okay, go back to the shows at Mokena. You'd mention to me and the boys that you dug one of your sis's girls!"

Squirming under the Brooks sibling's gaze, I pretend to be interested in whatever paper my eye catches, "That was you?" he asks me as if I know what he means.

"Um...?"

"Phil, we both, me and you, know that you're just playin'," says my best friend, punching Phil playfully on the shoulder, "Quit it, bro.,"

The work phone rings and the owner excuses himself for a moment. That leaves us alone with an aura of confusion and awkwardness. The man with beautiful moss-green eyes and unruly Jesus, for lack of better description, leans against Wes's handcrafted cherry wood desk with a pensive gaze on his face, almost as if trying to search for a trace of truth in Wes's words; for traces of me.

On the flip-side, I busy myself with sorting the cluster of paper on Bossman's desk. Wes isn't one for lies, I've know him since the beginning of time - my time - to know. It just irks me that I don't recall anything related to Mr. Phil Brooks. It's the teenage-era of drugs... Could be the fuck that during my younger years, I inhaled anything that numbed out the body and brain. Drugs have a way with fucking up the brain. I barely remember my childhood and when people start retelling of their crazy experiences with me...it's like I was blacked out the whole time. Alzheimer's?

The creak of the door brushes of the aura as Bossman come in breaking the silence, "Sorry, you know how business is," he hangs up the phone, "Ey, Punk, how 'bout Marleene here tats you up…on the house? Sound like a decent 'Welcome Back' gift, from yours truly?"

"Like dying…twice!" replies Punk enthusiastically, "I've been having an idea on my mind for the longest, but I don't have an outline."

"I got you, bro. Mar happens to be our resident 'MVP'," Wes put a heavy arm around me, "She snaps. Just lay your idea on her and she'll draw it out. Right, 'chacha?"

Nodding my head eagerly, "Anything for you, Bossman. Long as it erases what occurred with that bi-" noticing the return of her angry lines, "In short words, it'll be a pleasure. Let's get goin', Phil…"

Before heading out the door, Punk and Wes "man-brace" once more. I don't fail to catch Wes's wiggly brows and Punk's death-glare. They share hushed words, which I don't catch onto. I roll my eyes and drag the visitor out the door.

A/N- Keep the faith strong, ma' brotha's and sista's! A thank's to your time beforehand!