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Theo squeezes my knee, catching my attention. I’m grateful for the respite from such sobering thoughts. ‘Stop thinking,’ he orders me gently. Then he looks over to Stan. ‘Can we get on with this?’
‘Sure. Let’s move to where the magic happens.’ Stan’s chair scrapes the floor as he stands and claps his hands together, rubbing them. ‘Let me get my cuffs.’
I rise from my chair with Theo’s help. ‘Cuffs?’ I ask, looking up at him as he guides me into the garden and down the path to the back of a separate building.
‘Yes, cuffs.’
The room we enter looks clinical, with a huge black chair in the centre, a couple of stools, and white cupboards around the circumference. Framed art hangs on the walls, and a window on the far side shows a waiting area full of people flipping through folders. Stan pulls the blind and they all disappear.
‘You’re getting another tattoo?’ It never occurred to me before now, when a pair of metal handcuffs are clanging in Stan’s hands, to wonder how someone managed to ink Theo without having their head ripped off. ‘He’s going to cuff you?’
‘Damn straight I am.’ Stan laughs as Theo gets on the black chair. ‘I’m brave, but I’m not that brave.’
Theo gives him a tired look, pulling his T-shirt up over his head and casting it aside. ‘Here,’ he says, pointing to his left pec.
‘Over the heart.’ Stan inspects the taut skin of Theo’s chest, slipping on some glasses. ‘Cute.’
‘Stop talking.’ Theo rests back in the chair, the insane muscles of his torso rippling as he goes, and raises his arms over his head, draping them over the back of the chair.
Stan holds the cuffs up to Theo and waits for a nod before rounding him and locking them over his wrists and through a metal bar on the back. ‘Okay?’ he asks once he’s done, standing back. A swift yank from Theo demonstrates the security of his arms. ‘Hey, don’t break my chair.’
‘You’d rather I break your neck?’ Theo retorts.
‘Fair point.’ Stan pulls on some rubber gloves, snapping the latex around each wrist for effect. The sharp sound makes me flinch as I sit as quiet as a mouse in the corner, watching in fascination. Stan gets to work quietly, laying a piece of tracing paper over Theo’s pec, making his jaw quickly tense as Stan’s eyes become noticeably very wary. ‘All right?’ he asks.
‘Just get on with it.’ Theo closes his eyes and breathes in, though I know he’s not bracing himself for the pain that is soon to come. He’s bracing himself for Stan’s touch.
I inch forward on my chair, trying to see what Stan is outlining on Theo’s skin, but it’s impossible when Stan leans in, getting up close and personal with Theo’s big chest. I scowl to myself, frustrated and intrigued by what tattoo he could be getting. More religious symbols? Maybe a prayer to match the praying hands, huge cross, and rosary beads. He said they’re there to remind him that he’s broken God’s rules. It’s a little backward, if you ask me, since Theo isn’t showing any signs of changing that. I’m certain God wouldn’t condone holding a man at gunpoint. Theo has done some terrible things. I swallow and sit back, my eyes on the man who has stolen my heart. Is that a crime? Is it bad that I’ve fallen for him? I ponder that over and over as Stan works, not even getting close to reaching a conclusion. Can something be terrible and wonderful at the same time?
Once Stan’s finished tracing the outline, he sits back and indicates for Theo to look. And once Theo’s given a sharp nod of approval, I’m once again trying to crane my neck and get a peek, to no avail. The high-pitched buzzing sound of the mechanical needle kicks in, and Stan slowly moves in to Theo’s chest, pulling his already taut skin tauter. There’s a flinch from Theo, accompanied by the clang of the cuffs against the metal bar on the back of the chair. It makes Stan recoil slightly, his hands coming away from Theo’s chest as it expands on a deep inhale. The sharp buzzing stops.
‘We good, man?’ Stan asks, watching him closely.
I look to Theo, just as his eyes meet mine. His face is blank, but his rough jaw is tight, and in this moment, I realize he’s sought me out to stabilize himself. His chest deflates slowly and his breathing falls into a smooth, easy flow. ‘We’re good,’ he confirms, keeping his eyes on me as he rests the side of his face on the inside of his big arm.
I smile, relaxing a little in the knowledge that he’s siphoning his calm from me. I’m soothing him. Will that become a consistent thing in our relationship? Can it be? I love the thought of being his peace. Of feeding him the calm he needs.
