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Willow
As the buzz of my gun shakes in my hand, I follow the purple outline of a shark on the arm of this surfer boy in my chair that’s talking a million miles a minute about the gnarly waves he caught this morning. I nod but focus on my work. This is my element and where I shine. Here at Moxie Misfits, I run the show. I’ve been a tattoo artist since I moved here after high school, and now I own and operate the most sought-after shop on the West Coast. It’s a dream come true. People move around the shop, some working, others getting fresh ink. The walls are painted in chalkboard paint, and Corrine is busy working on her latest mural. She’s my apprentice and amazingly talented for an eighteen-year-old. When I was her age, I was always the weird girl my parents never understood. I wore all the wrong clothes, listened to trash music, and did nothing I didn’t have to. Basically, I was and still am the black sheep. In high school, I only had one friend, and I lost her.
I don’t let my mind go down that road and ask my client questions instead, to keep him talking. He goes on and on about beach life and hot babes, telling me how to make a pizza using a George Foreman Grill like a bachelor pro. About an hour into the piece, I’m finishing up the last bit of color in the shark’s tail when suddenly we all hear a loud crash outside the shop. I jump up and run outside to see what’s going on.
Out on the sidewalk, the sun is so bright I have to shield my eyes. Screeching of tires to my left catches my attention, and I turn to see an old red sports car backing out of a crushed dumpster. It chugs along, clearly damaged, and for a second, I don’t think he’s going to get far, but then the driver peels out and starts barreling in my direction. I notice a group of kids on the street between us playing a game of basketball, oblivious to the impending danger, and I yell to get their attention. The car is swerving out of control, and I run as fast as I can, waving my arms and shouting at them to get out of the way.
“Move!”
When I’m finally close enough, they hear me, but suddenly I feel arms wrap around my waist, and I’m jerked up and pulled backward just in time. A flash of red and the sound of the roaring engine zooms by as I fall back onto someone. I squeeze my eyelids shut, laying in the arms of the stranger. The panic attack comes in waves. Flashbacks of the last time I was in a car accident come rushing back, and my breathing becomes erratic as I grip my chest. Biceps move around my shoulders as the man sits up. I grip onto the shirt of the man who’s holding me close. He smells familiar, and I try my hardest to shake myself back to the present. The sound of breaking glass and bending metal fills my ears, and his arms squeeze me while telling me everything is ok.
I feel the tears fall from my eyes, and I see my friend Vicky’s face like it is all happening again. Her eyes are closed as she hangs suspended from the driver’s seat. The car is quickly filling with water, and I’m screaming at her to wake up. Water pours from her open window, and as I catch my breath, we’re taken under. I fight with the seat belt until it finally releases me. The glass window breaks next to my face, and large pieces of the glass window float around me, scratching my face. Things get hazy as my body frantically fights for air. I feel myself being pulled from the car and breaking the surface.
My eyes fly open, and I gasp.
“Are you ok? Are you hurt anywhere?” The husky and panicked voice pulls me out of the nightmare, and I look up into the concerned eyes of the very last man I ever thought I would see again.
“Baby-face?” I choke out.
My voice is hoarse, but he smiles that handsome dimpled smile at me and drags me to my feet.
“It’s Archer, from the poker game Tuesday night.”
“Yeah, I know. I prefer Baby-face. What are you doing here?”
“Well, saving your life, apparently,” he says, inspecting my face and pushing back my hair to look closer. “Are you alright?”
His hands move up and down my arms in soothing strokes. My arm is beginning to hurt. I’m sure to be sore this week, but it could have been a lot worse. Before I have a chance to think too much about it, I hear shouting behind me. Turning to look, I gasp in horror at the sight of my tattoo shop. Moxie Misfit Tattoos neon sign is not only hanging down sideways, but is broken and partly laying on top of the red fire bird.
“Oh no,” I whisper as dread fills me, and I run towards my shop in a panic. Reaching the mess, I can see clients and my employees inside.
“Is anyone hurt?” I yell.
Allie, my manager, shakes her head and yells back to me. “No. We’re all fine, but the driver’s passed out cold.”
“Has anyone called 911?” I shout.
I hear a woman yell, yes, and moments later, I hear sirens. Archer comes up behind me and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. Turning to him, I reach around his neck on my tiptoes and pull him into a hug. His arms tighten around me. Seeking comfort from anyone, let alone a stranger, is not my style, but I’m overwhelmed with so many emotions I gladly accept his kindness.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his ear and feel him nod, his hands resting on my waist.
“Are you ok, Willow?”
I move away slowly, missing the safety of his arms already.
“No,” I say, probably too honestly. Another thing I rarely do. Show vulnerability. Making my way over the debris, I go to the driver’s side door. The window is down, and I reach in to check the man’s pulse. He’s alive, and by the smell coming from the car’s interior, he’s drunk. I take a step back as police and paramedics rush in.
The police take our statements. My apartment is above the parlor, but the cops inform me it’s unsafe, and I need to find somewhere else to go. They don’t try to clean up, and when I try, they escort me out with a warning that I should not return until the place is cleared. To my surprise, Archer is still here. He’s standing on the sidewalk, forehead wrinkled with worry, but he’s staying out of the way.
“Hey. What are you still doing here?” I ask when I reach him.
“I wanted to make sure you were ok. You said no when I asked earlier. I couldn’t in good conscience leave you.”
He steps closer and runs the back of his knuckles softly down my injured arm, making me feel things I had no business feeling.
I lean back from his touch, feeling too vulnerable, and he moves back, shoving his hands in his pockets like he might have done something wrong.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a sympathetic tone.
