Calmly, Carefully, Completely(100)

“Eww,” Friday says.

I laugh. I could like these women.

We collect our hot dogs and head back to the tattoo parlor. But Pete’s not there when we get back. “Where did he go?” I ask.

“I sent him on an errand,” Paul says. He’s doing a tattoo and seems a little distracted.

“Is he coming back?” I ask. I’m not too happy to be stuck here, particularly since Matt has my car.

“Eventually,” Paul says.

I sit and eat my hot dog, but then the shop fills up. A group of marines walks in the door. There are five of them, and I suddenly feel cornered. I step toward the back of the building, but that doesn’t help my growing sense of unease, not in the least. Paul looks up from the tattoo he’s running, and his eyes narrow. “You okay, Reagan?” he asks. I’m not. I’m not all right at all. I thought I was past all this. But I’m not. Apparently, I’m only able to move past it when Pete’s with me, and that leaves me as disquieted as the men do.

I nod, but I’m seriously not all right.

Paul puts down his tattoo gun and walks to the back of the shop with me. He pulls the curtain around the private area. I heave in a breath, finally able to fill my lungs since those men came in the room. “Better?” he asks.

He sits down at a table and opens a box of pens. He starts to absently draw on a piece of paper.

“Don’t just stand there,” he says. “Sit.” He pats the table in front of him. “People make me nervous when they pace,” he says. He doesn’t even look up at me. He’s just sits and draws quietly.

“Paul,” I start. “I think I should go.”

He nods, but he still doesn’t look up. “Let me know when you’re ready so I can pack up my stuff.”

“What?” Why would he need to pack?

He finally looks up, and his blue eyes meet mine. “I sent Pete on an errand. And he left knowing I would take care of his girl. So if you leave, I have to leave. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I bite out. But my eyes are filling with tears already. I blink them back furiously.

“I didn’t say you needed a babysitter,” he replies, and I can tell he’s annoyed. He’s still gentle and caring, but there’s something roiling beneath the surface, too. “Those guys make you feel uncomfortable, huh?” he asks. He looks down at his paper again. He’s not paying me much attention, yet I get the distinct feeling that he is.

I nod and bite off the end of my fingernail, pulling so hard that I tear the cuticle. I wipe the blood on my jeans.

“Shit,” Paul says. He goes to a drawer and pulls out a Band-Aid. “If Pete comes back and you’re bleeding, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He tears the bandage open with his teeth and pulls the tabs off it. He holds it out like he wants to wrap it around my finger. I stick my hand out, because I get the feeling he’s not going to stop. My hand is shaking, though, and I hate it. He wraps it up, and then he gives me a squeeze.

He sits back down and starts to draw again. I sit across from him, and he passes me the paper, where he’s drawn a simple daisy behind prison bars. The daisy is reaching toward a shaft of sunlight. “Shade that in for me,” he says.

“I don’t draw,” I say, but I sit down across from him.

“Everyone knows how to color,” he says with a snort. “Just pick some colors and stay between the lines. Or go outside the lines with purpose.” He shrugs. “I don’t care.”