Unholyverse

Eight

On Monday Frank told Brian about everything that happened with the guys at the club, leaving out the parts with the invisible laughing crowd and phantom lights.

"You did the right thing, Frank," Brian said, already getting out his cellphone and filofax and giant stack of papers. Brian was the most organized person Frank had ever met. He was pretty sure the dude could take over the world with a bullet-pointed list and a big enough diary. "This is going to be great for discrediting that asshole, man, this is really awesome."

"Awesome," Frank repeated dully, trying to burn holes in the side of Brian's head with his eyes. "I especially liked the part where they almost scalped me." So it wasn't strictly true, whatever. Brian didn't know that, the dickwad.

"It would be better if you hadn't been drunk, though," Brian said absently, flicking through his filofax.

Frank gritted his teeth. "Yeah, well, I've had kind of a shitty couple weeks, Schechter, excuse me for blowing off a little steam."

Brian looked up, surprised at first and then, when he visibly replayed what he'd said inside his head, guilty. "Shit, Frankie, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant, you know, anything that can protect you-"

Frank cut him off. "I know, man."

Brian looked completely miserable. "This sucks."

"It does," Frank agreed, trying not to laugh hysterically at how much Brian had no fucking idea.

"All right," Brian started shifting papers around briskly. "I'm gonna call the lawyers. You get to work, you have a busy morning."

"Yes, boss." Frank pulled himself to his feet and was almost at the door when Brian called after him,

"You're with Bob this afternoon."

Frank whirled around. "Seriously?"

Brian was already on the phone - he covered it and said, "Do not fuck up," and then shooed Frank away.

Frank had the best afternoon he could remember in a really long fucking time. Bob wouldn't actually let him do anything, of course, he just had to sit still and watch, which would have sucked more if sitting still and not moving his hands wasn't exactly what Frank wanted to do for the rest of his life by that point.

It was still amazing, anyway, getting to watch up close without Bob telling him to get out of his light or whatever, and drinking in every little bit of commentary and wisdom Bob threw his way. Bob might have been an inkless freak but he was a fucking knowledgeable inkless freak, and a meticulous motherfucker to boot.

Frank really fucking loved tattoos, like that wasn't news, obviously, but he loved everything about them - the way ink virgins were always vibrating with excitement and nerves, the way old hands came in a little twitchy and went away look like they just got fucked six ways from Sunday and had the time of their fucking lives. He loved the moment before the needle touched down, when it was still just a drawing, just something that could be washed away, no more permanent than writing your name on a steamed-up window pane, and he loved the first press of the needle to the skin, when everything changed and it became a part of you forever.

It felt like no time at all had passed when Bob started packing up his shit, showing Frank how to clean and put everything away, even though Frank already knew that shit, he wasn't some fucking newbie. He also knew Bob did things his way or no way at all, though, and his way was pretty fucking awesome, so Frank went along with it and only jumped up and down and demanded to know when Bob would let him do something a couple of times.

"You look like you won the fucking lottery," Ray commented when they were sitting around in the closed shop after hours, waiting for Mikey to finish sweeping up hair at a glacial pace. "And then had sex on top of all the money."