The Dark Side of Eleanor Warwick

“Four words:” Marvin says, excited, “Battle of The Bands.”

Jessie and the tattoo artist behind her both look up at him. “They actually have those?” she asks.

The question surprises Marvin. “Of course.”

The tattooist’s needle hums as he returns to the back of Jessie’s neck. She holds her long hair out of his way. The tattoo parlor is small and the proprietor is a hipster, with enormous glasses and a trucker hat, but he’s well-regarded. Jessie straddles a chair, watching her companion pace in front of her.

“And they can be huge. Label guys are there,” Marvin assures her.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I didn’t think label guys even existed anymore.”

“Sure they do.” He considers it for a moment. “At least I think they do.”

“I thought you were a solo act?”

“I have some friends that I play with when the need arises.”

“Have you guys ever won?”

Marvin’s hesitation says it all. Still, he tries to string together an answer. “Well…not as such. We finished fourth once.”

“Out of how many?”

“Four,” he admits.

Jessie smirks. “I guess you want me to come listen to you?”

A broad smile spreads across his face. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“For you? I’ll think about it.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” the tattooist interrupts, “but does this not hurt at all?”

Jessie and Marvin glance at each other before she answers. “Uh, yeah…ouch.”

Surprised by the disinterest in her voice, the artist starts to say something else but decides to let it go. Switching off his needle, he taps on her shoulder. “You’re all set.” He holds up a mirror, allowing her to see the ink. Instead of praise, she offers him a satisfied nod. Both stand as he goes behind the counter, and Jessie shows her newest tattoo to Marvin.

He only offers two thumbs up. Honestly, he doesn’t want to encourage her ever-expanding body art. A few tattoos are one thing, but too many just make someone look like a collage. Like something glued together by a kindergartener. She already has a skull with a rose in its teeth on her right shoulder, claw-like tears revealing red eyes beyond on her left shoulder blade, chains around her right forearm, and flames rising from her left wrist before her most recent work. Jessie settles up with the hipster and tosses the leftover cash into a tip jar.

“I’m always curious what my customers’ ink means to them,” he says, closing his vintage cash register, “so I have to know: Why a barcode?”

She slides her jacket on, pulling her long hair out from under it. “Someone tried to sell me,” she answers flatly. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she ignores him. Fluffing up her jacket, Jessie pushes through the door, and out onto the cold street.

Marvin chuckles nervously as the tattooist’s gaze turns to him. “You know,” Marvin stammers, “with this corporate culture of ours. I mean, aren’t we all for sale? When you look at who funds political campaigns, it becomes- .”

“Yeah,” the artist interjects, “I get it.” He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small card. “Hey. Could you give this to your sister? That’s my personal number.”

Slowly taking it, Marvin furrows his brow. “My sister? Why would…” Realization strikes. “Wait. Her?” He points to the door. The artist nods. “She is not my sister!”

With a sigh, the hipster smiles awkwardly. “Sorry. I didn’t think so, but I didn’t want to offend you. Can you give it to your daughter?”

Marvin stares for a moment. Did Jessie look that young? Did he look that old? “She’s not my daughter either!”

“Well, what is she then?”

“Let me see;” He taps his chin, looking off in fake contemplation. “Not my sister. Not my daughter. Maybe she’s my mother.”

The artist rolls his eyes. “Fine. I get it. You’re together. Can you blame me for not realizing it?”

“Yes!” Marvin exclaims, louder than he planned. “Yes, I can!”

Tossing the card on the counter, he storms out. Jessie waits nearby, blowing cigarette smoke into the breeze. She casts him a sidelong glance as he approaches. “You didn’t bother trying to explain it to that hipster, did you?”

Marvin shrugs. “I didn’t want him to think you were trafficked or something.”

“Who gives a shit what he thinks?”

He wishes he could agree, but Marvin finds himself very much caring. “He thought you were my sister,” he reveals with a forced chuckle.

“Again; who gives a shit?”

“Well,” Marvin pauses, needing to tread carefully. “I…sort of…do.” Jessie looks at him with a cocked brow. “I know you don’t. You’re the hot one. Me? I’m the troll you let touch your boobs for some reason.”

“Trolls are real, you know. Warwick says they’re fat and ugly.” She looks him up and down with a smirk. “They’re taller than you, though.”

With a chuckle, Marvin nods. “Okay, fine. My point is- .”

“Insecurity is a real turn-off.”

He stares for a moment before sighing. “Yeah, I know. But can you blame me for wanting people to acknowledge that we’re a couple?” Marvin gathers his courage. “Starting with you.”

As Jessie narrows her eyes, he instinctively leans away from her. Taking a slow drag, she steps toward him as she exhales. “Am I a fucking trophy to you?”

“What? N-no. Of course not.”

“Are you sure?” The hellblood’s hazel eyes go cold. “You seem dead set on slapping a fuckin’ label on me, and making sure every shithead you come across knows you’re fucking me.”

Marvin starts to fire back but thinks better of it. He’s willing to concede her point. Not to say he agrees with it, but he’d rather let her win the dispute than face an escalation. She can lose her cool alarmingly fast. And when she does, it is volcanic. It isn’t a fight worth having.

“Okay,” he finally said. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We know, and that’s enough.”

“Right,” Jessie agreed, taking another drag.

“Cool. Cool.” Marvin fidgets before checking his watch. “Well, I need to get to rehearsal for tonight. You’re coming, right?”

Tossing her cigarette aside, Jessie’s expression softens. “Sure.”

“Great!” He suddenly takes her by the shoulders and plants a kiss on her unprepared lips. Just like that, he’s off down the street. “It starts at eight!” he shouts as he hurries off.

Jessie watches him go with arched brows. His surprise confuses her. Turning to walk the opposite direction, Jessie shakes her head as she ponders. Why would he think she wouldn’t come to his performance?

Of course, I will, she thinks. It’s standard girlfriend stuff.

Stopping in her tracks, she stares forward at nothing in particular. Girlfriend. She just thought of herself as his girlfriend. Her throat suddenly feels tight. He didn’t think she would come because she dodged the girlfriend tag like Spider-Man on speed. No label, no obligations.

Just like that, she sees Towles’ complaint in a completely new light. There’s certainly a boorish male instinct to stake claim to a woman, especially one more attractive than he, and then brag about it to anyone who will listen. But more than that, he is growing frustrated with the ambiguity of their relationship.

She resumes her walking at a slower pace. She likes Towles and is more than willing to go to see his band or do any number of stupid things she wouldn’t do for anyone else. Perhaps she needs to set her fears aside and officially accept that which she already is: Towles’ girlfriend.

Her lips curl into a slight smile despite herself. Of course, she’ll probably have to stop referring to him by his last name.

One thing at a time.