9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Hydessa

I nstead of going straight back home, I decide to take some notes on my phone before heading to the tattoo parlor, Saints and Sinners Ink.

When I arrive, I realize it's dark inside, the doors closed. I guess it's a bit early for this sort of business to be open. Curiously, I look at the artwork in the window. The artist is talented. Intricate designs of dragons, flowers, and abstract patterns line the display, each piece showcasing a unique style and remarkable attention to detail.

As I move closer to the window to get a better look, I notice a small sign tucked in the corner. "Open at ten," it reads, accompanied by a rough sketch of a clock with the hands set to ten. I glance at the time on my phone to realize I still have another hour.

Turning away from the parlor, I decide to see if the art studio is open at this time instead. Heading across to the waterfront, I approach the front of the building where the gallery is. On this side there are a lot of pieces of art on display, various splashes of color across the canvases drawing the eye. Each piece is beautiful in its own unique way.

A bell jingles as I push through the glass door, the inside revealing glimpses of the beach and the painted surfboards through the back of the large open space.

"With you in a moment," a voice calls out from behind a wall that seems to separate the spaces.

Making my way in that direction, I pass the divider to see the space open out toward the crashing water. Big glass doors have been pushed to the side to allow an uninterrupted space between the beach and the shop.

To the side there are a lot of surfboards in the process of being painted, while several chairs and easels are set up facing toward the open back of the building.

A man is standing in the center of the space with his back to me. From the hints of the tattoo around his ripped tank, I believe it's the artist I saw painting the night before. He's spraying something on one of the canvases set up on an easel. The artwork in here is nothing like those in the gallery out front, making me assume he didn't create them all.

As he turns to set the bottle in his hand aside, he catches sight of me in the doorway and flashes a grin. A little stunned, I have to hide my reaction. There are highlights that shine through his black hair as he moves, almost like the pelt of a wolf. His smile reveals dimples in his cheeks that I'm sure capture the attention of a lot of women. He is handsome, and if he didn't keep a layer of stubble along his jaw he may have come across as a pretty boy.

But it's his eyes that have me startling, though I expect he gets that reaction all the time. One is brown, and the other is blue. I have heard of heterochromia, but I've never actually met someone with it before.

"Hi there," he greets, his voice warm and inviting with a slight English accent I didn't pick up on when he spoke earlier. "Welcome to my humble studio. I'm Chester. Are you interested in a tour or looking to buy some art?"

"Hi, I'm Taylor," I reply, stepping further into the studio. "I just moved to the island and wanted to check out the local spots. Your work is incredible." I gesture to the pieces around the room.

"Thank you, Taylor," Chester says, a confident look spreading across his face.

I nod towards the art he just finished spraying. "Are those ones done by someone else?"

Chester glances at the pieces and his lips lift to max capacity. "Should I take it that you aren't a fan of my latest work?"

My eyes widen as I realize I probably just not so subtly insulted him. "Oh, I didn't mean—"

He laughs and waves me off, picking up the piece to move it toward the other side of the room. "I'm joking. These aren't mine. I teach a class here in the evenings twice a week for the tourists."

I let out a relieved breath, smiling at his easy going demeanor. "That's great. I might need to come and try my hand at it too. Though, I'm not sure I'd be any good."

Chester chuckles, setting the canvas down and turning back to me. "It's all about having fun and expressing yourself. You'd be surprised at what you can do when you let go and just enjoy the process."

There is something about how he worded that, like he isn't talking completely about painting.

I don't know if it's his eyes that has me suddenly feeling uneasy, or the look in them. But as quickly as the feeling appears, it disappears again. Chester, like so many others on this island, seems to have layers beneath his friendly face. It's clear there's more to him than meets the eye.

"I might take you up on that," I reply with a smile, genuinely intrigued by the idea of trying my hand at painting. "Expressing myself sounds like just what I need right now."

Chester nods, his mismatched eyes twinkling with amusement. "Whenever you're ready, the studio is open. Feel free to drop by anytime."

"Thanks, I appreciate it," I say, glancing around at the artwork displayed throughout the studio. Each piece seems to tell a story, capturing moments and emotions in vivid detail.

He watches me closely, almost like he's assessing if my interest is real or not.

"Would you like to see some of my latest work?"

"I'd love to," I reply, genuinely curious.

Chester leads me over to a section of the studio where several finished canvases are displayed. Each piece is vibrant and full of life, with scenes of the beach, ocean waves, and local wildlife. The colors are striking, and the detail is impressive.

"You've got a real talent," I say, admiring a painting of a surfer catching a massive wave.

"Thanks," Chester replies, looking pleased. "I've been painting since I was a kid. The island's beauty is a constant source of inspiration."

I turn to face him, my curiosity piqued. "Do you ever stay open late? I thought I saw someone painting through an upstairs window pretty late last night."

Chester's smile falters for a moment, but he quickly recovers. "Yeah, sometimes I lose track of time when I'm in the zone. I do my best work at night when it's quiet and peaceful."

"That's understandable," I say, filing away the information. His momentary falter intrigues me further, and I decide to probe a bit deeper. "Is the piece you were working on last night here? I'd love to see something that I actually saw you in the process of painting."

He chuckles softly, but there's a hint of something guarded in his expression now. "No, that series is a lot different than these ones. Not exactly for the tourists' eyes."

We stand there looking at each other for a long moment before he speaks again, his grin more devilish now, the charm now feeling more calculated than genuine. "Maybe I might show you that series, eventually."

The bell above the door jingles again, announcing another visitor to the gallery. I turn to see an elderly couple entering, their voices filled with admiration as they discuss the paintings on display. Chester glances briefly at them, then back at me with a knowing look.

"Looks like I have more visitors," he says casually, gesturing towards the elderly couple before leaning closer and dropping his volume. "You should definitely come to one of the classes, for free, I'd love to see what you can do."

"Maybe, sounds like fun," I reply, trying to sound casual despite my swirling thoughts. "I might swing by again soon."

"Anytime," he replies with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "See you around, Taylor."

With that, I make my way towards the exit, casting one last glance over my shoulder at Chester as he engages the elderly couple in conversation. His charm seems effortless, yet beneath it lies an air of mystery that intrigues and unsettles me in equal measure.

As I step back out into the bright sunlight, I can't shake the feeling that I've only scratched the surface of what this island—and its inhabitants—have to offer.

Deciding to check the time, I find that it's almost ten o'clock, so I head towards the tattoo parlor again, hopeful that it's open now. As I approach, I notice that the lights are on inside, and there is movement.

Pushing through the door, another little bell announces my presence.. I wonder to myself if all the small businesses here have the same quaint bell system for announcing customers. I guess it makes sense for places like this where the owner might be busy and not always stationed near the door.

Inside, the tattoo parlor is dimly lit with an array of flash designs covering the walls. The air is heavy with the scent of antiseptic and ink.

A gruff voice calls out, "Be with you in a sec."

I take a tentative step forward, glancing around at the various designs. Traditional anchors, skulls, and intricate Celtic knots vie for attention alongside more modern motifs of abstract art and Japanese-inspired designs. The contrast between the serene gallery and this edgier atmosphere strikes me. Both have beautiful art, but the difference in the tone is noticeable.

The space is small but open, with no walls separating the entryway from where the tattoo artist must work. It seems the tattoo chair is already set up, clean and waiting for the first customer of the day. What surprises me, however, is when I finally spot two men to the side of the room. One of them appears to be assembling new shelving while the other watches attentively. Both are heavily tattooed, but it's the one supervising the shelving who catches my attention.

As he turns towards me, I recognize him instantly from magazines and online articles. Tyson Santiago. He's a well known tattoo artist, and I knew he had left the city but I didn't know this is where he moved to. But he's not just famous for his tattoos, he is also the brother of Lucien, the lead singer of Saints in Hell. Seanna and I were fans of both the brothers. With us swapping jobs sometimes we steered clear of any permanent change in appearance though, plus we have different tastes in what we like so we would never be able to settle on a tattoo we both wanted.

Tyson is covered in tattoos from his neck down, and he wears a black shirt with the parlor's logo that seems to darken his brown hair further. I notice his blue eyes flare slightly as he taps the other guy on the shoulder to catch his attention. Without waiting for a response, Tyson steps toward me.

"Hey there," he greets, his voice deep and raspy. "Looking for some ink?"

I smile, trying to match his easy demeanor. I don't intend on getting any ink, but I would play along if it got me more information on the main residents of the island. "I was thinking about it, but probably not today. I'm curious to see what kind of designs you have. Do you have a portfolio I could flip through?"

Tyson nods, a smile of his own forming. "Got a bit of everything. I do custom work too, if that's your thing. Names Ty," he introduces himself, extending a hand.

"Taylor," I reply, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you, Ty."

A huff comes from behind Tyson, and I glance towards the sound. The other man must have finished hanging the shelves. He, too, is covered in tattoos, but while Tyson is in his early thirties, this man looks to be around my age.

Glasses frame his clear, bright green eyes, and his messy brown hair gives him an almost windswept appearance. His stubble adds an edge to his otherwise unassuming demeanor as he shoves his hands into his pockets and avoids direct eye contact.

"Don't mind Telvin," Ty chuckles, glancing at the other man. "He just wants to go back and play with his wood."

Telvin shoots Ty a glare that quickly dissipates when he notices my gaze on him, then he ducks his head. "It's not what he's implying. I'm a furniture maker."

"Really?" I say, a little surprised by that information. "Do you have a store where I can see some of your work? I'm renting the old Baker house and it's partly furnished, but I may need to add my own charm at some point.,"

I don't realize I've taken a step closer until he takes a step back. Then I notice him tapping his fingers together nervously. He obviously doesn't do well with social situations, so I make a point of also taking a step back away from him.

"It's on the other side of the island. I don't really like the tourist crowds, it's nothing much," he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper.

"He's being modest. Telvin does great work," Tyson interjects proudly. "He furnished most of this shop. When you need some more furniture, you should find him."

Telvin nods in acknowledgment, a small smile tugging at his lips. With a quiet murmur to Telvin, Ty directs me back towards the front of the parlor.

"Nice to meet you," I call over my shoulder to Telvin, who nods again before focusing back on what he was doing.

"Sorry, he's pretty shy. Now, let's talk about what you have in mind for a tattoo," Tyson says, guiding me towards a display of designs as we discuss possibilities.