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“Yeah, sounds good. Where’s she having it done?” I move over to his station and look around to see if anything needs to be wiped down.
“Started on her ass cheek and will be moving down the upper thigh.” He nods to the images he has pinned up. I scan over them, and my insides twist. That’s real fucking familiar—and not just because I recognize the edges of the flowers, but because the drawing is an original all right.
An original of my fucking design.
A breeze lifts my dress as I walk up to the tattoo parlor for my meeting with Jake. I quickly push it down, hoping I’m not giving the entire street a show. Funny how that’s exactly what I do for a living, but the moment I’m outside the club doors, I morph back into me. No free shows for anyone.
I’m early, so I stop to grab a soda from the shop next door. I should be nervous, the meatier parts of the flesh hurt more, but it’s kind of an addictive pain. God, I’m going to hell.
I found Jake’s place a couple years ago. I’d been in a bad place emotionally. Helpless. Alone. Sad as hell. It took a lot of courage to make an appointment and start on a piece that will eventually go up most of my back and nearly to the back of my knee along my thigh. When I first brought the picture to Jake, I wasn’t sure what he could do with it. It was small—meant to go on the bicep or one shoulder blade. A challenge. And back then, I could never resist a challenge.
Now?
Between the club and the turn my life took years ago, I’m not just broken, I’m completely snapped in half. My will, my drive, my desires were all stuffed into a box and chained shut. It’s like a crashing wave has doused my inner fire that moved me to do everything.
Taking that small challenge, designed in ink, was my first attempt to get a hold on the life that had been crumbling before me. After Jake got past his hard-on over the design, he was game to ink it on me. When I told him I wanted it bigger and for him to expand on it, he actually laughed at me. I wanted to start on my ass as a little “fuck you,” then grow it into something epic and beautiful. He took that challenge and ran with it. Everything else in my life may be based on what I have to do to make ends meet, but this tattoo is one of the only things I have left reflecting the old me.
Jake’s shop is known for their artistic flair. They’re not like most shops which copy designs. Jake and his crew are the real deal. Even with my design. Once he realized I was serious about making it huge, he had to sit with it for a while and come up with a design that complemented what was already drawn, then fit it to my body. Now, it’s a matter of time and money—there never seems to be enough of either—as I slowly add to it little by little.
After paying for my soda, I make my way next door. A prickle of awareness heats my skin as I walk past the shop window. The same feeling I get when I’m in the box. Rather than feeling owned by it, I seek out the source. Several men on motorcycles parked outside the shop look me up and down, no shame in being caught checking me out. Most women would probably bask in their attention—pleased to have snagged their eye. For me, I hate it. The club has conditioned me to hate it. It makes me rethink the sunny yellow dress I wore knowing Jake would need easy access. It makes me wish I had worn flip flops—despite the chilly air—rather than high wedges that make my legs look shapelier. And it certainly makes me wish I weren’t wearing a simple thong beneath the thin fabric.
Mimicking their stares, I push the door open with my back, keeping my eyes on them, letting them know I see them watching. A warmth trickles over me, once again reminding me of the person I’ve become—the person who’s sometimes aroused when they watch. The bell jangles as I back into the shop. I’m hit with a sterile scent and subtle smoky smell that reminds me of the club.
A throat clears.
Something about the impatience of it is a hard clench to my heart. I abandon looking at the bikers through the glass door and turn. The hairs on my arms stand on end. A small shudder trembles through me. And the soda in my hand drops, crashing to the ground and fizzing everywhere.
All eyes shoot up to look at me. I feel fucking faint. Am I dreaming?
