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This is taking every ounce of my concentration.
It's a simple tattoo. Black line art. Three colors. No shading.
Fuck, it's like I'm apprenticing again.
I pull back to check on my client. Allison. She's a tall girl with short hair and a quiet smile. Her boyfriend is sitting opposite her, holding her hand, whispering words of comfort.
"You okay?" Sweat is gathering on my brow. It's not the heat. The air conditioning's hum is competing with the buzz of Walker's gun.
It's the devil on my shoulder, telling me I fucked up.
And the angel arguing that this is for the best, no matter how badly it hurts right now.
Allison grunts a yes.
Her boyfriend smiles at her. Squeezes her hand. "It looks awesome."
"Yeah?" She turns toward the mirror to catch a glimpse of the ink forming on her shoulder blade. It's two dinosaurs facing each other with a heart between them. She must be able to see because her eyes light up. "That's perfect." She looks to me. "How much longer?"
"Ten minutes." It's a small piece and we're halfway there.
She nods. "Ten minutes. I can do that." She lies back down. Rests her head on her hands. "Do you get a lot of people saying it doesn't hurt?"
All the time. "Mostly guys."
"They think it makes them tough?" she asks.
"Yeah." I check the work. The green dino is done. Now it's the pink one and the red heart between them. "You know men."
She looks to her boyfriend with a smile. "I do."
"Hey." He folds his arms. Throws her a look of faux irritation. "I told you it would hurt like a bitch."
"Stay still." My voice drops to that demanding tone. Damn. I don't have enough focus to keep shit professional.
She doesn't notice. She's too busy smiling at her boyfriend.
"You ready?" I hold her back in place with my free hand.
"Ready," she says.
I get to work on the pink dinosaur. She lies there, squeezing her boyfriend's hand as he distracts her with conversation about their upcoming vacation.
Usually, I love it when the boyfriend comes. Wife, daughter, mom, best friend, coworker—it doesn't matter. Talking keeps people distracted from the pain. If they're here alone, that's my job.
I should appreciate it more right now—I don't have a shred of comfort in me.
But, fuck, I hate seeing them happy.
I hate the way they're smiling at each other.
I hate that the sun is shining.
I hate the music flowing from our speakers.
I hate that Kay is hurting alone.
It only takes eight minutes to finish. I clean and bandage her, go through my aftercare routine, take her to the register.
