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But those are my boobs he's using as bait.
He could at least ask permission.
I wash and dry twice, return to the suite, pull on plastic gloves.
Dean already has the stencil taped to Rick's arm.
But Rick is lacking the cool of a moment ago. He's staring at the tattoo gun, his eyes wide, his jaw tight.
Dean motions to the stool next to him. It's teal, like every other chair in the room.
I sit. Watch Dean turn the gun on. Look to Rick.
"You ready?" he asks.
"Yeah." Rick fails to sell his sentiment.
"Let's play a game." Dean turns the gun on. "Truth or truth."
"What?" Rick asks.
"It's easy. You pick truth or truth. You in?" The gun buzzes against his hand. "Don't forget, I can still write I have mommy issues on your arm."
"I'm in." Rick lets out a nervous laugh.
"You first, Chloe." Dean turns back to Rick. Brings the gun to his skin. "On three."
Rick nods.
"One, two—" There's no three. The needle is already on Rick's skin.
Rick bites his tongue as he stares straight ahead. He's clamming up. Nervous.
This isn't a particularly painful spot, but a needle jamming your skin several times a second is always painful.
Especially if you hate needles.
"Chloe." Dean taps my toe with his. "Your turn."
"Oh." I have to distract the client. It's weird, but it makes sense in a Dean kind of way. "How'd you get into doing ink?"
"Damn, my ego." He looks to Rick. "Can you believe she isn't asking about my cock?"
He laughs.
"Who'd want to know something about my feelings?" Dean feigns confusion. "But fair enough, sunshine." He traces the outline over Rick's skin. "Ryan got his first tattoo at sixteen. Our parents freaked. Grounded him for a month. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Talked him into taking me to the studio."
I can see that.
"The artist stared at me and said, 'what are you, twelve? Wait until you're eighteen, kid.' He wouldn't do it. Later, I found out, Ryan had arranged that. But I didn't forget it. As soon as I turned eighteen, I went back there. To the same guy. He remembered me. Did my first piece for free."
"What was it?" I ask.
He taps his side. "Our beautiful state."
The ink he showed me that night.
I fight my blush, but it doesn't work. My cheeks are on fire.
