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I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Well?” I urge, raising my eyebrows up at him. “What happens if you make a mistake? Is there some kind of like eraser thing?”
He looks at me sideways and winks. “I don’t make mistakes. And if I did? I’d do it so well you wouldn’t even realize it happened.”
“I see,” I say, admiring his confidence.
“Some things in life, you just can’t do over. They’re meant to be permanent, whether they’re what we expected or not. Doesn’t mean they’re a mistake.”
I blink at him, allowing his words to sink in. “Very wise words, Lukas. Impressive.”
“Yeah, I’m like a walking fortune cookie. It’s from reading too much.”
“You can never read too much. How does that saying go? He who reads lives a thousand lives?”
He nods and gives me his crooked yet very charming and still hauntingly familiar grin.
“So much truth in words, Ivy.”
Looking me over, he nods his head to the music and scoots closer. “Okay . . . why don’t you lay on your left side . . . the chair reclines back like a bed.” He flips a lever, leaning the chair back, then puts his hand on me and guides my leg slightly. “Is that comfortable for you, for now?” he asks.
I nod, a little flustered at his hand on my thigh. “Yes, it should be.”
“Alrighty, you let me know if you start to feel uncomfortable or woozy or any stuff like that, okay? I brought you a bottle of water, too, in case you get thirsty.”
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” I rest my head against my bent-up arm and bite my lip nervously, eyeing him and all his apparatus. I feel like I’m at a strange doctor’s appointment.
As he brings the gun to my flesh, I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the unknown.
The first few seconds, I want to scream and kick him in the face. It burns. It’s noisy. And holy shit, it hurts. How the hell do people do this? WHY do people do this? I try not to move my leg, and wonder how safe this is. It feels like he is literally digging a hole straight through my leg.
He stops and looks up at me, peeking out from under the hair that has fallen across his face, and once again, I’m overcome by that bizarre feeling. My heart just seems to freeze . . . and then jolts back to its rhythm again. I blink at him, trying to bring myself back to normalcy.
“Ivy . . . you doing okay there, doll?” Laying the gun down, he hands me the water bottle, eyeing me with concern. I take it from him and drink slowly. He called me doll. I should be offended, but I’m not. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. Jesus. “You’re all tensed up.” A gentle squeeze of my leg meant to comfort me sends a jolt of heat straight up my thighs. “You’re doing great. I know it feels kinda strange, kinda like a bee is attacking you non-stop, but just try to relax, okay? It’s really not as bad as it feels, and it’s not as deep as it feels either.”
I laugh nervously and sip the water again. “I guess I wasn’t sure what to expect. It does hurt.” I look at the first part of the vine that he’s started. Even this tiny bit looks really great, and the excitement of seeing it helps distract me from the pain.
“You have to just put your mind elsewhere,” he says. “Separate yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I know you’re probably not used to older women in here being all scared and jumpy.” I ease my body back down, giving him the ‘go-ahead’ to continue.
He picks up his gun and starts again, but it feels like he is being gentler and lighter now. “Old?” he repeats with narrowed eyes, wiping at my leg with a paper towel. “You’re not old.”
“I’m pretty sure I am not your average customer.”
“I have no average customers. How old are you, thirty? That’s not old.”
“Try thirty-six.”
He scoffs and re-positions my leg. “Shit, that’s not old either, and you look great. I see some young girls in here that look awful from doing drugs, abusing their bodies, baking in the sun. Hell, most of them have fake body parts. I don’t know what I’m touching half the time, and what might break off or pop.” He smiles up at me. “You have a really sweet natural beauty.”
Heat rises to my cheeks again, and I quickly look away from him and focus on the far wall. “Thank you for saying that. I guess I’m just starting to feel old. My daughter is almost eighteen, I’m recently separated, and I feel like all the women I see around me are young and thin, with these amazing bodies, looking like they just stepped off the runway.”
“Eh, trust me. Underneath all the makeup and the clothes, they ain’t all that. In fact, they’re pretty fuckin’ boring, too. Most of them can’t even carry a decent conversation, unless it’s about themselves.”
His soft humming to the music as he works his gun back and forth over my leg distracts and lulls me, putting me more at ease. “So how come you wanted to get a tattoo?”
I decide to just be honest rather than tell a silly lie. “I’ve always wanted one, but my ex-husband said they were ugly. He wouldn’t let me get one because he thought I would look like a slutty stripper.”
He wheels closer to his bench and changes something on his gun. “Ugly, huh?” He pushes his hair out of his eyes, his arm muscles flexing and rippling while he does whatever he’s doing, and I have to tear my eyes away before he catches me. “I guess there’s a ton of slutty strippers walking around then. But I don’t see you as one of them.” He wheels back over to me and places his hand on my thigh, once again sending a slight tingle travelling up between my legs. Good Lord! When was the last time I was touched there? Or the last time I felt butterflies?
His voice interrupts my butterfly moment. “And your body is yours—you can do whatever you want with it. No one should ever tell you what you should think, do, wear, or anything else.”
“Easier said than done when you’re married.”
“Well, it sounds like he won’t be inflicting his opinions on you anymore, so now you can spread your wings. Just like this little butterfly right here . . .” He taps my leg, and I follow his gaze to see the beautiful little butterfly he’s etched onto me forever.
“It’s beautiful,” I exclaim. “It looks so real. How do you do that?”
“See? That was supposed to be a bird, but I fucked it up and now it’s a butterfly.”
My mouth falls open until I see the playful grin spread across his lips. “I’m kidding,” he says. “I just wanted to see your face. And it was pretty funny.”
“Not funny,” I reply, laughing.
I lay there for two hours while he works, but it feels like an eternity. We talk a little and then fall into a comfortable silence, just listening to the music while I try not to think about the burning, digging feeling. Finally, he backs away and announces that it’s a good place to stop until my next appointment.
Sitting up and stretching out, I look down at my leg and notice its very red and angry looking around the artwork, but the design itself is beautiful. The vines, flowers, and butterflies look so realistic, almost 3D. I have no idea how he can make something look so realistic and pretty with that tattoo gun.
“You like?” he asks, gently laying a large white bandage over it and taping it to me.
“I love it. I can’t wait to see it finished.”
“Soon enough.” He winks at me and stands up. “You feel all right to walk around?”
I swing my legs off the chair and stretch out a bit more. “Yup.”
“You have awesome pale skin, my favorite type to work with. The ink always looks so vivid on it.”
“Um, thanks . . . I think,” I answer, blinking up at him.
“Yes, it’s a compliment. . . . you’re beautiful.”
Is he flirting with me? No, he’s just being nice and polite. He hands me my jeans and shoes, a sweet gesture that feels oddly intimate. “You can go change while I clean up, then we can book your next appointment if you still want to?”
“Definitely. I’m not backing out now. I need to see this beaut
iful creation of yours finished.”
He gives me a grateful smile. “Good girl, I’m lookin’ forward to it, too.”
I head to the bathroom to get dressed and fix up my hair a little while I’m there, because I look like I just woke up. Glancing at my watch, I realize it’s nine-thirty already. I’ve been here for almost three hours. Shoving my shorts in my bag, I join him up front, my leg sore as I walk.
He’s bent over a large day planner with a lot of scribbling on it, comparing it to his cell phone. I can’t help but smile at how determined yet confused he looks.
He notices my sympathetic smile. “I’m trying to use this new app to keep track of my appointments, but I still rely on this paper mess,” he tells me. “Old habits die hard.”
“I know what you mean. We’ve just had all new software installed where I work, and I still don’t trust it completely.”
“What do you do for work?”
“I’m a Human Resources manager.”
“Wow. That’s really cool. Do you get to fire people?”
I let out a laugh. “Yes, sometimes. I hire them, too. I don’t like firing people. It’s not fun at all.”
He sighs and goes back to studying his calendar. “So how about the Friday after next, at six-thirty again?” he asks. “Then you’ll be my last appointment again, and I won’t have to rush.”
