Page 309 of Devil’s Disciples

“I’ll do it right now,” she said with a smile.

She took a photo with her phone, made an Instagram post, and put several hashtags on it. After posting it, she stood. “There you go.”

He wrapped her tattoo with a protective wrap, instructed her on aftercare, and gave the tattoo one last inspection. “Looks good.”

“I’m not a tattoo virgin anymore.” She opened her arms wide. “Do you hug?”

He stroked his beard nervously. “If he’s cool with it, I’m cool with it.”

“He’s cool with it,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Give me a hug.”

While they hugged, his phone, which was sitting on top of a large red tool box, was buzzing like a bee. When she released him, he reached for it.

“Holy shit.” He turned his phone to face her. “Look at this.”

I looked at the phone but saw nothing but a picture of a tattoo machine.

“What?” Abby asked.

He moved the phone closer. “My followers.”

The number of followers listed on his Instagram page was changing right before our eyes. In the time that he held it in front of us, the number changed from five thousand to seven thousand, and was steadily climbing.

“You did an awesome job. Tagging you in that post was the least I could do,” she said. “Maybe you’ll get some business out of it.”

He flashed the peace sign. “Thanks, Abby.”

She returned the gesture and stepped to my side. “Do you like it?”

I gave the artist a wave and turned toward the door. “I love it.”

“Me, too.”

“That other guy was a dip-shit,” I said. “I can’t believe he wouldn’t tattoo you.”

She chuckled. “Since when is Benadryl a narcotic?”

The first tattoo studio we’d gone to asked that she fill out a questionnaire. One of the questions asked if she had taken any medication in the last twenty-four hours. She listed Benadryl, which she’d been taking for the rash on her arm, and Pepto-Bismol, which she’d been taking for her upset stomach. The artist refused to tattoo her because of her recent use of Benadryl.

I shrugged. “I think he just didn’t want to do it and used that as an excuse.”

“There’s a reason for everything,” she said. “It brought us here, and Steve was awesome.”

I didn’t agree with the everything happens for a reason remark, but I did agree that Steve did an awesome job.

“Agreed,” I said. “Want to grab something to eat?”

“I’m exhausted,” she murmured, yawning as she spoke. “I think the whole tattoo thing wore me out. Can we just go home, and eat something there? I’m scared to eat restaurant food, anyway.”

Her stomach had been a disaster for the last ten days. If she didn’t take Pepto-Bismol regularly, she was miserable. A light meal, relaxing, and getting some sleep was probably in her best interest, anyway.

“Sounds good,” I replied.

An hour later, we were laying in her bed watching television. Six months prior, I didn’t give a shit about what was on TV and hadn’t so much as turned mine on in years. Now, Abby and I had no less than half a dozen shows we enjoyed regularly. I looked forward to the time that we watched television together, as most of it was done from the comfort of her bed.

“I guess I ought to change my address,” I said. “I’m never at home.”

She nestled against me, resting her head against my chest. “You should just move in.”