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“Breathe,” he said, “and don’t move.”
How do you breathe and not move? Before she could ask the question, the needle was cutting into her skin.
People without tattoos always seem to ask the same stupid thing; “Did that hurt?” Rebecca couldn’t count the number of times she had been packaging an order of supplies for a department, only to have the rep lean over the counter and make the same mindless comment so many others had already made. Men and women alike would ask with wide and interested eyes about what it felt like to get a tattoo. Rebecca knew that what they really wanted to know was if it was as bad as everyone thought, and whether they could endure it if they wanted one.
“It’s like being scratched,” she would tell them, “by a cat… over a sunburn.” If the person didn’t completely freak her out, sometimes she would go on to explain how there were places that hurt more than others. She was no expert, but getting a tattoo never felt good.
Today was no exception.
41
Sawyer dug a shallow line down her back, gently carving her skin and pumping it full of ink. The needle hummed and bounced so fast it was nothing more than a blur, leaving behind it a thin slug trail of black ooze and blood. He used one hand to keep the skin taut under the machine, while he lightly ran over the outline.
Rebecca, meanwhile, tried to do what everyone always did under the needle. Most people who were in pain tried to grit their teeth and bear it. They’d focus, and concentrate on the sensation with an intensity that would impress a crossfit coach. Some would sit there and pretend that they didn’t feel much, all the while grinding their teeth and curling their toes in their shoes. Others would sit and take it, but they’d tend to be highly focused on the discomfort and telling themselves that it would only last a while. And then there were the ones who acted as if a limb was being cut off. Anyone who overreacted and bounced around got the added bonus of a stray line.
And that shit’s forever.
Rebecca herself seemed to take a different approach to pain management. As she sat in the chair, it seemed as though she was embracing the sensation. The hum of the machine and the breath of the artist. The feel of the needle carving its way along her skin, and the sound of the tattooist moving into a better position. The sensation of the line being engraved upon her and the waves of discomfort that came with it; this was all part of the experience. There was no way to stop it. There was no way to make it better. There was no way for her to make it shorter or hurt less. She reminded Sawyer of how he himself took a tattoo, embracing the sensation and allowing it to happen.
A twinge of guilt attacked his conscience. This was a huge piece for such a small girl. Hell; her petite back was half the size of his. Did she know what she was getting herself into? Would she regret it? When he walked out into the lobby, he’d been shocked to see who the next client was. She wasn’t what he’d expected at all. Her barely five foot five frame was dwarfed by her long mane of fire-red hair. Hell, she barely could pass as legal if he didn’t know from her paperwork that she was thirty-five. She looked more out of place in his studio than anyone ever before. And she wanted a back piece! Was she out of her mind? Had she thought this through?
He shook the thoughts out of his head. It wasn’t his job to be the moral police or her daddy. People came in for tattoos, and his job was to give it to them. But as he watched the tiny redhead in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel a little protective.
“You’re good in a chair,” Sawyer mumbled, while dabbing more ink.
“Thanks,” Rebecca replied softly and sighed, still remaining completely motionless. “I hope you don’t suck at this.”
He smiled at that. It had been a long time since anyone had questioned his work or ability. Which was something he had earned. He’d spent years as an apprentice of some of the best artists in the world, and then spent every waking moment living and breathing tattoos. He had won competitions, been featured in magazines, and had a long waiting list—and that was on a referral basis only. His career had reached a point where getting a tattoo from Sawyer Monroe was something highly sought after. He could tell that this little fireball sitting before him wasn’t used to handing control over to some other person. Something else he had in common with her.
