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“Which is…?”
Shit.
I guess people wanted that, huh?
Usually, if I were out amongst the public it was with a firmly planted identity in mind – I wasn’t “playing” someone else.
Iwassomeone else.
That wasn’t an option anymore.
Now, I was just…me. Nothing to hide behind, no intrepidly detailed fictional backstory to lean on.
“Tempest,” I said, introducing myself by my own name – the only one I’d ever known, at least – for the first time.
He smiled. “Nice. The“storm clouds”thing seems much more fitting now. I’m Tristan,” he said, offering his hand, which I accepted.
His fingers swallowed mine in a firm grip, and the sameget closerurge I’d felt earlier returned.
A feeling completely foreign to me.
I didn’t let that handshake linger.
If he minded the abrupt way I pulled back, he didn’t mention it, dropping onto some strange stool-contraption and wheeling up to where I was seated.
“I’m gonna have you take your arm out of your tank, and your bra strap, if you’re wearing one,” he said, switching to a very professional, matter-of-fact tone. “I need to shave that area, just in case, and sterilize it, so your clothes might get a little wet. And you might leave here with a bit of ink on them. Is that gonna be a problem?”
I glanced down at my cut-off shorts and the plain tank top I’d tossed on. “No. I can keep my titty covered, right?”
Tristan’s eyebrows went up. “Uh… yeah. I mean, unless you want the tat to go down that far.”
“No. Just what’s needed to cover the rose,” I affirmed, then looked up to stare at the black-pained network of pipes that comprised the ceiling.
“You’re not gonna run out of here and stiff me, are you?” he asked, in a tone that was only half-joking. “Pri didn’t take a deposit, have you sign a waiver or nothing, did she?”
“No. And no. You’re not gonna give me a fucked-up tattoo, are you?”
He scoffed. “That ain’t even possible, swee—Tempest,” he corrected himself.
“Well then… unless you’re gonna have me go back out front… I guess we’re trusting each other.”
I dropped my gaze to meet his, and he nodded.
“Let’s get this started.”
* * *
The heatof the needle against my skin was… blissful.
With my gaze focused on the gorgeous mural decorating the opposite wall, I forced myself to feel it all – every prick of blazing hot metal, the filling of my pores with ink, the featherlight touch of Tristan’s hand as he moved.
As he facilitated step one of my reinvention.
Make no mistake – I was a woman whorequiredreinvention.
Intervention.
There was no real circle of concerned friends or family or coworkers for me, though.
