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She called. I answered. We both had fun.
Win-win.
Fuck, I can't keep thinking about this or I'm going to be lateandhard.
I pull on the first clean outfit I find and I race to work.
When I arrive at the shop, my ten o'clock client is waiting. He's not in a rush—he's shooting the shit with Dare—but I can't exactly excuse myself to read my online crush's latest post.
Besides, that's not how this works. She stays in my cell, on my computer, in my bedroom.
Work now. Words later.
I meet my client at the counter, finalize the mockup, move him to my suite.
One line at a time, I fall into the familiar routine. The smell of sweat and A&D ointment, the feel of skin against my gloved hands, the hum of the tattoo gun, the mumbling pop-punk emanating from the speakers.
For some reason, our manager loves the genre. I don't mind the riffs, but the lyrics? Why are these suburban guys so angry at women for screwing someone else?
Move the hell on.
Not that I'm a bastion of letting go. Sure, I'm not screwed up over an ex—I don't have any exes of note—but I'm still obsessed with the woman I lost.
And I do love the arc of this album (our manager has an old school devotion to albums). The lyricist starts out cheeky, pushing people away with his wit. Song by song, he drops his defenses, admits hurt, pulls people closer.
In the end, he's still a mess, but he's not afraid to face it.
I always think ofHearts and Thorns, though I'm sure she'd hate the comparison. She loves women who pour their hearts out. Sometimes, I listen to her favorite artists, to get a feel for what she went through, to find a deeper level of understanding.
But there's no way I'm going there right now.
I shake off my thoughts and slip back into my work. The sleeve is epic. A massive octopus sinking a ship in stormy seas. I draw the last line of black ink. That's it.
My client rouses as I turn off the gun.
"That's it?" he asks.
My eyes flit to the clock. "Two hours."
"I can take more." He's in the zone, buzzing from adrenaline and dopamine, ready to face a mountain of pain.
"I know you can." He'll come down soon, but I might as well stroke his ego. "I'm wiped." I wrap his arm in plastic. "Take it off when you shower. Then breathable clothing."
"We can't finish today?"
"We'll be done soon. I promise."
I walk him to the counter and shake his hand.
Luna flirts all through checkout. Sweet smile, hair twirl, giggle, the works.
She's not really the sweet smile type. More theI know what I want and I ask for ittype. The same as Imogen.
They're friends, actually—Luna recommended me. And they're both sexy in a take-no-shit way.
Not that I want Luna. She's a knock-out, no question, but I've never felt an interest.
Now, she's my friend, and fellow Inked Love tattoo artist, Oliver's girlfriend. And that's simply out of the question.
