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My eyes grow wide with shock and a little bit of excitement. “Can you teach me some moves?”
His lips curl into a lopsided grin, and one blond brow arches in question. “You’re not afraid of me?”
I laugh. “Why would I be? Are you scary?”
“Not really. I’m just used to people judging me on my looks.”
I hand him the vape pen again. “So you decided to judge them first?”
“I suppose. Bad habits are hard to break.”
I laugh. “So are good habits,” I accept the vape pen back and hold it up. “Exhibit A.”
We share a moment of companionable silence, which I hate, and nod at his arm. “Nice ink. Who did it?”
“The guy I apprenticed with did all of my ink except this one,” he points to a small star tattoo on the left side of his neck. “A chick I knew once upon a time did this one.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “Of course she did.”
“Hey, she was really fucking hot.”
Men are so easy. Sometimes it annoys me how we make them out to be so complicated. “So, you apprenticed with someone? Are you a tattoo artist now?”
“Yep. Once I’m patched in, I’ll get back to it.”
“I’d like to get more ink,” I say, thinking of the butterfly on my ankle and the hummingbird on my hip.
“You asking?”
I nod. “You offering?”
He nods and pushes off the picnic table he’s leaning against. “I’ll set up my kit in the bar.”
“Seriously?” My eyes are wide and my heart is racing. The only thing I love more than weed therapy is tattoo therapy.
“Yeah, unless you’re bullshittin’ me?”
“I’m not,” I say quickly and slide off the table with a big-ass grin. “I’m ready. Right now.”
Tank laughs and shakes his head. “Ten minutes is all I need.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting in a chair with rock music blaring from the speakers all around me while Tank inks the start of mandalas that I hope to turn into a full sleeve.
It hurts more than I remember, but dammit, it also feels good. And for a few hours, I’m not thinking about whether or not I’m going to fuck upFor Goodness Cakes, what Joaquin thinks about me, or if I’ll die before lockdown ends.
For now, I’m blissful as fuck.
Gia stands in front of Tank’s tattoo setup and folds her arms. “I call next,” she says with a grin. “Since we’re not allowed to leave without an escort.”
Tank smirks. “Do you have anywhere else to get inked?”
“Naughty prospect,” she laughs. “There’s always more skin, but I want a rose on my ear, so the center of the rose is this diamond stud.”
“That sounds so cool,” I squeal, giddy from the weed and the pain, or just plain fucking giddy.
An hour later, I have plastic wrap wound around my upper arm with vibrant colors popping underneath. I feel calm and like I’m settling into this weird alternative universe of lockdown.
I know there’s danger outside the compound—real life or death danger—but inside these walls, it feels like a nonstop party.
