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Everything inside seemed clean. There was equipment on shelves and trolleys, and three people reclined on comfortable-looking couches while the tattoo artists leaned over them, working on half-finished designs that I wished I could see more clearly.
I recognized them from their profile pictures: Xavier had trimmed his beard, Jackson wore his long hair loose today, and Adrian had a new ear piercing, but otherwise they looked the same, and I decided the photos must have been taken recently.
Xavier looked up, cleaned his client’s skin with a cleaning wipe, and made his way over to us.
He towered over us when he reached the counter, but he looked friendly enough, especially when he leaned on the glass countertop and said, “What can I do for you?”
His beefy forearms were covered with classic Americana tattoos, and beneath his beard, his lips looked soft and thick.
I swallowed. With his sparkling green eyes on me, he was even more attractive in real life than he was in his profile picture. At that moment, I was so nervous wanted to run out of the shop.
Cora, sensing my hesitation, answered for me.
“This is Emma,” she said. “She’s got an appointment at two?”
Xavier ran a pencil down the large diary on the desk. The studio must have been a popular one — all three columns were full of scrawled names and numbers.
“Emma Kearns?” he asked as he rested the tip of the pencil on my name, and I nodded, grateful that I didn’t have to talk. “I’m Xavier. Nice to meet you.”
His eyes moved to the parts of the tattoo that were visible above my tank top, and I automatically pulled my blazer closed. I already felt half-naked wearing something that showed my chest for the first time in months, but Xavier’s gaze made my insides tingle. He seemed to sense my self-consciousness, because he turned away.
“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to a velvet-upholstered antique sofa next to the window. “Jackson’s finishing up; he won’t be long.”
I watched the guys while we waited. They worked in a state of deep focus, their brows furrowing as they drew on their clients, holding their tattoo guns as though they were pencils. Every now and then, they paused to wipe their clients’ skin with ink-stained cloths.
Xavier’s client was a tattooed man with the broadest chest I’d ever seen, and Xavier was adding more color to his lower leg. Jackson’s was a woman with a half-shaved head and talon-like nails, who was getting more ink added to her upper arm. Adrian’s was an old man with a smoker’s voice who kept asking to stop so he could cough.
All three men were heavily tattooed, I noticed. And they were all wearing the same shirt: a black tee with the Tattoo Workz logo on the back.
Through our messages, Xavier and I had agreed that we would cover my Nathan tattoo with a phoenix. He’d given me three options to choose from, and while all three were intricate and visually appealing, the phoenix design grabbed me from the moment I saw it. The bird was in mid-flight, its wings spread out, its gold and red plumage bordered by intricate linework. Its tail would fall between my breasts and its neck and head would stretch up my breastbone.
The artwork was beautiful, but it also had a deeper meaning that resonated with me. The phoenix, Xavier’s message told me, was a bird in Greek mythology that regenerated itself by bursting into flames and rising from its own ashes.
It reminded me of what I’d been through in the past few weeks. My relationship with Nathan had crashed and burned, and now I was rising from its ashes. I’d moved in with Cora, I’dalmostmoved on with another man, and despite the messages he’d sent me, I hadn’t contacted Nathan once.
Thinking about the tattoo in that light filled me with a new sense of freedom, and I was sick of feeling like Nathan was still controlling my life.
When Xavier asked me if I was ready to book a date to get my tattoo covered, I asked him to give me the next available appointment. And so far, I had no regrets — only a growing sense of anxiety about how much the tattoo was going to hurt.
Jackson’s client stood up, stretched, and yawned.
“That’s a good sign,” Cora said, as she nudged my ribs with her elbow. “It mustn’t have hurt too much — he looks like he’s ready to fall asleep.”
The client paid at the counter, and then Jackson turned his attention to me.
“Emma?”
My heart thumped as I stood up. Despite Cora’s assurances, I knew this was going to be painful — the last one hurt more than anything I’d ever done before, especially when the gun traveled over my sternum.
“I’m Jackson,” he said, his friendly blue eyes sparkling as he smiled. “Just to confirm, you’re not under the influence of drugs or alcohol?”
I shook my head.
“If you’re happy to go ahead with the phoenix design, I’ll get you to read and sign this consent form,” Jackson said as he passed a sheet of paper over the counter. I skimmed over it — the information was the same as what I’d seen on the website, covering the Tattoo Workz terms and conditions, payment, and aftercare.
After I signed it, Jackson gestured for me to follow him.
“Right this way,” he said, and led me to the reclining chair his client had vacated. “Take a seat.”
