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My hair’s dark, too, but I’ve had it blue for years. I used to have it longer, and bluer, back when it was my signature trait, my color. My flag.
Goes with the name. Can’t beat that. Ocean and blue.
Besides, my brother used to call me that. Blue.
I’ve kept my hair dyed, clinging to that persona, letting it be the one thing people see about me, that one thing that kept me sane and alive back then. That defined me. It was a rebirth of sorts. New color, new name, a new anchor to life.
New profession. Cars and speed. The one thing that destroyed my life and made my brother hate me. That split us up and put a rift between us.
Sometimes I wanna rip my hair out from the roots. Or shave my head and be done with it. Done with mourning and remembering and hoping.
Or so I tell myself.
My customer walks in, and I nod
absently at her, forcing my mind back to the present. We’d already talked on the phone about what she wants. A butterfly on her ankle.
She’s a tall, pretty brunette with big gray eyes that remind me of Kayla’s.
Kayla. Dammit. Jesse Lee hasn’t come in yet, but as soon as I’m done here, I’m gonna find him and introduce his face to my fist for the prank. As if Kayla would ever say she likes me or she trusts me, or whatever.
Asshole.
As I show the customer my drawings, and we discuss colors and size, I wonder if Kayla has any ink on her. And if not, if she’d like some.
If she’d let me put some on her.
Damn.
No reason why the thought should get me hard, but fuck if it doesn’t. This keeps happening, despite my resolve to stop thinking about her.
It’s so damn confusing, I think as I set about preparing my materials for the tattoo. One moment I think she wants me, the next she pulls back. One moment she seems not to even care I’m around, and the next she seems worried about me.
Add to that my back-and-forth between my body wanting her and my mind reeling me back, and it’s like whiplash.
“I like your hair,” my customer tells me, and I realize I’ve paused—again—with the tattoo gun in my hand. “Nice color.”
“Thanks.”
“And your T-shirt. What’s that logo?”
“DeathMoth. A local punk rock group. Zane Madden’s girlfriend is the vocalist, and Rafe Vestri the drummer.”
“Cool.” She keeps peeking at me and smiling, her cheeks coloring. Wait, is she checking me out?
“This will sting a little,” I tell her, my mind racing.
“I don’t mind some pain,” she whispers. Bats her lashes at me. “Mixed with pleasure.”
“Uh-huh. Are we talking about after-work hours?” Just to be sure we’re on the same page.
“Yes.” She colors some more. “If you like.”
Okay. She is hitting on me. Check.
I mean, hell, it’s not like it doesn’t happen. I may not be exotic looking and shit, but chicks seem to dig me, blue hair and all. Can’t say I understand it, but I’m not gonna complain.
I should say something. Give a witty comeback. Show her we’re on the same page. That I get off work at eight.
