He motions to the teal chair. It's set up like one of those seats at the gym, one for chest flies. It's at a forty-five-degree angle.
I sit.
He pulls out a tray.
"Why do I feel like I'm at the dentist?" I hug my arms over my chest.
His taps my wrist with his pointer finger. "You can call this off. I'll wave the cancellation fee."
"Generous."
He nods.
"Won't your manager get upset?"
"I'm my manager."
"Oh."
"I co-own the shop." He peels my arms from my chest. He brings my left arm to the tray and wipes my forearm with rubbing alcohol. "You won't hurt my feelings if you leave."
"You're still the guy who did all the work on your Instagram?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'm sticking around."
He moves the temporary tattoo onto my forearm, right under the crook of my elbow. "I shouldn't tell you this, but anyone could do this."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's a simple stencil. I'm happy to take the shop minimum for it, but if you don't want to work with me—"
"No. It's fine." I force myself to smile. It is fine. Or it's going to be fine. If I go to another artist or another shop, then last night meant something. And it can't mean anything. "Really. I'm good."
"You still want it here?"
"Yeah."
"Exactly?"
"Can I see it first?"
"Nah, I'm gonna strap you down and do it freehand."
I stare back at him.
His dark eyes get bright. "Kidding."
"Oh."
"Sorry." He peels the plastic off the temporary tattoo, presses it to my skin, and wets it. "I know better than to tease when you're in the chair."
I make an uh-uh noise as my gaze fixes on the tattoo gun behind him.
The needle doesn't scare me. But the ink?
It's terrifying. There are no do overs or blank slates or quick fixes. Once the ink is on my skin, it's there forever.
"Are you a virgin?"
"You should know."
He laughs as he pulls on plastic gloves. "Is this your first tattoo?"
"Oh. Yeah."
"You don't like needles?"
"It's more the permanence."
He nods I get that, peels off the temporary tattoo's paper, grabs a mirror and hands it to me. "What do you think?"
That's it, right where I need it.
You are not your mistakes.
I hand the mirror back and stare into his dark eyes.
He cocks his head to one side. "You sure you're up for this?"
"Yeah. I just need coffee."
"Didn't like what I made?"
"No. It was good. I just…"
"Need more?"
"Yeah." Something like that.
He motions to the chair. "Is this how you want it?"
I stare at the temporary tattoo. It's exactly what I need. It's everything. It's perfect. "It's perfect."
"You can tell me if it's not. I know you're not shy about your preferences."
My cheeks flush. "Was that a problem?"
"Fuck no." He grabs the rubbing alcohol, wets a cotton swab, cleans the temporary tattoo off my skin. "I like you bossy."
"Barking orders?"
He chuckles. "Yeah." He presses a stencil to my skin and tapes one side. "Now stop distracting me or I'll fuck this up."
"Oh. Sure." I watch him tape the stencil to my skin.
He grabs the tattoo gun. "You ready for this?"
"Will you distract me?"
"Sure." He turns the gun on for a second. "This is what it sounds like."
"Okay."
"You didn't bring anyone to hold your hand."
"Is this where you ask women if they have boyfriends?"
He brings the gun to my skin. "I don't usually date clients."
"You date?"
He laughs. "I don't usually fuck clients." He looks up at me. "On three. I'll do one mark. So you can see how it feels."
I nod.
"One. Two. Three." He turns the gun on.
The needle hits my skin. It hurts. More than other needles have. And without the promise of bliss.
But it's nothing compared to… well, to everything.
I make my voice confident. Strong. "I can take it."
"You can take a lot."
My cheeks flush.
"Shit. You're distracting me again."
"That was all you."
He shakes his head. "Be good, Iris. I know you want to get my clothes off again. But you have to wait until I'm done with this."
I can't help but smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
He looks up at me. Raises a brow. You ready?
I nod. I am.
He turns the gun on and brings it to my skin.
Fuck. That hurts.
My fingers curl into fists.
My teeth sink into my lips.
It's a steady pain. The same stab of the needle over and over.
"You're getting a PhD, right?" he asks.
"Right."
"Where?"
"UCLA."
"Good school."
"Yeah. Great psychology department." I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. It does nothing to distract me from the needle stabbing my arm several times a second. It's uncomfortable. But tolerable.
"How far into it are you?"
"Just started."
"So, what, four or five years to go?"
"It's a six-year program." And I took a leave of absence winter quarter. I'm already behind schedule.
"Damn." He moves the gun to the next level. "That's a commitment."
"More than ink on your skin forever?"
"Not when you put it that way."
I press my lips together. That's two letters down. Three. Almost there.
"Are you going to be a shrink?"
"No. Most people who are counselors get a Doctorate of Psychology. A PhD is more focused on research and teaching."
"Which appeals to you?"
"Research."
"You are a nerd."
"Who suggested otherwise?"
"You." He finishes the first line and moves to the second. "It's cute that you hide it."
"You always torment women when you're tattooing them?"
"Of course. They have to listen. It's perfect."
I laugh.
He holds my arm steady. "Don't move."
"Don't make me laugh."
"Sounds fair, but I don't like it." He holds my arm as he traces the last word.
I stare at the beige wall. At the framed tattoo art. At the heart string lights lining the roof. "This shop is kinda girly."
"You're teasing me now?"
"Just saying."
"Co-owner's girlfriend helped decorate it."
"Oh. Is he here?"
"Not right now. I'm sure he's with her."
"You don't approve?"
"Nah. They're happy. It's good for them. Just—"