“Okay . . .” He comes out from behind the large thick curtain divider and stands behind the glass counter in the waiting area. “You must be Ivy, my six-thirty? You’re my gift card winner.”
“That’s me.” I put the book down and turn fully toward him, and the moment our eyes meet, an odd sensation comes over me. A warmth sparks deep in my core and seeps to my heart, creating a flutter that spreads throughout my body.
Deep chocolate truffle eyes lock on to mine, while a crooked smile and curious tilt of his head tells me he feels it, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure he feels exactly what I’m feeling, judging by the entranced expression on his face.
He clears his throat nervously and extends his tattoo-covered arm and hand to me. “I’m Lukas. Have we met before?” Slipping my hand into his, that strange feeling buzzes through me, stronger now that we’re touching. Grounding myself, I take in the sight of him. He’s young, I’d guess early twenties, and he’s covered in tattoos. A faded grey t-shirt stretches over his broad chest and toned muscular shoulders, revealing full-sleeved artwork. His hair is long, a bit past his shoulders, and jet black with razored edges. A silver barbell piercing decorates his eyebrow and a hoop hooks through his lower lip. His eyes are dark with amber flecks—what we gals would describe as bedroom eyes. Way too sexy to be looking into for long periods of time. He holds on to my hand for a few moments longer than what would be the norm, then slowly lets go.
“No,” I answer softly, unable to pull my eyes from his.
Although something about him feels familiar, I know for a fact I’ve never seen him before. I would definitely remember him. Even though I’ve never been attracted to someone like him before, he definitely has something going on about him that’s warming my insides in a very foreign way and throwing me off my inner axis.
An adorable boyish smile slowly spreads across his lips. “You look so familiar.” He shakes his head, sending his shaggy hair flying around like a black halo. “So, you ready?” His voice is raspy, kinda like when you’ve been at a concert all night screaming.
“I think so,” I reply, smiling back. “This is my first . . . I’m a little nervous.” I clutch the bag I brought with me that has a pair of shorts and socks for me to change into, which he suggested when we emailed earlier this week.
He gestures with his hand for me to follow him behind the dark heavy curtain. “I love virgins. Don’t be nervous. You’ll be fine. I’ll go nice and gentle. If you want to change into shorts, there’s a bathroom right through that curtain there. Just make a left.”
I quickly change my clothes and return to his work area, smiling nervously at him as I climb into the chair. He already has all his tools laid out on his workbench: the gun, itty-bitty cups of ink, and paper towels. Rock music is playing in the background, too, which I don’t recall hearing earlier, and incense is burning in the corner. He snaps on a pair of black latex gloves like a gothic surgeon and swivels his stool toward me.
“I have your sketch here,” he says, “ . . . and I gotta say. I really like it, and I think you’re gonna love it.”
He holds up a large piece of tracing paper for me to look at. It bears a design that I simply described to him via email a week earlier—a vine that swirls from the very top of my outer thigh down to my ankle, with swirly pieces that have different colored jewel-like flowers, as well as tiny butterflies and hummingbirds scattered about with wispy fillers. His sketch is an amazing work of art in itself. In fact, it’s so beautiful that I want to frame it and hang it on the wall at home. Somehow, he has captured exactly what I envisioned in my head.
Speechless, I stare at his drawing for a few moments. “Wow . . . it’s perfect.” I’m a bit nervous that it’s such a big tattoo for my first, but I don’t want to get some little tiny meaningless tattoo to ‘practice’ with before this one. I want something that’s worth it, something I’m committed to, that symbolizes the new me.
Grinning, he tapes it up to the wall next to the chair. “I tattoo freehand. That means I don’t sketch it out on you first, like an outline, and then fill it in. Instead, I tattoo just like I would draw or paint on paper and canvas.”
“Oh . . . so, what if you make a mistake?” I ask.
Laughing a little, he shakes his head. “You’re the first person to ever ask me that.”
Leave it to me to be the first idiot to offend this amazing artist. “I’m sorry.” My eyes glance back to his sketch. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Just curiosity, I guess.”
“Hey, I’m not offended at all,” he answers. “I admire cautious people who aren’t afraid to ask questions, especially about some guy marking their body for life.”
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Well?” I urge, raising my eyebrows up at him. “What happens if you make a mistake? Is there some kind of eraser thing?”
He looks at me sideways and winks. “I don’t make mistakes. And if I did? I’d do it so well you wouldn’t even realize it happened.”
“I see,” I grin, admiring his confidence.
“Some things in life, you just can’t do over. They’re meant to be permanent, whether they’re what we expected or not. Doesn’t mean they’re a mistake.”
I blink at him, allowing his words to sink in. “Very wise words, Lukas. Impressive.”
“Yeah, I’m like a walking fortune cookie. It’s from reading too much.”
“You can never read too much. How does that saying go? ‘He who reads lives a thousand lives’?”
He nods and gives me his crooked yet very charming and still hauntingly familiar grin.
“So much truth in words, Ivy.”
Looking me over, he nods his head to the music and scoots closer. “Okay . . . why don’t you lay on your left side . . . the chair reclines back like a bed.” He flips a lever, leaning the chair back, then puts his hand on me and guides my leg slightly. “Is that comfortable for you, for now?” he asks.
I nod, a little flustered at his hand on my thigh. “Yes, it should be.”
“Alrighty, you let me know if you start to feel uncomfortable or woozy or any stuff like that, okay? I brought you a bottle of water, too, in case you get thirsty.”
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” I rest my head against my bent-up arm and bite my lip nervously, eyeing him and all his apparatus. I feel like I’m at a strange doctor’s appointment.
As he brings the gun to my flesh, I clench my teeth, bracing myself for the unknown.
The first few seconds, I want to scream and kick him in the face. It burns. It’s noisy. And holy shit, it hurts. How the hell do people do this? WHY do people do this? I try not to move my leg, and wonder how safe this is. It feels like he is literally digging a hole straight through my leg.
He stops and looks up at me, peeking out from under the hair that has fallen across his face, and once again, I’m overcome by that bizarre feeling. My heart just seems to freeze . . . and then jumps back to its rhythm again. I blink at him, trying to bring myself back to normalcy.
“Ivy . . . you doing okay there, doll?” Laying the gun down, he hands me the water bottle, eyeing me with concern. I take it from him and drink slowly. He called me doll. I should be offended, but I’m not. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. Jesus. “You’re all tensed up.” A gentle squeeze of my leg meant to comfort me sends a jolt of heat straight up my thighs. “You’re doing great. I know it feels kinda strange, kinda like a bee is attacking you non-stop, but just try to relax, okay? It’s really not as bad as it feels, and it’s not as deep as it feels, either.”