“Hey, at least I got a date to the prom. I don’t ever see anyone with you two losers. And we all know that Malik will never ask only-the-lonely Keller out anyway. Plus, you wouldn’t say yes if he did. Losers,” she says, sitting back in her own chair while smiling at us.
A burning heat flushes my cheeks and no doubt they would be fire-engine red if I looked at a mirror. Why did she just say that? I anxiously glance over at Malik to see him glaring at her. What do I say? As if you would say anything, Keller. An awkward silence permeates the room, except for her foot swinging loudly against the chair.
“C’mon, you two. You act like nobody has bloody eyes in their sockets. Malik looks at you like he wants to eat you for breakfast and you look like you either want to let him or run. I am leaning more toward running.” She looks directly at me. “For the sake of the shop, please just fuck and get it over with.”
“Step carefully, B,” Malik says, his voice a low rumble.
“Geez! Can’t anyone take a joke up in here?” Billy gets up, reaching for her jacket. “While we are slow, I am going to grab us all some subs for dinner.”
I watch her stroll up to talk to Ginger before walking through the door, plowing through a group of guys coming into the shop. I am almost afraid to look at Malik because of the embarrassment coursing through me. Wow… just… wow.
“You know, I could fire her but for only one problem,” Malik says, placing his laptop down to stand.
I clear my throat before answering. “What’s that?” My voice comes out gravelly and deep. Oh, no. I am not meaning for it to go all sultry.
“She is one hundred percent correct,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
“But you’re never going to ask me out. Are you?” I ask, knowing the answer before he opens his mouth.
“No,” he says, after a moment’s pause.
I am more relieved than disappointed, which surprises me. The attraction between us has always been strong—I guess in more ways than one. I always thought that when my life became settled, if it ever did, something might possibly happen between us. But now I know for sure. It is more comforting to be assured that I will not lose him as a friend by messing it up with anything else.
“Good,” I say.
“Huh?” The look of confusion on his face is priceless.
I laugh, only because I cannot hold back my reaction from his comic expression. I don’t imagine that Malik gets rejected much, if ever.
“I’d much rather have you for a friend and boss than be just some ex and unemployed,” I say.
He walks up to me, his head shaking. His hands rest on his waist.
“True that. Look, I have never pressed you for your past and I won’t. Ever. But one day, you will meet someone who will break all your barriers. When you need that friend, come find me. I will always be here for you, Keller,” he says, leaning in to whisper quietly against my ear. “You feel me?”
I nod, knowing that he is wrong. I will never let my barriers down, because the day that I do, will be the day that I die. That is what happens to foolish people. He slowly leans back, letting me see the sincerity in his eyes.
“Hey guys, I have your next clients up and ready.” Ginger announces. Her words connect us to reality.
Malik turns away, nodding to Ginger. I do the same. I guess Billy did us both a favor by forcing us to clear the air. I owe her a big thank-you when she gets back—and money for dinner. The sound of Malik’s customer greeting him prompts me to look up at my next client. Great. Just what I need—another frat boy who has a hard-on for a tat.
He smiles before reaching me. Several strands of brown hair escape from underneath a gray beanie. I can’t help but notice his defined muscled chest that he proudly displays, letting it peek out of his semi-unzipped black hoodie, no shirt underneath. Douche alert! However, I have to give him mad props for sporting some sexy, hip, threadbare jeans.
“Hey,” he says, offering his hand to shake.
I look down at his outstretched arm before glancing up at him. He’s got at least five inches on me. I would guess probably around six-two or even taller. And handsome in that scruffy, college-boy way—all chiseled jaw with just a hint of a five o’clock shadow, which seems to float most women’s boat, but so not me. He looks confused when I don’t grasp his hand. For some odd reason, I don’t want to take it. I guess I’m over this everyday type of client, but this is what pays the bills. So I plaster a smile on my face and reach for the hand that he still offers. My small one slides into his, and I instantly jerk my arm away. I don’t like how his size dwarfs me. It reminds me too much of someone who I’d rather never think of again. I resist the urge to wipe my hand against my jeans.
“Hi. What tattoo are you getting today?” I ask, almost too quickly. I turn away from him to walk toward my workstation, listening closely as he follows behind me.
“Something really simple. A date. I was thinking all numerals in black ink,” he says.
I stop and change direction to look at him after that statement. Oh my God. Is he for real? Does he think I’m stupid? Like I am going to spell out all the numbers? Maybe he thinks I’m going to Egyptian hieroglyph his ass. Stupid college boys always assume I am dumb just because of the number of tats covering my body. I may not have a high school diploma, but I have life lessons that would outsmart them any time of the day.
“Uh, numbers. Just simple numbers is fine,” he stammers, as I move toward my area obviously ignoring him
I have already prepared my space for my next customer, so I indicate for him to have a seat. He slowly sits down and I watch him look nervously at my instruments. Ah. He really is a tat virgin.
“Is this your first tattoo?” I watch his body language for signs that I can talk him out of it. For some reason, I do not want to ink him. I can’t explain it. It definitely could be his body size, but for the life of me, I have no desire to touch him.
“Uh… yeah,” he says. His face pales when he glances up at me. “I’m not a big needle fan.”
He actually has russet-colored eyes. I’ve used that particular shade to paint a thousand times in my lifetime, but have never seen someone with eyes that match it exactly. I stare into rich brown irises that have a reddish-orange tinge around his pupils. His eyes are deep-set with a slight slant at the corners, hinting of someone exotic down the family tree. I catch myself gazing stupidly at him. What are you doing, Keller? Snap out of it! My inside voice screams at me.
I look around to see if Billy is back. She would kill me for trying to pawn off another tenderfoot on her. I glance over to see that Malik is already gearing his machine up to tattoo his client. Taking a deep breath, I return my eyes to his. He is still staring at me.
“You know, I always advise my customers to be one hundred percent sure before getting a tattoo. If there is any doubt, then you should go home and think about it for another twenty-four hours. That will give you time to decide if this process is for you or not, especially now that you have seen everything for yourself.” I gulp in air, saying all that in one rushed breath.
I watch closely for his reaction, and it surprises me. Instead of the nervousness that I expect, I now feel a calm radiating from him. I’m not sure where it comes from, but it throws me into left field.
“Well, that makes me feel better,” he says, his voice revealing a slight Southern accent.
“What does?” Now I am completely and utterly confused.
“I am guessing that date tattoos are fairly simple and easy money makers,” he says. “Am I right?”
“For me they are,” I answer honestly. I have no idea where he is going with this.
“Well, you could have taken my money and slapped the tattoo on, but instead, you took the time to possibly talk me out of it. And offer good advice,” he says, with a crooked smile.
“Does this mean you’re going to wait?” I ask, eagerly awaiting his answer.
He pauses before answering. “No. I’m ready. But, it was nice of you to throw
that out there at the risk that I could have walked away.”
Damn. In fact, double damn. I take a rush of breath in and sputter a cough out, choking on my own saliva.
“Are you okay?” He stands to try and pat me on the back.
I hold my hands out while moving, not wanting him to touch me. My eyes water from the force of my coughing fit. I barely hear him speaking as he shoves my bottle of water into my hand. In between barks, I take large swallows. The water washes away the tickle in the back of my throat and hopefully the stupidity that is invading my brain. Finally, I am able to speak. “Thanks,” I say, barely choking the words out.
“You’re welcome. I couldn’t let my artist choke to death before I benefit from her talent.” He obviously is trying to make light of the situation.
I take several more gulps of the water so that I don’t have to reply to his comment. The time actually allows me to think. I can tattoo numbers. I have tattooed so many of them I could do it in my sleep. It should be a breeze. I can’t remember why I was even sweating the situation before. Is it my time of the month? It would explain my overly emotional climate this weekend.
“So, you want month, dash date, dash year?” I ask, looking around for the cap to the water bottle.
“Yes. Is this what you are looking for?” He holds up the top.
I nod, reaching for it. My hand hesitates before taking it from him. I try to maneuver myself where I make sure not to touch his long fingers. The whole situation is just ridiculous. My hand actually shakes as I place the top back on my drink before sitting down. I reach for a pair of latex gloves, stretching them on.
“Ginger should have asked you if you had any allergies to latex,” I say, needing to immerse myself in my world of art to escape this idiot I’m becoming. “Do you want any particular font?”
“Yes, she did and no, I don’t. No allergy and no special font. Whatever you think looks best,” he says, sitting back down.
“Where do you want it?” I glance directly into those eyes of his.
“On the left side of my chest,” he answers, not hesitating for a second and then his voice drops an octave. “Over my heart.” The answer is one I can tell he has carefully thought about.
I don’t miss the pain showing deep within his eyes. It calls to me, to my own personal brand of torment. I know what it’s like to be connected to something that scars you to the bone, never leaving, always right underneath the skin waiting to get out. I quickly turn away, closing my eyes to steady these off-kilter emotions threatening to expose me. I don’t want to share that with him, not with anyone.
“Okay. Beside you is a piece of paper and pencil. I need you to write down the date exactly how you want it and I’ll draw something up for you,” I say, not looking at him. Having clients physically communicate what they want helps me confirm what they are asking for, especially if I were to tattoo incorrect information. This could help cover me.
In only seconds he hands the paper to me. I reach for some of my stencil paper and stand up to outline some different numerical fonts. Neither one of us says anything into the silence we create. The music playing overhead and the buzz of Malik’s machine are the only sounds between us. I take as much time as possible, without being obvious, to stabilize my emotions.
“What’s your name?” His voice breaks up the monotony.
Didn’t I tell him? I usually introduce myself first, but nothing has been the norm this evening. “Keller,” I answer, looking down at the stencil I am still working on.
“Interesting name,” he replies.
“Mmm,” I say. Though I aimed for a response, it sounds more like a grunt.
“How long have you been tattooing? I hope you take it as a compliment when I say it cannot have been for too long,” he says.
I turn my head ever so slightly to look at him. He is sitting back comfortably with his feet up in my chair. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest. It is hard to explain why I have so much experience at my age. People never understand when you tell them you started tattooing at fifteen and that you did it almost every day of your life. When most girls were worried about boys and makeup, I was worried about lines and shading. Not to mention sterilizing my equipment, praying I wouldn’t accidentally prick myself, and catch half the diseases the dogs I worked with carried.
“Long enough,” I answer. When I am finished, I walk over and hold the stencils out for him to preview.
“Those are good. I really like the first one,” he says.
I nod again and turn to cut out the one he chose. “You can take off your hoodie now,” I say. I can’t help myself when I sarcastically add, “Guess going shirtless is a college fad these days.”
“I wouldn’t know; I’m not a college student. I’m shirtless because I came to get a tattoo on my chest and figured it would be the easiest course of action—not to mention less painful. I normally don’t walk around without a shirt on. I’m not that big of a douchebag,” he says, taking the words right out of my mouth.
“Sorry,” I mutter, sufficiently put in my place. I take my gloves off and then replace them.
“Why did you do that?” He nods toward my hands.
I know immediately what he is referring to. “I don’t want to cross-contaminate any bacteria, so this is part of the process. I should have told you earlier that if you have any questions before and during tattooing to please ask,” I say.
This time he nods at me. He removes his hoodie, revealing more of that immaculate chest of his. I’ve heard of a six-pack, but damn, this guy looks to have double that. Guys who have a body like this work out religiously. That is not a turn-on for me. A gym is a place of punishment in my book; however, I do like viewing the results.
I grab a razor to shave the area, removing any hair from the site—not that he has a lot. The stencil is the tricky part: it has to be positioned symmetrically. I slowly lean down to place it where he requested, right above his left pectoral. My hands slightly shake as I smooth it out over his hard body, applying enough pressure for it to stay. His eyes stray to mine. We are only inches apart. My heartbeat thunders loudly in my head, deafening all common sense. He stares intently into my eyes, searching for something. I should be afraid. Horrified even. Instead, I am curious, a notion almost too alien for me to experience. What did he say his name was? I can’t remember if he told me or not.
“What did you say your name was?” I ask, not moving a centimeter away from him.
A puff of air warms my face, the scent of peppermint on his breath is strong. I breathe it in, letting it fill my lungs.
“I didn’t,” he quietly says. “It’s ah… It’s… Vin,” he stops. His eyes look away from mine, almost like he is questioning what he told me his name was.
Thank goodness I am not the only one flustered. He looks back up at me and gives a nervous laugh. I guess the idea of getting the tattoo is getting to him. This happens to almost everyone.
“Don’t worry. Everyone gets nervous,” I tell him, leaning back. “Go look in the mirror and see if it is placed where you want it.”
I watch him get up and walk over to look at his reflection. I enlist great restraint in not letting my gaze drift downward to his denim-covered butt, but instead watch his reaction in the mirror. His hand hovers over the stenciled outline. He turns back to sit again.
“It’s exactly where and what I want. Let’s do this,” he says, rubbing his hands together.
“If you are sure,” I reply. “Okay, I’m going to go over some basics.” I point to the surgeon’s steel tray where my equipment sits on a couple of paper towels. “These are my two different machines.” I tell him while assembling everything. “One is called a liner machine and the other is a shading machine. You will note that both the needle and tube are in individual, sterilized, unopened packets for each one. This is because they are disposable and will only be used for you. You will see that everything is covered in plastic baggies, including my machine and cord. This is to protect my equipme
nt from the mist of plasma and ink. Again, it helps to ensure no cross-contamination. I am going to pour some black ink in the cap sitting out and we will be ready to go.” I place my bottle of ink back in my box after using it. “Any questions?”
“Not yet,” he says.
“Alright.” I sit down on my rolling stool, sliding next to him. We are both about eye level now. “Just sit back and try not to move. If the pain becomes unbearable, just let me know. We can stop and take a break.” I dip my tube into the ink, pressing the power pedal. The humming of my machine completely calms me, reminding me this is what I do best.
I rub a little Vaseline over the stencil and begin the outline. My mind forgets who he is, concentrating on making my lines perfect. I give myself over to complete perfection. Every tattoo, no matter the simplicity, deserves everything inside of me. The numbers display a flair of my artistry in every curvature, my own signature that others can try and replicate, but will always be only mine. My inquisitiveness begs to know the significance of the tattoo. It is a date from ten years ago. I can’t believe I haven’t asked what it means.
“Can you tell me what the date signifies?” I ask, not taking my eyes away from my work. At first he doesn’t answer. I know that many times my clients aren’t willing to speak of the meanings behind their particular art. I respect that. On my body resides more than a few with meaning I will never share with anyone.
“I lost someone whom I loved very much,” he says, pausing for a second. “My mother actually.”
I wait for more of an answer, glancing quickly up to see him looking at me. I touch his chest with a paper towel, blotting away the blood and ink while I work. My mind wants to ask him for an in-depth explanation, but I can’t. I won’t.