Ink My Heart

nonchalantly, “This is a great song.”

Used to tuning out the music, I pause and listen. I can’t place the loud banging melody.

With the needle paused and me quiet, he asks, “It okay to talk?”

I’m not usually a chatterbox, but I’m all about the client. If they want to gab, then I’ll listen. The talkers are better than the cadavers who don’t say one word during the entire process. “Sure. Sometimes I’m focusing, so I don’t always reply right away. Or I may ask you to repeat something.” I press the needle back to his skin.

“Understandable.” He lets out a soft breath, I’m guessing from the pain. “How long have you been inking?”

I wipe at a dot of blood. “For almost six years. Obviously, I wasn’t licensed the first couple.” Through years of tattooing, I’ve learned people like to talk about themselves. It has become habitual for me to steer the conversation toward them, since I’m a private person. “How long have you been singing?”

“Two years.”

“Would I know anything you sing?”

“Yeah, I think so. We do a variety of covers from the Stones to Chemical Romance, but we have some originals too.”

“What’s the band?”

“Luminescent Juliet.”

Deliberating over the name, I fill in a corner. “Huh. You guys play at the Creed a lot, right?”

“You’ve been?”

I shake my head before realizing he can’t see me. “No. I don’t get out much. Too busy.”

“You should come to a show sometime.”

“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to commit. As wound up as he gets me here half naked, seeing him onstage could put me over the edge. My hormones might turn me into a raging groupie. The thought of me jumping onstage and dry humping his leg almost causes a snicker to burst from me.

“My singing’s not too bad, but our guitarist and songwriter is really good. Even though he’s a dick, he’s like you. Extremely talented.”

I’m not even going to comment on the talent thing. “Not too bad, huh?”

“Well, you’d think I was an egotistical prick if I said I was great.”

The needle pauses over his skin and a laugh escapes me.

“You have an incredibly sexy laugh,” he says in a soft tone.

My mouth draws into an O. Nobody has ever told me that. “Um…thanks?”

It’s quiet except for the loud music in the background until he asks, “So I’m guessing you started tattooing when you were in high school?”

Still startled by his opinion of my laugh, I blurt, “Yeah, I’m lucky I never got in trouble. You’d think at least one parent would have had a fit. Maybe the ink stayed hidden before their parents could catch up to me.”

“How did a teenage girl get into inking?”

“Major art geek with an older boyfriend who tattooed. Once I started, I became addicted to creating art on skin.”

“Okay, I get the boyfriend connection, but I can’t imagine you as a geek.”

I shake my head. “Like I said, major.” He’s quiet for a moment and the buzz of the machine echoes with the music. Wanting to get off the topic of me, I ask, “So exactly how many art museums around the world have you been to?”

“Too many to count.”

The zing of excitement that sizzles through me at the thought of his interest in art is almost as electrifying as the attraction he produces when he pulls off his shirt. “Huh, you must really be into art.”

He shrugs. “I was stuck in a European city for a month every summer growing up, but art is…great.”

Great? The word kills my excitement at his interest in art. My love of art goes beyond the staleness of cliche. No art lover says “great.” But I keep the conversation going by asking him about different museums. While it’s evident he’s been to many of the greatest ones in the world, it’s also clear he’s nearly clueless about what he saw at any of them. He looked. He liked. He moved on. But I’m glad I’ve found a topic to pass the time and keep the conversation from getting too personal. And I’m glad his art obliviousness is a turnoff, because if he were into art as much as I am, I’d find him irresistible. Besides, talking to him about museums is comfortable because it prevents me from obsessing about the muscle and skin under my gloves.

Finally done, I lean back and eyeball the outline. Even I have to admit that it looks awesome. After letting him look in the mirror to check it out, and grinning at his grin, I clean the tattoo then apply cooling ointment and a bandage. Peeling off my gloves, I explain how to care for the tattoo, hiding the internal struggle I’m having over whether to follow through with my planned invitation. I take a deep breath and decide to go for it. His ignorance of art and his totally superficial, flirty personality have persuaded me I can handle the havoc he inflicts on my hormones.

“Speaking of art…I…ah…well, you seemed so cool with what I pulled when my ex showed up, I was hoping you’d go to an art show with me. I’m sure he’ll be there.” Justin watches me as he unhurriedly pulls his tank top back on. I bite on my lip ring like I always do when I’m nervous. “We can go as friends, but he doesn’t need to know that.”

A slight smile stretches across his face, and a gleam shining in his green eyes almost has me backing out.

“I would love to skip the entire thing,” I continue. I can’t seem to stop explaining. “It’s just, my friend is extremely excited about having her own exhibition I feel like I have to go, but I—I don’t want to go alone.”

“When is it?”

“Next Tuesday night at seven.”

He reaches for his sunglasses lying on the counter. “Tit for tat?”

Confused, I tilt my head in question.

“You come to my show; I’ll go look at art while your ex hovers.”

Ah, bribery. I consider his offer. Going to a show isn’t a date and I could leave right after. Though I’m not sure why he wants me to go so bad. Maybe he’s trying to get around my refusal to date customers. Not that I’m going to change my mind. “I can’t make it tomorrow, but your next one?”

He nods. “It’s a deal. I’ll pick you up?”

Though I’m relieved he agreed to go, picking me up sounds way too date-ish. “Thanks, but I’ll be coming from work. We could meet there.”

“Or I could pick you up here.”

His tone is persistent, and it’s kind of unfair to make him barter to be my fake date. “Okay, seven forty- five?”

He nods and holds out two slim cards for me to take. My expression is confused as I reach out.

“Two tickets for tomorrow night,” Justin explains.

“Oh yeah, I forgot. Great. I’m sure Todd or Mandy would love to go and bring a friend. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” He reaches for his coat. “See you Tuesday, love,” he adds with a grin before strolling out the door.

His dark, earthy scent lingers in the air. I link my hands behind my head and stretch back, groaning. “What the fuck am I doing?”

“I heard that!” Shay yells from the hallway.

The girl has bionic ears or something. I let out a sigh and dig in my pocket for a five. At this rate, I’m going to be paying for pizza and sub night for the rest of the year.

Chapter 6 Justin

We’re almost done with our second set. Though my lower back has been on fire all night from my new ink, the pain can’t destroy the high of performing. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. Being the center of attention