My face gets hotter until my eyes are burning. “Um, I’m here with my friend Blaire, and she says you’re the guy to come to for tattoos,” I whisper, not being able to meet the intense gaze in his blue eyes. I can see why girls like the bad boys. He has trouble written all over him, and it is affecting me in ways I like—and really don’t like.
“Ah, you’re the famous Everly she rants about,” he replies.
I turn around and pierce her ‘innocent’ face with my eyes. Just what has she said? “That would be me, I suppose,” I confirm through clenched teeth.
“All good things, I swear! She didn’t mention how gorgeous you were, though. I have a thing for long wavy hair.”
“Oh.” And there goes my face again, blazing like the flames of hell. “Um, thank you?” I do not know how to handle men expressing themselves like this. Is this a part of the bad boy persona women flock to? I get the appeal.
He smiles, showing his dimples. Of course, he has dimples. Unbelievable. “How can I help you today?”
I swallow, trying to coat the dryness in my throat. I slip my sweater down my shoulder and trace my finger along my collarbone. “I really love this butterfly in your book, and I was hoping to get a smaller one here with the words, ‘Until the end of time and space’, with a few stars in the background. Like a galaxy or something.”
He straightens his stance and nods, becoming completely professional. “I can do that. Give me a few minutes to draw it up. How big do you want it?”
I cough. “Excuse me?” My mind only goes to one place.
He tosses his head back and laughs, “The tattoo, doll. How big do you want it?”
“Right, I know.” I clear my throat, feeling the awkward build-up choke me to put me out of my misery. “I’d like it along the collarbone. I don’t want it covering my chest or anything. I want it to look graceful, pretty; I don’t know, timeless? Maybe.”
“I get it. I love it. It’s different from what I’m used to doing.” He starts drawing what I’ve imagined. As the butterfly takes form, tears threaten to spill out from me. I’m fascinated with how quick he can sketch out what I said I wanted. He draws a smaller version of the butterfly, landing on the first lettering of the quote with its wing spread. The writing is in beautiful cursive, and he holds it up just a few minutes later, stunning me.
“Wow. It’s beautiful. It’s everything I wanted. How did you know that?” I reach out to touch it to make sure the drawing is real.
“You look like the kind of girl that likes it simple, but meaningful. I try and add that to all my clients.”
“You’re very talented,” I say.
“Thank you. Let me size this up on your shoulder, and we will get started, okay?”
I lower my sweater again, and he marks my skin and the paper. My heart thumps with nerves and anticipation. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. Adrenaline courses through my veins. I feel like I’m going full speed ahead in my life, not even derailing for a moment. But it feels good. I see why people do this.
Five minutes later, I’m walking back to the chair. Andy shaves the skin where the tattoo will be going, wipes it with an alcohol wipe, and prepares the machine with a fresh needle. He gets all of the colors ready in small plastic containers and fills them with blue, white, black, purple, and pink.
“Alright, so for the galaxy, I’m going to fade it under the words, too. Think of it like fading into your original skin tone. What do you think?”
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I trust you.” I glance to my right to see Blaire leaning against the counter with a smile on her face. She gives me a thumbs up.
“Is this your first tattoo?” he asks with a buzz of the machine.
“That obvious?”
“Virgin skin is the best skin. The first tattoo is unlike any other.”
I had no idea tattoos can be sexualized, but here we are, and he is making me flush from his words. “You enjoy embarrassing me.”
“The flush is cute; I can’t help it,” he winks.
I’d have to be dead to not feel something from the motion.
“Ready?”
I lean my head against the headrest and exhale, inhale, and exhale again. “Ready.”
“Here we go.” The first hit of the needle makes me hold my breath. It feels hot and coarse, like the roughest sandpaper just melting into me. I wince from the pain, and he must notice because he stops tattooing. “Breathe and relax, don’t flex. I know it’s hard, but think of something that makes you happy.”
I nod before he starts in again, and I think of the time Rowan and I went ice skating for the first time. He sprained his ankle, and I bruised my butt. Neither of us could walk right for a week, and I couldn’t sit straight for three months.
“All done.”
“Already?”
“It’s been an hour. You did great.” He soaks a piece of gauze with liquid and puts it on my skin.
I groan with relief. That feels so good. It’s cold against the heated flesh.
“It’s the best part. I know. Stand up and see it in the mirror before I cover it and tell you the routine.”
My equilibrium is off for a minute when I stand. When everything finally feels like it isn’t about to slide sideways, I stand in front of the full-length mirror and throw my hand over my mouth.
I immediately start crying. It’s better than I could have ever imagined. It’s beautiful. It’s everything I wanted. The galaxy swirls around mysteriously, the cursive lettering is delicate and precise, and the blue in the butterfly is so vivid it looks real.
“I love it,” I choke out.
“Can I ask what
