“You have a good one,” I call to my client as he walks out the door. I walk back to the chair where I just finished his tattoo. I wipe the chair and bring all the equipment in the back to be cleaned, getting myself ready for another client, my day going by quicker than expected with all of the walk-ins.
I move without thinking, my body already knowing what to do, my mind somewhere else, thinking about what I should make for dinner tonight, not needing to be present while I do the same actions I’ve done for the past twelve years since I started tattooing. I’ve worked in a few shops throughout my career, but the pattern doesn’t change, the movements always stay the same.
The door in front of the shop opens, the bell in front of it rings through the space, and I know if there is a walk-in, I’m the only artist available for the next few hours. I finish cleaning quickly, not wanting to leave them waiting too long, before raising my line of vision, connecting directly with my wet fucking dream.
I’ve known Olivia for a little while now, mostly because she is dating the only rival we have in town. Greg, the owner of Bold Ink which sits directly across the street from us. They have given us a hard time before, stealing our business, and making us work for any success in this town. It doesn’t help that Greg is a fucking dick, and he likes to play dirty. He loves coming over here, shoving his success in my face, making sure I understand that he thinks he’s better than me. It never used to bother me before, it usually takes a lot to get under my skin, but then he started bringing Olivia, forcing her to watch while he gloats, needing an audience for his stupid fucking charades, and that pissed me off more than anything.
Olivia started dating Greg a while ago, it must have been almost a year now, and I tried like hell to ignore how fucking jealous I was, but, God, it’s been fucking hard. I’m sure Greg doesn’t know, only because he would use any fucking chance he could to throw something in my face, but I don’t know if she knows. Whenever she enters the shop, my eyes always seem to fucking catch her, not wanting to look away. She has caught me staring a few too many times for her not to know, but I don’t think she ever told Greg.
The first time I saw her, I honestly couldn’t believe someone as gorgeous as her would settle for such a fucking tool, but I didn’t even focus on Greg, I could only focus on her. Golden brown hair and deep brown eyes took my goddamn fucking breath away, and she is always smiling, the entire room seeming to light up any time she enters. She looked young, too young for Greg and especially too young for me, but I’d still clock her in her early twenties, old enough to have a good head on her shoulders.
Although Greg always brought her with him to gloat, showing her off as a prize, she always looked a little uncomfortable. I waited for him to see it, to see that his actions were making his girlfriend uneasy, but he didn’t ever seem to give a shit, too desperate for her to see him in the spotlight, looking down on other people like a real jackass.
I hated the fact that I was attracted to her, still do honestly. I don’t like the idea of pining for someone else’s girl, much less a guy I can’t fucking stand, but still, my interest in her holds, the sight of her only forcing the realization forward in my mind.
She walks in slowly, and I feel my head tilt to the side, trying to figure out what she is doing here without Greg. She has never come alone, and I don’t know why she would start now, but my body already tunes into her, her essence changing the air in the room.
“How’s it going?” I ask, trying to be polite, needing to distract myself so I don’t check her out, so I don’t let my eyes roam down her body. Even the thought of looking at her makes my blood run hot, attraction seeping through my pores, but I push it away, insistent on respecting her relationship.
“Uh-” she hesitates, her eyes looking around the shop, avoiding looking at me completely, her hands in front of her, writhing together as if she is nervous. My eyes dip, running over her body, just for a second, before shooting back up, connecting with her face again, as I desperately try to hang on to my resolve. “Fine,” she finally says, her head bobbing, her eyes connecting with mine finally.
“What can I do for you?” I ask and her eyes widen, her cheek starting to redden, looking at me as if I said something scandalous. I feel my eyebrows bunch up, confusion taking over, but she speaks before I can think about it too hard.
“I need a tattoo covered up,” she says, seemingly pushing away her embarrassment, a small hint of sadness taking over her face. Usually, when people ask for a cover-up, one of two things is happening: They are either sad because they need it covered up, the reason behind the tattoo no longer being a happy thing, or they are pissed, pissed because they got a shitty tattoo, or pissed because the reason behind the tattoo got spoiled.
“Sure, which one?” I ask, trying my best to be professional, trying not to ask why she doesn’t get her tattoo artist boyfriend to cover it up for her. I hold my tongue even though my own curiosity is sitting right at the tip, begging me to ask.
She holds out her wrist giving me a clear view of a small outline of a flower against the side of it. It looks well done, a little on the newer side too, as if it was done just a few months ago. I stare at it for a few seconds, taking her wrist in my hand, and examining it closer. Her skin burns against mine, the heat of her taking up far too much space in my mind, but I ignore it, trying to keep this professional. The tattoo has clean lines and is simple. It should be a super easy cover-up, but that still doesn’t answer all of the questions burning inside of my head.
“Looks like it should be pretty easy. Do you know what you want to cover it?” I ask, letting her hand go, my fingers instantly feeling the loss.
“Literally anything other than that stupid fucking flower,” she replies with a roll of her eyes, and I take a closer look at her. She looks tired. I mean she looks fucking beautiful, but she seems tired too, as if it is right below the surface, something she is trying to hide and it burns the curiosity inside of me even hotter, making it almost impossible not to say something.
“So I have to ask,” I start, knowing it probably isn’t my business but also giving up the idea that this is just any client. I’ve been trying not to check her out for months while she has been wrapped around Greg’s arm. “Why won’t Greg do it?” She winces when I say his name, and I start to understand.
“He’s the one who tattooed me in the first place,” she answers, not quite answering my question. I raise my eyebrows waiting for more and she sighs, seemingly giving up. “We broke up last week. I can’t stand to look at this flower for another second,” she says sheepishly with a small shrug. Things start to click together, but what I still don’t understand is why she’d come here. There are other tattoo shops, ones that aren’t in direct competition with her ex, so I’m not sure why she stepped foot in mine. Even I know it would piss him off.
“So…” I hesitate, not wanting to sound rude but dying to know. “You came here?” I ask, the words making me sound like a dick, like I don’t want her here, and that although that couldn’t be farther from the truth, I don’t know a better way to ask.
She smiles a little at my words, then presses her lips together, her face displaying so many emotions all at once.
“He cheated on me,” she says simply, the sentence hanging in the air around us.
Realization dawns on me. She wants revenge. She likes the idea of going to Greg’s competition because it will piss him off. She wants to fuck with him. I try not to smile at her, loving the idea of fucking with Greg. But I hold my amusement, wanting to at least appear neutral, professional. I don’t want to wrap myself too tightly around her knowing she is likely going to leave here in a few hours with fresh ink on her arm.
The idea of my ink on her skin makes my skin run hot accompanying a possessive need running through me, making me desperate to get started.
“I got it,” I say, doing my best to come off as understanding and sympathetic, even with possessive thoughts that I have no right to think running through my head. “Well let’s figure out what you want to cover it with, and then we can get started,” I mutter, my voice low, not knowing how I’m going to survive the next hour or two alone with her.
