“If I remember correctly, you liked the feel of my hands on you. You were very enthusiastic about how much you liked it.”
Briefly her body stiffens and then she’s the one jerking away from me.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you just fucked up. Next time you’re pissed that you don’t have anywhere to tattoo, remember this moment and know you could’ve had it.”
Everything inside me screams to stop her, to ask her what she means and why she possibly changed her mind, but I don’t. I can’t make myself do it. Not when I’m this keyed up because there’s a part of me that wants to beg her to say yes. To show her how much this opportunity means to me and how much I fucking want it, but then I wonder if I even know how to open myself up anymore.
The door slams as she walks out, but I keep hearing her words in my head. Keep hearing her tell me I could’ve had it. I’ve even thought about leaving Brenton to find somewhere else to go. As fucked up as it sounds, I still can’t leave Laney. Not when there’s a chance she could need me. I wasn’t there for her enough already.
You could have had it. When was the last time I had anything I really wanted? When was the last time I gave a shit about anything?
The rest of my shift I’m thinking about it. About how I got teased with what I want only to have it taken away. I didn’t have much time in the last tattoo parlor at all, but here she is offering it to me. Or she was until I treated her the way I do everyone else.
Watching the people in the Back Room, I see them trip over each other and grab girls’ asses and see those same girls laugh while the guys are doing it. It gets old fast. I can’t wait to get out of this place. Maybe to some people tattooing isn’t a much better occupation, but it’s the only way I know how to show who I am. If I even know who in the hell that person is.
When I get off work and climb onto my bike, I head toward Masquerade. The rumble of the engine helps block out my thoughts because if I let them free, they’ll eat me alive. They’ll drag me under until I’m thinking about Dad sitting in prison and Mom trying to kill herself, and me missing something as stupid as football. Those thoughts will make me turn around and head home so I can then think about how much of a fucking joke I am because I ran away again.
It’s late, after 2:00 a.m., so chances are she’s not even at the shop, but I’m still going there anyway. When I pull up, her little Insight’s parked out front, even though it looks like all the lights are out inside. After pulling out my cell phone, I look through my recent calls and since the only person I call is my sister, her number is still there.
It takes six rings before her sleep-roughened voice comes through the phone. “This better be good.”
“Were you serious?”
She curses before complaining, “Your bike is too loud. Turn it off.”
I do it even though I’m not used to doing what anyone says. I’m also not used to anyone having something I care about. “Were you serious?” The words sound angry even to my own ears.
Bee sighs. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
“I’m here now.” Silently I’m begging her to say she’ll open the door, but those words are bitter in my head. There’s never been a time I’ve begged for anything. It makes my jaw tighten and my fingers itch to start my bike again.
“I don’t know why in the hell I’m doing this, but I’ll unlock the door.” As soon as she speaks the last word, the line goes dead. Again I consider driving away. Forgetting her and this stupid-ass dream of mine, to what? Be a tattoo artist? I don’t know why it’s so important to me, but it’s what makes me get off my motorcycle and walk to the door.
The locks click before Bee pulls the door open, the light from outside enabling me to see her. My eyes scan her, taking in the really short cotton shorts and tank top she’s wearing. The girl has a killer body and she obviously isn’t afraid to show it, which makes her even more hot. You can tell she’s not flaunting; she just is who she is and whoever doesn’t like it, she won’t hesitate to tell them to fuck off.
I walk in and Bee locks the door behind me.
“You live here?” There’s a light on down the hallway. It’s dim like it’s only from a lamp or something, but I assume that’s where she was when I called.
“No, but it’s the place I’m the most comfortable, so I stay here a lot.” She clicks on the light. I’m surprised she admitted that, but I won’t call her on it. I know I wouldn’t want her to do that to me.
“Did you bring any drawings?” Bee sits at the chair behind a desk.
I hand her a book, but the second I do, I want to snatch it back. It’s always like that showing someone my work, even though I know it’s good. “That’s just one I had with me. I have more at home.”
She doesn’t answer as she starts flipping through the pages. After a couple minutes of watching her study each page, I start to get jittery. Feel like she’s looking inside me instead of at some pages, so to distract myself, I move around the room, taking in pictures of her work and other tattoos on the walls.
She looks at the book for what seems like an hour before speaking. “These are good. They’re different. Your artwork has a unique style that I haven’t seen before.”
I nod.
“Why do you want to be a tattoo artist?” she asks. The question shows me how serious she is about what she does because no one has brought it up before.
The urge to tell her it’s none of her business surges through me, but I want this badly enough to answer. “Because when I’m around it, I feel more like myself than I probably ever have.”
A brief flash of shock shows on her face, but she covers it quickly. “Good. I won’t screw around with someone who’s playing a game. This isn’t something you do to make a quick buck. Not if you’re working with me, at least. Did you get a chance to actually give anyone ink?”
“No. The apprenticeship only lasted three months before he bailed.”
Bee nods. “That’s good. I actually rather you have hardly any experience—that way I don’t have to train bad habits out of you.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“No one said you were. Chill out, Scratch.”
I tense at the name, but before I can really say anything, she starts asking questions again. “Do you lean toward liking only black work or are you into color too?”
Everything I have so far is only black, but as I look at her again, I see a variety of black and colorful work. “Depends. I don’t want to do only one or the other. I love work with shading too. I’ve seen some pieces that are really incredible just because of the shading.”
She nods and I wonder if that was the right answer.
“I’m not saying you don’t, but this is something you have to take seriously. There are a lot of dumb-asses out there who think it’s all fun, but it’s not. Stuff like being clean and safe is even more important than the picture you put into someone’s skin.”
“That’s a given, isn’t it?”
She grins. “You’d think, but it’s not always like that.”
We’re both quiet after that. Bee glances down at my artwork again. “I’m surprised I even let you in here tonight. It’s important that you know that. I don’t take shit from people.”
One look at her and that’s obvious. Part of me didn’t expect her to open the door for me either. “I’m surprised I came, so that makes two of us.” When she looks up at me, I’m not sure how I feel about the way her eyes take me in. Don’t know what I think about the fact that we have shit in common or that her look is familiar to me. I give it myself.
Bee stands, walks around to the front of the desk, and then leans on it. “If we do this, can we keep things from getting awkward?”
My answer comes automatically. “I can if you can. It was one night. We don’t know each other and I’m never with someone more than once anyway.” I’ve shared this strange sort of honesty with her tonight that makes my body overheat. I want all the words back because they’re a part of me and I don’t want anyone to see who I am, but this is it. Saying these things to her is the only way to get what I want.