I’m more than a little nervous about actually stepping over the threshold and going inside. I know that this part of town has a bad reputation, but this shop has awesome reviews, and I want to make sure that I get the very best work possible. If I am going to remember my grandma with this thing, then I am going to make it the prettiest darn tulip that I’ve ever seen in my life.
I take a deep breath and push open the door – inside, the place is scrubbed down and clean, smells like shoe polish and pine, and there is a man sitting at the desk. He looks up when I come in, and the way he stares at me, it’s like I am doing something wrong.
Shit. Did I break some kind of etiquette without even realizing it? I look down at my clothes, wondering if I chose the wrong thing to wear – none of it covers the spot that I want to get tattooed or anything, but still. I’m in a sundress and strappy shoes, and there is still a smattering of paint on my front from when I was doing arts and crafts earlier with the kids at the daycare where I work. I bunch that piece of fabric in my hand, trying to hide the stains, and head to the desk.
"Hi, I have an appointment?” I manage. He glances down at the computer in front of him.
"Spring?”
"That’s me," I reply. My voice sounds a little higher than normal. Ugh, I don’t want to seem nervous – I have to pull myself together. I roll my shoulders back as he calls through to the back, then tells me to wait for the guy who’s going to work on me to get here. A moment later, he emerges.
And I swear I have to keep my jaw from dropping.
Is this him? The guy who’s going to tattoo me? He’s tall, must be well over six feet, with thick, muscular arms written up and down with tattoos, black ink curling around his strong body. His dark hair is cropped short, and his deep brown eyes seem to slice right through me. He nods in greeting to me, and I feel my heart pound a little harder in my chest. Is he the owner of the motorcycle I saw parked outside? I can imagine him riding it. Maybe he’s part of one of the gangs that dominates this part of the city. Do I really want to know?
"She’s your three o’clock," the man at the desk remarks, and the one who I can’t take my eyes off of comes around the corner, puts a hand on the small of my back, and guides me to a chair without a word. I realize then that I’m holding my breath. How long has it been since the last time that I’ve been touched like that? I’m not sure I much care one way or another. All that matters to me is his confidence, so sure of himself. It takes away my niggling doubts that this tattoo is a bad idea.
"I’m Shotgun,” he tells me. “Take a seat." He guides me into one of the red leather chairs that lines the outside of this place. I watch as he heads back to the desk to grab a piece of paper. His shoulders are broad and his jeans hug his ass perfectly. Everything about him is so insanely hot that it’s getting hard for me to think straight... He is the opposite of the men I usually come across… but he is exactly the kind of man I fantasize about.
He returns a moment later, crouches down beside me, and holds out the piece of paper for me to see.
"This is the sketch that I did for your art based on the picture you sent in," he explains.
He drew this? It’s hard to believe that someone like him would be willing to sit down and sketch out something as silly as this little flower...
But I look down at the paper, and I can’t help but smile when I see what he has put together for me. It’s perfect – the petals seem to glow with this golden light, blooming open right at the top, as they do in real life when it’s the first week or so of spring.
"I love it," I gush to him. "You really drew this?”
"It’ll look better on the skin, once it’s saturated with some ink," he explains. "Where exactly do you want it?”
I hold out my hand to him, turn it up so that my palm is facing him.
"There, on the inside of my wrist," I tell him. He takes my hand – his fingers are callused, strong, but their touch is surprisingly gentle as he skims them over my wrist to trace out the point where I want my ink.