So far, I’ve come up with seven tattoo ideas and dismissed all of them. My last one, a two-tailed cat with swirls and blossoms around it, had seemed promising and somewhat unique. Until it wasn’t, and I tossed that one to the wayside just like the others.
And now I’m out of time.
Dressed in leggings, an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt that falls to mid-thigh, and my comfy sneakers, I stand in front of the door toInkubusand stare at the dark glass that’s lit by the red light above. I could’ve canceled, I know. And maybe I should’ve since I haveno ideawhat to do. But the artist I’d spoken to on the phone had told me that we could figure something out, and I guess I’m hoping for a Hail Mary at this point.
I’ve never gotten a tattoo I didn’t think about forweeksbeforehand, if not longer. But is spontaneity such a bad thing when I like all of the designs along the windows? I mean, as long as it’s animal and flower related, I’mpretty sureI won’t hate it by any means. And it’ll still mean something to me. Every tattoo has meant something so far.
I glance at my phone again, seeing that it reads five fifty-nine, and sigh as I push open the door into the small storefront.
Which ends up beingmuchsmaller than I’d thought from the outside. I blink a few times, thunder rolling threateningly from above me, and look around the shop while there’s no one there to ask me what I’m looking for.
It’s just a small room, longer than it is wide, with art and drawings tacked to the black walls. The floor underfoot is hardwood, and to my left is a raised counter that’s nearly as tall as my shoulders. It makes me feelshort, which isn’t an easy thing to do.
Thunder rumbles again, closer this time, but I’m not surprised. It’s spring, for one. And from what I heard on the news, it’s supposed to rain on and off for the next week. The severe storms are coming in tonight and tomorrow, and I can’t be any more excited for them. Ilovestorms.
Maybe I’ll get a lightning bolt tattooed somewhere on my person, with flowers raining from a black cloud or something.
Seconds later, I realize that’s not going to do it for me either, and I shake my head with a soft snort as footsteps sound on stairs from beyond the open door across the room.
As soon as my eyes find the man’s, I realizeI know him. It’s one of the guys from the game shop. The one who talked less anddidn’tpropose voting stupid people off the island of life.
His mouth curls into a smile, and something flickers in his dark gaze that seems at odds with the rest of him. “Hey,” he greets, seeming amused at my presence for some reason.
I can’t help the way it makes me the tiniest bit edgy. “Hey,” I say back and cringe at howlameI sound.
“Sorry I wasn’t down here when you came in.” He doesn’t ask how long I’ve been here, just strides to the counter and steps up to the raised floor behind it. He pulls a large notebook from a drawer and rifles through it, finally opening it to whatever page he’s looking for and writing something in it.
“That’s okay.” He’s casual, but not, and I’m surprised he hasn’t shoved a contract in front of me or asked for my ID and card like most places do. “I like your art. And all of the tattoo designs.”
“See something you like?” He glances up at me, then at the wall behind me. With a gesture of the hand holding the pen, he adds, “that’s Ashe’s wall. He does those in his spare time, and I know he loves the chance to get to tattoo one of his original designs on a client.”
“What about you?” I ask, unable to help myself. “Are you an artist as well?”
His smile widens. “Yeah. But I don’t have a thousand drawings to nail to the wall like him, that’s all. I neednewdesigns but…” he shrugs. “We’ve been pretty busy lately, so I haven’t had the time.”
Busy? For a shop that had told me I’d have to wait months, it sure is empty. I’d expected there to be multiple people getting tattooed when I arrived.
Not this emptiness.
As I glance around again, I see that the main room doesn’t hold any tattoo chairs or stations. Only cabinets, art, and a collection of horror-themed pieces, or just weird things that areprobablyconsidered artsomewhere.
“I’m Arlo,” the dark-haired man adds as an afterthought. “You’re Ari, right?”
“Where’s your friend?” I ask, not meaning to be rude, but feeling like it’s maybe not completely my fault. “The one from the game shop?”
“Ezra,” Arlo informs me. “He’s getting dinner with Ashe. I got us pizza, but…” he trails off, shrugging shoulders that look deceptively muscular under his black hoodie. “Apparently, pizza isn’t good enough for them tonight.” His smile is playful and fun, and I can’t quite help returning it a little.
“So you have no idea what you want, I’m guessing?” When I blink up at him, he continues, “It’s kind of a…look, I guess? I can usually tell when someone doesn’t know. Which is fine, by the way,” he’s quick to add.
“Is it?” I can’t help the dour way my voice comes out, sounding more dismissive than anything. “Is itreally?”
Something flashes in his gaze again, but it’s gone too quickly for me to seewhatit is. I’m not sure I could tell anyway, based off of…well,Arlo. He’s strange, and while he seems nice, he’s incredibly difficult for me to even attempt to read.
I’ve never been good at taking people at face value, and something in me tells me not to do itnow, either. But he’s just the guy I’m getting a tattoo from. And Arlo doesn’tseemlike he’s going to fuck me over by putting a donkey dick on my arm or something.
God, I hope not anyway.
“It’s fine,” he assures me and steps away from the counter, crooking a finger at me in a clear invitation, or command, for me to follow him.