“I’m sure. Now get a move on before I change mind.”
“Okay, then.”
It took Red about twenty minutes to trace the image on the stencil paper. While I watched her work, I thought about what my mother would do if she ever found out. Perfection was my mom’s religion, and she had spent my entire life making sure it was mine too. Ever since I could remember, my mom had always talked about me following in her footsteps, becoming this perfect ballerina. How I would perform around the world, be the star attraction as the beautiful Odette in Swan Lake. Dancing was my mom’s life, and she had managed to make it my life as well.
“All right, let’s do this.” Red pulled on a pair of gloves and cleaned the area on my thigh. “I’m not gonna lie, it hurts like a bitch.”
I snorted. “Have you seen my toes lately?”
“Oh, God. Fucking masochist. I still don’t get why you torture yourself so willingly when it’s not even something you want to do.”
“It is.” My words didn’t come out as strong as they should have.
Red just cocked a brow at me as if to say,“Who are you kidding?”
It wasn’t that I didn’t like ballet. I did. As a little girl, I loved dancing around in the garden, letting my own music guide my steps. But my mom’s obsession with dancing took the music inside me away, and now it was merely the steps that remained.
The buzzing of the machine started, and without warning, Red grazed the needle across my skin, all along the traced image.
I cringed, the scratching pain burning my flesh. It was as if a thousand needles pierced my skin, pricks of torture marking me. But after a few seconds, the pain started to dissipate—or my skin got used to it. Either way, it wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be.
The more Red moved the needle over my skin, the more I started to like the burn. It wasn’t like the ache throbbing in my toes. Maybe because the pain was a result of a decision I had made, and not bleeding blisters because of something my mother wanted me to do.
I leaned back, lifting my gaze to the roof while Red continued inking my inner thigh. Metal music played in the background, and I closed my eyes, imagining the steps if I had to dance to the rhythm of it. My mom would die a slow, painful death if she had to witness me dancing to metal music. Nothing but classical music was played in our house. Even as a kid, my mom would let me listen to Mozart rather than nursey rhymes.
With a sigh, I placed my arms over my eyes, feeling just a little sorry for myself stuck in the gilded cage my mother had put her littleswanin. Good God. I was becomingthatgirl. The girl who would carry psychological scars because of her control-freak mother. I was already living with a borderline eating disorder because I was taught how to count calories since I was eight.
“And that’s a wrap.”
I sat up abruptly. “Are you done already?”
“Dude, I’ve been working on this baby for the last two hours.”
I glanced from her to the bright purple clock on the wall. “Wow, who knew pain would make the time go by so fast?”
Red placed the protective wrapping over my freshly tattooed skin. “I’ve said this a million times, and I’ll say it again. You are a fucking weirdo who’s in need of a good old-fashioned fucking.” She pulled off her gloves with a snap, and I pulled on my tights.
“I tried that, remember? And look how that turned out.”
Red held out two painkillers in her palm, her gaze pinned on mine. “Don’t kid yourself, my friend. That wasn’t a good old-fashioned fuck.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I took the pills and tossed them back, swallowing them without water. “That was just one giant disaster when the guy I dated was all hot and heavy to take my virginity, yet when I finally said yes, he stood me up. What guy says no to getting laid?”
Red rubbed her forehead, deep in thought. “Will we ever know what the fuck happened that night?”
I grabbed my bag and pulled it over my shoulder. “It’s been a year, Red. I’m over it.”
“Yeah, but aren’t you curious, though? I mean, Terence stood you up, disappeared for a few days, only to return with a broken leg, avoiding you like the fucking plague.”
“Don’t care.” I walked to the front of the shop, spotting a couple looking at tattoo images on the wall.
The beads clattered behind me as Red followed. “I still think your father has something to do with it. And the fact that no guy has come near you since then screams conspiracy.”
I leaned my head to the side as I turned to face her. “You need help.”
“Ha,” she scoffed. “Says the one with ballet shoes and a fresh tattoo.”
With an amused grin, I pulled my friend in for a hug. “Thanks, Red. Let me know what I owe you.”