2
Kit
Wall Of Fame
Istand in front of my bedroom mirror and work on taming my humidity-frizzed hair back into a high ponytail.
It’s fun that Inkalot is the same tattoo parlor that Bobby and I both use, so when I decided I’d go in and get my dad’s design done, and Bobby was all ‘you should go see my guy, he’s awesome,’ it made me smile. Not just the same parlor, but the same artist.
Ian has never made me feel like an impostor just because I get cutesy flowers and birds drawn all over my body, instead of skulls, and snakes, and tear drops on my face.
He thinks my designs are cute, and his bright blue eyes always sparkle when I come in with a new idea.
The fun irony about today is that my dad would flip his damn lid if he knew I had any tattoos at all. He’d have a heart attack if he knew I was getting a design just for him. Soon after I turned fifteen and got it in my head I wanted a belly piercing, he went berserk, said ‘no way, not a chance in hell’, then when we went head to head over it – because I havehisstubbornness – he changed his stance and went the other way.
‘Sure, honey. If you can save your money and pay for it, go for it.’
He thought he had me fooled. He thought he won. What he actually accomplished was me getting my first job and starting my obsession with saving money. I got the piercing a few weeks before I turned sixteen, and I bought my house at nineteen.
Bobby steps into my mirror’s reflection and sends me jumping with fright. “Jesus, Bobby! You scared the crap out of me.”
He chuckles and begins nibbling on my neck. “Sorry baby…” He steps in close until his front is pressed to my back, and his hands hold my hips. “I’m ready to go whenever you are.”
Spinning around, I wind my hands into the hair at the back of his neck and smile at his ballcap pulled low. Bobby’s always worn his hair on the long side. Not long like a man bun, but long enough to hold on to during sex. But more often than not, his hair is squished down beneath a black hat that shadows his chocolate brown eyes and makes them darker to everyone else in the world except me.
They’re not darker to me, because I’m always so close that I see under the hat. He uses it to keep everyone else away, but his hands are always pulling me closer. I see the real chocolate in his gaze, everyone else sees the dark eyed, giant ass fighter.
I place a soft kiss on his lips, then another in the center of his broad chest. “Okay, let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”
“Yes ma’am.” He daringly slaps me on the ass and rushes me out the door. “Quick, we’re running late.”
Ten minutes later, we step into the air-conditioned shop as the bell on the door announces our arrival. Bobby holds the door open and allows me to slide on through, and when I pass, brushing my hand over his hips, I grin when he lets out a hungry growl.
It’s so fun to tease him.
“I’ll get you for that, baby.” He takes my hand and drags me toward the young guy drawing at the front desk. He couldn’t be more than eighteen, barely out of high school, but his kind green eyes follow our movements and has him smiling, showing off sparkling piercings along his bottom lip.
He nods in greeting. “Hows’it?”
I turn to Bobby with a giant grin. The barely legal, red-headed boy with more piercings in his lip than I have in my entire body is British. Fun!
Bobby extends his hand and shakes the boy’s. “Hey, I’m Bobby, and this is Kit. We have a four o’clock appointment.”
“Oh, yeah, we’re expecting you. Ian’s out the back setting up, but he’ll come get you in a sec.”
I turn to the waiting room and walk around as the guys chat about fighting… and December. Being asked about what happened isn’t uncommon these days. Before it all went down, Bobby lived a fairly private life around this town with the occasional request for a photograph and signature. He enjoyed that setup. He enjoys his privacy, but eventually the media caught on that my story was connected totheBobby Kincaid, and they flogged it for weeks on national news. Now every regular Joe in the street feels entitled to us, like we’re athinginstead of people, and our personal lives somehow became public property to be picked apart.
It’s dying down now, but we’re still asked about it.
Luckily for me, Bobby’s protectiveness extends to curious people in the street, and now, what was once a fairly private fighter’s life is now ripe for public fodder.
He throws himself under the bus to steer the conversation away from me.
While they chat, I walk around the waiting room and study the photographs of past tattoos done by Ian and his co-owners. The colors are amazing, the detail infinite. The skill these guys have is insane, which is no doubt the very reason Bobby and I both came here. There are three other tattoo parlors in town, but this is clearly the best.
My eyes stop on an image, and my pulse hitches. My back, for all the world to see, sits prominently on the wall and shows off my tree and birds. I feel so cool I could squeal.
I knew they took a photo at the time, but I never really gave it much thought after that. After hours and hours and hours in the chair, it’s not surprising Ian wanted a photo of his hard work. But for him to display it; I feel kind of honored. It’s a badass design.