Page 95 of Him
“Do you take walk-ins?” I ask.
“Yep, but it depends on what you’re getting done. Bigger pieces require multiple sittings.” He gazes at the tats peeking out of my sleeves. “But you probably already knew that.”
I look around, examining the photos plastered all over the walls. There are some incredible pieces up there. “Did you do all these?”
“Damn right I did.” He grins. “Are you looking for a custom piece?”
“No, just something simple.” I hold up my right wrist. “One line of text here.”
“I can do that for you no problem.” He rises from his chair and sets the magazine aside, then talks prices with me.
It’s affordable, and I feel an instant trust toward the guy, so when he says, “Why don’t you come on back?” I follow him without any further questions.
He leads me through a dark curtain into a workspace that’s clean and uncluttered. That’s a good sign.
“I’m Vin,” he says.
I arch a brow. “Is your last name Diesel?”
He snickers. “Nope. It’s Romano. Vin’s short for Vincenzo. My family’s Italian.”
“I’m Wes.”
We shake hands, and then he gestures to the chair. “Have a seat.” After I sit down, he rolls up his sleeves and asks, “So what text do you want inked?”
I reach into my pocket for my phone, tapping on the screen to pull up the note I’d left in my notepad app. I find it, then hand him the phone. “Those numbers exactly.”
He studies the screen. “You want it as numerals or spelled out?”
“Numerals.”
“How big?”
“Half an inch maybe?”
Nodding, Vin grabs a sketchpad and scribbles down the numbers before handing the phone back. His pencil flies across the pad as he sketches something. A moment later, he holds up the page. “Something like this, maybe?”
I nod. “Perfect.”
“You’re easy to please.” With a grin, he quickly bustles around to prepare his station, grabbing supplies from a nearby cupboard while I scrutinize his every move. I’m pleased to see that the medical-grade needle he brings over is packaged, which means this shop is disposing of the needles after every use.
Vin settles in front of me. He snaps on a pair of latex gloves, takes the needle out of its packaging, then reaches for the tattoo gun.
“So where is it?” he asks.
I wrinkle my forehead. “Where’s what?”
He swipes disinfectant over the inside of my right wrist. “Those numbers…they’re longitude and latitude, right? Coordinates? Where would I wind up on the map if I looked them up?”
“Lake Placid,” I say gruffly.
“Huh.” He looks intrigued. “Why Lake Placid? And feel free to tell me to mind my own business, if you want.”
I swallow. “No, it’s fine. The place means a lot to me, that’s all. I spent the best summers of my life there.”
Vin pours black ink into one of the plastic cups on the tray in front of him. “I hate the summer.”
I can’t help but grin. You’d think someone who deals with the frigid Canadian winter for half the year would welcome the hot weather. “Why’s that?”
