Page 73 of Rebel Summer

“Good news,” Dax said, stepping into the room. “Bernie’s tied up, but he said I could get you started.”

“What?”

“Get you started.” He said it like it was a no-brainer. Did this happen? Can people off the street get a person started on their tattoo?

My brow furrowed. “You can do that? Do you know how?”

“Yeah, I’ve done it before. I thought you might be less nervous.”

I scoffed. “Who’s nervous?”

He threw me a knowing look before nodding toward the door. “We could wait for Big Bernie if you’d like.”

Big Bernie. I looked at Dax, taking in his eyes, soft with the exception of the slightest gleam. But I’d witnessed his capable hands do a lot of things with tools. A needle would probably be fine.

“No. I’ll take you. I’d prefer punching you over Big Bernie if the pain gets too bad.” I shook out my hands, trying to rid them of the shakes before sitting on the…operating chair? Was that what it was called?

“The tattoo is small, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as bad as you’re probably imagining. Lie still.”

“I’m imagining a thousand knives stabbing my arm at the same time.” I covered my eyes with my left hand. I didn’t want to see any of the tools he’d be using.

“That’s pretty close.”

“What?” I unhid my face and turned to him.

He met my gaze with an almost sympathetic grin. “Not that bad, I promise.”

“How did you pick your tattoos?” I asked, needing a distraction.

The rolling stool next to me squeaked as Dax sat down at my right side. The idea of him so close made me glad I hadn’t picked a more risqué part of my body to ink.

“All of my tattoos mean something,” he said. “Kind of like how butterflies are so special to you.”

“Shut up,” I whispered.

I went back to hiding, my body stiff as a board as the sound of movement from his chair inching closer to me elevated my heart rate.

Dax wiped something cold on my arm, the smell of alcohol suddenly filling my nostrils and making the room swirl.

“Take a breath,” came his low voice.

I concentrated on breathing, slow and deep through my nose.

“You ready?” he asked.

I nodded, saying, “Do your worst,” in all my dramatic glory, attempting to tamp down the dry heaves threatening to overtake my body. I then squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself for the pain.

“Fifty hours, fifty hours, fifty hours, fifty hours,” I whispered under my breath.

The very picture of cool and calm.

Something cold and wet pressed against my arm again. Another alcohol swab? This place was very sanitary. Which was good. Great. The last thing I needed was some sort of infection. But my adrenaline was back, and I was ready to be stabbed. Time to get this over with already.

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