Page 7 of Not Dating Material

Chapter 3

SEVEN

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills the room, a constant hum of background noise as I zone in and focus on my art. Being a tattoo artist wasn’t on my dream board as a kid, but it suits me. Plus, I get cheap ink, which is a bonus, because the amount I have already would have sent me to the poor house.

Or … the poorer house.

Because I’m not exactly bathing in Benjamins each night.

Not like my roommate Christian, who met his literal Prince Charming, complete with fairy-tale-ish wedding.

And I currently have Princess Charming under my needle.

“I swear you’re making it hurt more on purpose,” Elle mutters from where she’s lying facedown in my chair. “It wasn’t like this last time.”

“Last time, we started with your butt cheek. More fat there, so it didn’t hurt as much.”

“Wow. You’re causing me physical harm and giving me body issues.”

“Want me to start on childhood trauma too?” I ask in a baby voice. “I have a lot of experiences to draw from.”

“That’s one of the things I hate about you.” Elle sighs. “You make my childhood look trivial. It’s not good for my dramatics.”

I smirk, wiping down her art so I can see it better. “Shoot, sorry, let me just pop back in time and tell my sperm donor not to beat me as a kid and send me into the foster system for my own protection, which actually only made things worse. Elle can’t stand not having the worst childhood.”

“Much better,” she says, resting her shaved head on her crossed arms, British accent coming out posher than usual. “You’re finally starting to appreciate how hard it was growing up with any and everything I could ever want.”

When I first met Elle, we’d tried going on a date and spent the whole time one-upping each other on our crummy families. She concedes I win, but in reality, we both know it’s not a competition. Crummy is crummy. There are different levels, sure, but everyone’s trauma is valid.

And thankfully, Elle has as morbid a sense of humor about hers as I do mine.

It’s why we immediately clicked.

It’s also why we steered hard away from any kind of relationship. Messed up recognized messed up, and we’re both too emotionally damaged for more than a screwy friendship. You can’t build foundations on rocky soil and all that.

We’re both hard edges and snark, who don’t have the energy to take anything too seriously. It’s left me kinda numb to a lot of things and her feeling too much that she keeps locked away until it explodes.

Honestly, we should both be in therapy, but until we pull our heads out of delusions, we have each other.

She hisses loudly. “What in the fuck are you doing back there?”

“My job.”

“Your job sucks. You suck. Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“Pretty sure you’re the one who was all design me a tattoo that will immediately repel all the misogynists that sneak past my sensors, Seven, and now I’ve gone and done that, you’re still complaining. Can’t win with you.”

“I’m not going to be able to sit down tonight, am I?”

I laugh, remembering the hemorrhoid donut I convinced her that she needed the last time. It’s tempting to tell her to do that again, but given I’m working mostly on her lower back, I doubt I’ll be able to get away with it twice. “Nah, you shouldn’t notice this too much unless you sleep on your back.”

“Or get plowed up against a wall,” she muses.

“Yeah, I’d suggest trying to avoid that until it’s healed over.” I start adding the tiny spots of color to finish it off. “Interesting that you wanted this near your bum and not your vagina though. Don’t the misogynists usually go for your snatch?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Yikes.

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