Page 9 of Inked Desires
“As you want,” I growl, turning on my heel.
He’s lucky—I have work waiting. Either way, I’ll find out what that name means, whether he wants it or not.
I sit back down on the stool. Without saying a word to Kiran, I pick up the tattoo machine and get back to work.
He’s used to me not talking while I tattoo. It’s the only way for me to clear my mind and relax. At first, alcohol had the same effect, but it eventually became a problem.
The buzzing of the machine and the vibrations in my hand bring a feeling of well-being, forcing me into a bubble where there’s nothing but ink, skin, and needles. After a while, I lift my head, and my neck muscles protest. When I straighten up, my back tightens too. I glance at the clock. It’s been three hours.
I clean his skin. He doesn’t flinch, lying there patiently waiting for my next move. But he needs a break. Some sugar, a glass of water, and a cigarette will help him last the next three hours.
“Let’s take a short break,” I say, switching off the machine, breaking the long silence.
When I stand, my legs wobble. I force myself to walk slowly and pull a ashtray and a chocolate bar from the cupboard. I hand them to Kiran.
“I’ll get you some water,” I say, heading for the door.
“Can I have a beer?”
“No alcohol in my shop,” I growl.
“You’re not allowed to smoke here either, but you just gave me an ashtray,” he points out, highlighting the contradiction.
I choose not to answer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar silhouette: blonde hair. I act like nothing’s wrong, even if he makes me nervous. It’s rare a man gets me this way, but his appearance unsettles me completely.
As I fill a glass with water at the sink, I feel his presence. It’s like my nerve cells activate when he approaches. It’s unusual, and above all, inconceivable. He reminds me of my past, while being different.
“You going to keep staring or enjoy your break?” I ask, turning around.
His cheeks flush. Charming.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he finally says.
I fully turn and lean against the counter.
He shifts nervously from foot to foot, biting his lip.
“My client’s waiting,” I say impatiently.
He takes a deep breath, then crosses his arms. After three more breaths, he straightens up. He tries to look strong, but he mostly looks like a scared deer.
“I need a cover-up,” he says.
“You don’t need to hide that ugly thing on your skin from me.”
I regret being so blunt earlier; after all, his choices aren’t my business. Still, thinking about it, every tattoo my employees wear reflects on my shop’s image. That’s a good enough reason for my reaction. I’m protecting my brand and name.
“It’s nothing to do with you, I just don’t want that thing on me anymore,” he murmurs.
“It’ll always be there. A cover-up only hides the surface.”
Mistakes don’t disappear by covering them up. They stay deeply rooted inside us, ready to resurface at the worst times.
He suddenly pales, his breathing quickens. I step forward, ready to help him sit so he doesn’t fall. But he regains control. He shakes his head, digs his nails into his arms, and opens his eyes wide. Darkness floods them, nearly hiding the golden halos. Interesting.
“Can you do it or not?” he asks, voice firmer.
