Page 32 of For a Goode Time Call…
Ink
Icouldn’t stop thinking about her.
And it was a problem. A big problem.
My job requires focus, and the thoughts I was having were…distracting, at best.
My current client, fortunately, wanted a simple tat—a little butterfly on the nape of her neck. Small, but in vibrant color. A piece I could do almost in my sleep. I stayed focused as best as I could, because she’d come to me expecting a work of art, not something I’d done on autopilot.
I barely saw the client, though, except as a patch of skin and the way it called to me, spoke to me, told me what to do.
When I finished, she looked at the piece in the mirror, gushed about the colors and how realistic it looked, and paid me. I took a photo of it for my gallery book, and said my goodbyes.
It was a great piece, and I was proud I’d been able to do work of that quality with the crazy-ass thoughts I’d been having the last few days.
Thoughts of Cassie.
Thoughts of what she’d been wearing last time I saw her—those tiny skintight shorts. How they’d showcased exactly what her ass looked like, even though it was technically covered. The cut-off midriff shirt. The expanse of her skin, the hint of her breasts.
Her scent.
Her eyes.
The way, in those last few moments, that she’d looked up at me. As if realizing at the same time as me that we had more than just a mental and emotional connection. That I wanted her. I knew that had been obvious. I’d been fuckin’ seconds from kissing her.
And she’d known it, too.
Had she been daring me to? Would she have let me? Would she have kissed me back?
I flipped the sign to closed—it was ten at night and I was done for the day.
No more clients until noon tomorrow.
I went home, started some eggs and tried to think about anything but Cassie.
Anything but her lips. Anything but her eyes—how wild and quicksilver they were, reflecting her mercurial moods in the changing colors.
Her skin was art. I usually looked at skin as a canvas, tried to picture what would go where. The few girls I’d been with, that’s where my mind went. Oh, I appreciated them for what they looked like, but another deeper part was just appreciating their skin as a canvas for ink.
Cassie was different. Her skin was flawless. Cream and ivory, perfectly silk, not a blemish. It would almost be a shame to ruin her skin with ink, and that, to me, was a nearly blasphemous thing to say.
I couldn’t improve on perfection, not with my best work.
I burned my eggs, thinking about her.
Need was building inside me. Need to see her, need to talk to her. Need to know if I’d imagined the moment between us, if I’d imagined her wanting me to kiss her.
Need to touch her skin, to know if it felt as soft and perfect as it looked.
I threw away my eggs and leaned back against the wall, groaning in frustration.
I’d kept a tight lid on my sexuality for a long time, now. Years, in fact. It was just…simpler. Less painful. I knew it wasn’t healthy, psychologically. I knew I had issues I should deal with, but it was just easier to focus on tattoos twelve hours a day. Easier to lock that part of myself down and pretend it didn’t exist. It makes it easier, certainly, when a beautiful woman comes in requesting a tattoo somewhere sensitive. Makes it easier for me to remain neutral, to view the process as clinical. I’ve done plenty of pieces on breasts, thighs, buttocks, inner thighs, and even a couple around nether regions. Not a problem. Just a tattoo.
Years of doing this…no problem.
I’ve sort of thought of myself as a kind of ascetic, living a monkish life.
Then Cassie comes along, and wrecks all that in a matter of days. I haven’t even seen her naked. Haven’t touched her. Haven’t kissed her.
