Page 1 of Four Tattoos

TATTOO 1

1

ROSE

“In five hundred feet, turn left.”

I ease my foot off the gas and flick on my signal before shifting into the center lane. I’ve gotten into the habit of avoiding quick stops and sharp turns, even when I don’t have a carrier full of drinks on the floor of my car. It’s rare that I need to use my GPS here on Four Points Island, where I’ve lived my whole life, but I’m not familiar with this afternoon’s delivery destination, a business called Brothers in Ink.

There’s a chance it could be a print shop, but as soon as I turn off the road, I spot the big red letters spelling out Tattoos. It’s in the back corner of the plaza, and several cars are parked out front. Most of my deliveries are in office parks or to standalone professional buildings, usually law and doctors’ offices, so this one is a surprise.

I’ve never been inside a tattoo parlor before, and I’m suddenly nervous about going inside, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because most of the heavily tattooed men I’ve seen are big guys who usually look like life hasn’t gone easy on them—or they haven’t gone easy on life. There’s something about skin covered with tattoos that says, “Don’t mess with me.”

But all kinds of people get body art these days, so I should check my preconceived notions.

After parking, I go around to the passenger door and carefully lift the tray of coffee cups. There are four drinks, plus a bag with items from the bakery counter.

The sign on the glass door includes an intricate logo featuring skulls in military helmets along with dog tags, stars and stripes, and the words “Brothers in Ink” in ornate lettering. I’m definitely at the right place. I square my shoulders, transfer the bakery bag to the hand holding the coffee carrier, and pull open the door.

My entry triggers a chime, which I hear only faintly over the music playing in the shop. I’m surprised that the song is one of my favorites, an old rock tune from the ‘90s, “Burden in My Hand” by Soundgarden. Though it was out before I was even born, Chris Cornell’s voice just does things to me, and I pause for a moment to take it in as I survey my surroundings.

The space isn’t very big, but there’s so much to look at that my eyes don’t know where to go first. The dark walls are almost completely covered with artwork and photographs, some of them framed, some just tacked up with pushpins. To my left, there’s a black leather couch and chair, accompanied by a low coffee table stacked high with thick albums, which I assume are filled with even more art and photos.

To the right, there’s a counter, but no one is behind it. No one is in sight at all, but I can hear the buzz of equipment during the quieter parts of the song.

“Hello?” Venturing a few steps into the shop, I see that the back area is partitioned into cubicles by full-length walls. The artists must be working in those walled-off areas. No one answers me.

A few steps further, and I spot figures in the first workspace on the right. A broad figure in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, his back to me, is on a short stool next to a reclining chair. His body blocks my view of his work, but I can tell it’s a woman in the chair by the long feminine legs that stretch down to black, thick-heeled shoes.

“Excuse me, I’m here with your coffee order,” I say, raising my voice. Another ‘90s grunge song has started, this one with a harder driving beat, and I struggle to be heard over the growling singer.

The man in the black shirt slides his stool away from the chair, and it’s suddenly evident that he’s been tattooing the woman’s breast. A swirling pattern of roses and thorns frames one side of her areola, the dark ink etched into pale skin that’s pink with irritation.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” I throw my hand out to shield her chest from my view. “I didn’t realize.” I take a few steps back, keeping my gaze several inches above the man’s head while avoiding looking at his client altogether. “I’m here with the coffee delivery. Should I just put it on the desk up front?”

When there’s no answer, I drop my eyes down to the man’s face and my belly does a little flip flop.

His eyes hit me first. They’re gorgeous, but they’re so intense that I have to look away. My gaze shifts down to the point of his black v-neck, where thick curving lines of ink mark the top of his chest and the sides of his neck. His trim dark hair is threaded through with silver strands, matching the hint of stubble on his jaw, which itself appears to be carved from stone.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man so attractive. Certainly, my insides have never reacted this way.

“I’ll have mine,” the man says, reaching a hand out toward me.

I’m confused for a long moment, until I remember that I’m holding a delivery. Suddenly, it feels much too warm in here for anyone to want hot coffee.

“I … don’t want to … intrude.” I’m stammering, and I’m not sure if it’s the woman’s partial nudity or the man’s complete magnificence that has me flustered. My eyes flicker over to the woman, who’s staring back at me with an assessing look. Both of her hands are free, but she doesn’t make any effort to cover herself.

The tattoo artist is eyeing me like he’s imaginingmybare chest, and my nipples harden instantly, despite the fact that I’m overheated. “Macchiato,” he says, his deep voice perfectly suited to his masculine looks.

With a shaky hand, I manage to extract the cup that’s his without dropping the entire carrier, but I nearly fumble it when I move closer to him, his hand touches mine, and sparks shoot up my arm. His long fingers are also covered with intricate markings.

“Is one of these yours?” I ask the woman. I need to avoid looking at the man or I might combust.

She shakes her head, her dark-lined eyes not blinking. “I ordered a muffin, though.”

“I’ll take it.” The man’s tone is impossibly gruff. “She’ll have to wait for her break.” Again, his fingers touch mine, and again, my body’s response is strong and immediate. Parts of me tingle that haven’t tingled in many months.

Even after he takes the bag, he continues to stare at me, and I’m left not knowing what to do. I swear his eyes are removing my clothing, item by item, and I find that I don’t want to stop him.

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