Page 9 of Triple Trouble

“Did I hurt you?” I asked, worried I’d crossed a boundary, and Emma shook her head.

“I can feel it, but it’s not that bad,” she said. “It honestly doesn’t hurt as much as the original tattoo did.”

“Not yet,” I said, as I wiped away the excess ink. “The outline won’t hurt too much. You’ll feel the shading more.”

I hadn’t asked Emma what motivated her to get the tattoo, because I already knew the answer. I’d seen it hundreds of times — Xavier turned away anyone who wanted a tattoo they were going to regret later, but I knew there were plenty of artists who would do anything for a quick buck. I’d seen every possible kind of bad decision inked on people’s bodies, from ex-lovers’ names to penises and hate symbols. All these decisions were spontaneous, most were influenced by alcohol, and none of them were a good idea.

Whoever had done Emma’s original tattoo was talented enough, but they shouldn’t have agreed to do it in the first place. Regardless of how insistent Emma (or Nathan) had been, the artist should have steered her away from getting such a risky tattoo on such a prominent part of her body.

Even if they’d compromised and tattooed the name on her hip instead, it would have been far better than stretching it across her chest.

Emma relaxed again, and I kept working, focusing on keeping my hand away from her nipple.

The woman on the documentary was crying on the back step as cleaners carried vast quantities of rubbish out of her house. She pleaded for them to leave some of it and they refused, marching everything out to the dumpster.

Emma’s phone beeped with the sound of an incoming message, and she picked it up.

“It’s Nathan,” she said to her friend, her voice an octave lower than I’d heard it so far. I kept working, pretending not to listen even though I was straining my ears, wanting to know what was going on.

“What did he say?” her friend asked.

Emma tried to keep her voice steady, but I could hear the fear behind her words.

“He wants to know why I’m at a tattoo parlor,” she said, and I pulled the gun away quickly as she turned to look toward the front of the shop, which was obscured by the curtain I’d pulled around us. “How does he know where I am?”

Her friend leaned over and looked at the message.

“Maybe he saw you come in?”

Emma frowned at her phone.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t see him outside. Did you?”

Her friend tapped her manicured nails on her thigh.

“Maybe he was in his car? Just ignore him. He’ll lose interest.”

Even though I knew the curtain was in the way, I looked up in Xavier’s direction. He would definitely have a different opinion. And so did I.

Of course, it was none of my business. But as I heard more notifications coming through on her phone, it became harder to not say anything.

Emma ignored the first few, but then she picked up her phone again.

“Who do you think you are? You’re a fucking cunt,” she read.

“Ignore him,” Cora insisted, and squeezed Emma’s hand. “He’s just salty that you broke up with him.”

“I know,” Emma said, and placed the phone down, where it kept beeping.

Even though I knew I shouldn’t say anything, I felt like I had a responsibility to warn her. This guy sounded angry, perhaps even dangerous, and both Emma and her friend seemed to be brushing it off.

“You should take this seriously.”

Both women looked at me with surprised expressions.

“Do you have security equipment at your house?” I asked. “Do you know how to defend yourself?”

“He doesn’t know where I live,” Emma said, and looked at her friend as though she was seeking backup. “I didn’t tell him where I was going when I moved out. Besides, he’s just angry about the breakup. He’ll get over it.”

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