I slide my hands into my front pockets.

Of course Walker is a tattoo artist.

Of course, he's the one Sandy recommended.

Of course, she neglected to mention that last night.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. How does this go?

He's staring at me with those dark eyes. Expecting… something. I don't know.

The girl at the counter is staring too. But that's probably because we have the same haircut. This long bangs on one side, short on the other side pixie slash bob is trendy. After everything, I needed to see a different person in the mirror.

I know, I know. A dramatic haircut to signify a life change is a bit obvious, but it works.

I don't see Iris the fuck up in the tattoo parlor's mirrors.

I see Iris the PhD candidate who has her shit together.

Who's reminding herself she's not destined to past fuck ups.

Apparently, Walker is the William I've been emailing about said tattoo reminder.

Maybe tattoo artists have pen names. Maybe that's a normal thing.

A guy about Walker's height, with wavy dark hair and blue eyes, steps forward. "I'm Dean." He offers his hand. "You looking for someone?"

I shake. "Yeah. I have an eleven o'clock. With William."

He chuckles. "That's Williams." He nods to Walker. "Guy's got his names mixed up. Walker Williams. Should go the other way, huh?"

I try to laugh, but I can't quite manage it. This is weird. Twelve hours ago, he was naked in my bed. I was climbing on top of him.

And now I'm here.

And we're both dressed.

And his friends slash coworkers are watching.

"I, uh…" I move forward. I'm an adult. I can handle this like an adult. Really. I can. "I'm sorry I'm late. I, uh—"

"Needed your sleep?" Walker smiles.

I laugh. "That's a good way of putting it." There's something about his smile. It disarms me. Puts me at ease. That describes him perfectly. He's easy to talk to. He's just… easy.

Not slutty. Not un-slutty (last night is certainly a check in the manwhore column), but not necessarily slutty.

More… carefree.

Or is that how he wants to look?

He seemed pretty upset last night when he came over to me.

And he's at work. He has to be friendly.

Stop shrinking him, Iris. You're not even going to be that kind of shrink.

I clear my throat. "Yeah. I, um. I'm going to need coffee after this."

"It's a small piece. You'll be done in half an hour." Walker motions to a half-room to his right. It has high walls and an open doorway. It's some privacy. Enough for this.

Far too little for a second round, but enough for this.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Yeah. Thanks." I slide my backpack off my shoulders.

Walker looks to his friends. Dean, I guess. He shoots the guy a curt look. Then he shoots a softer one to the girl with the purple-grey hair.

God, she's cool. Between the three of them and their tattoos and ripped jeans, I'm hopelessly outclassed in the cool department.

He motions to the teal chair. It's set up like one of those seats at the gym, one for chest flies. It's at a forty-five-degree angle.

I sit.

He pulls out a tray.

"Why do I feel like I'm at the dentist?" I hug my arms over my chest.

His taps my wrist with his pointer finger. "You can call this off. I'll wave the cancellation fee."

"Generous."

He nods.

"Won't your manager get upset?"

"I'm my manager."

"Oh."

"I co-own the shop." He peels my arms from my chest. He brings my left arm to the tray and wipes my forearm with rubbing alcohol. "You won't hurt my feelings if you leave."

"You're still the guy who did all the work on your Instagram?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm sticking around."

He moves the temporary tattoo onto my forearm, right under the crook of my elbow. "I shouldn't tell you this, but anyone could do this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's a simple stencil. I'm happy to take the shop minimum for it, but if you don't want to work with me—"

"No. It's fine." I force myself to smile. It is fine. Or it's going to be fine. If I go to another artist or another shop, then last night meant something. And it can't mean anything. "Really. I'm good."

"You still want it here?"

"Yeah."

"Exactly?"

"Can I see it first?"

"Nah, I'm gonna strap you down and do it freehand."

I stare back at him.

His dark eyes get bright. "Kidding."

"Oh."

"Sorry." He peels the plastic off the temporary tattoo, presses it to my skin, and wets it. "I know better than to tease when you're in the chair."

I make an uh-uh noise as my gaze fixes on the tattoo gun behind him.

The needle doesn't scare me. But the ink?

It's terrifying. There are no do overs or blank slates or quick fixes. Once the ink is on my skin, it's there forever.

"Are you a virgin?"

"You should know."

He laughs as he pulls on plastic gloves. "Is this your first tattoo?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"You don't like needles?"

"It's more the permanence."

He nods I get that, peels off the temporary tattoo's paper, grabs a mirror and hands it to me. "What do you think?"

That's it, right where I need it.

You are not your mistakes.

I hand the mirror back and stare into his dark eyes.

He cocks his head to one side. "You sure you're up for this?"

"Yeah. I just need coffee."

"Didn't like what I made?"

"No. It was good. I just…"

"Need more?"

"Yeah." Something like that.

He motions to the chair. "Is this how you want it?"

I stare at the temporary tattoo. It's exactly what I need. It's everything. It's perfect. "It's perfect."

"You can tell me if it's not. I know you're not shy about your preferences."

My cheeks flush. "Was that a problem?"

"Fuck no." He grabs the rubbing alcohol, wets a cotton swab, cleans the temporary tattoo off my skin. "I like you bossy."

"Barking orders?"

He chuckles. "Yeah." He presses a stencil to my skin and tapes one side. "Now stop distracting me or I'll fuck this up."

"Oh. Sure." I watch him tape the stencil to my skin.

He grabs the tattoo gun. "You ready for this?"

"Will you distract me?"

"Sure." He turns the gun on for a second. "This is what it sounds like."

"Okay."

"You didn't bring anyone to hold your hand."

"Is this where you ask women if they have boyfriends?"

He brings the gun to my skin. "I don't usually date clients."

"You date?"

He laughs. "I don't usually fuck clients." He looks up at me. "On three. I'll do one mark. So you can see how it feels."

I nod.

"One. Two. Three." He turns the gun on.

The needle hits my skin. It hurts. More than other needles have. And without the promise of bliss.

But it's nothing compared to… well, to everything.

I make my voice confident. Strong. "I can take it."

"You can take a lot."

My cheeks flush.

"Shit. You're distracting me again."

"That was all you."

He shakes his head. "Be good, Iris. I know you want to get my clothes off again. But you have to wait until I'm done with this."

I can't help but smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

He looks up at me. Raises a brow. You ready?

I nod. I am.

He turns the gun on and brings it to my skin.

Fuck. That hurts.

My fingers curl into fists.

My teeth sink into my lips.

It's a steady pain. The same stab of the needle over and over.

"You're getting a PhD, right?" he asks.

"Right."

"Where?"

"UCLA."

"Good school."

"Yeah. Great psychology department." I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. It does nothing to distract me from the needle stabbing my arm several times a second. It's uncomfortable. But tolerable.

"How far into it are you?"

"Just started."

"So, what, four or five years to go?"

"It's a six-year program." And I took a leave of absence winter quarter. I'm already behind schedule.

"Damn." He moves the gun to the next level. "That's a commitment."

"More than ink on your skin forever?"

"Not when you put it that way."

I press my lips together. That's two letters down. Three. Almost there.

"Are you going to be a shrink?"

"No. Most people who are counselors get a Doctorate of Psychology. A PhD is more focused on research and teaching."

"Which appeals to you?"

"Research."

"You are a nerd."

"Who suggested otherwise?"

"You." He finishes the first line and moves to the second. "It's cute that you hide it."

"You always torment women when you're tattooing them?"

"Of course. They have to listen. It's perfect."

I laugh.

He holds my arm steady. "Don't move."

"Don't make me laugh."

"Sounds fair, but I don't like it." He holds my arm as he traces the last word.

I stare at the beige wall. At the framed tattoo art. At the heart string lights lining the roof. "This shop is kinda girly."

"You're teasing me now?"

"Just saying."

"Co-owner's girlfriend helped decorate it."

"Oh. Is he here?"

"Not right now. I'm sure he's with her."

"You don't approve?"

"Nah. They're happy. It's good for them. Just—"

"Not for you?"

"Something like that." He curves the gun over the last letter then turns it off. His eyes meet mine as he moves backward. "There. Done."

There. Done.

I watch him pull off the stencil.

He takes me to the mirror. Marvels at my ink with me.

It's perfect.

You are not your mistakes.

"Come on." His fingers curl around my wrist. "I have to clean you up."

I'm buzzing. From the adrenaline and from his touch.

I follow him to the chair.

Watch him rub some ointment over the ink then wrap it in plastic.

We move to the counter. I pay with my credit card. Sign for a generous tip.

Stare at the new ink.

This is really on my skin.

It's really happening.

And he's there, next to me, offering me something. A tube of that same ointment.

"I'm guessing you did your research, but in case you didn't, wash it well tonight. Then use this. Same thing for a few days. Don't wrap it or bandage it. And no swimming for two weeks." He hands over the tube.

I nod. "Thanks."

"You still want that coffee?"

I press my lips together. Pull my backpack from the floor. "Yeah."

"I have an hour until my next appointment." His eyes meet mine. "You want some company?"